~the lesson of the happy butcher~

June 24th, 2008

“BASTA!” is the word to know, it means ENOUGH! and I learned it quickly. Without this term I would have simply expired from the whole fish baked with capers olives parsley garlic, handmade pizza, handmade pasta pomodoro, asparagus and gambero pasta, meatball pasta, cold octopus and mussel salad, and on and on.

Every meal prepared by Rosa began with homemade sausage and parmigiano or mozzarella di bufflala and bread, then pasta or salad (at which point I was already feeling finished), then the main course, then melon apricots peaches gelato, expresso. It was amazing and delish. Even my own grandmother Edith–a super chef of the “Mangi! Mangi!” persuasion–would have been stunned I think.

We spent two lovely days with Ali’s generous, warm Italian relatives: Rosa, Franco, Franco’s mother Pia, and their tiny fluffy dog, Cimba (who worked every angle with Ali, a sucker for cute quadrupeds). Franco is Ali’s grandfather’s sister’s son. I think. That’s a cousin, no?

They live in Foggia–a province of Puglia–and sometimes called Capitanata, or the “granary of Italy”. It is the hometown of Ali’s people, or I should say, the largest city near their tiny tiny hometown of Castelnuovo della Daunia (pop. 1700).

Ali walking with Franco and Rosa in Foggia.

Olive grove in Castelnuovo.

Over the course of our visit we met four other relatives, including a brother of the late Alfonso Rutigliano (Ali was named for his grandfather, whose car is pictured on the right), a terrific curmudgeon who when learning that I did not speak Italian simply asked, “Why Not?” with a wry but challenging smile. He had some English in his repertoire, from (it came out much later in the conversation) being a prisoner of war in Britain.

We also had a beer at midnight with Marco, the young military airplane mechanic cousin who was cajoled (I am certain) to take us out, but sweetly made the best of it, as did we. I even held my tongue when he explained in Italian and without irony that he had no girlfriend because women were “too complicated.”

We visited the gorgeous ancient hilltop cemetery where Alfonso’s grandparents are buried and I must admit, seeing his name carved in the marble was a bit uncanny. Then Franco and Rosa stopped to let me photograph a field of cipollini flowers–amused that I wanted to make a picture of onions. They look like fairy planets don’t they? Planets that smell like fresh onion. These along with wheat and sunflowers cover the hills here in beautiful patchwork.

Rosa, Franco, and Pia each took time with me one-on-one, and it was a bitter-sweet experience of having no common tongue. Ali can understand much of spoken Italian, but speaks only rudimentarily, and I speak none, zero, non una parola.

Rosa showed me how to make pasta by hand and lamented that we could not have girltalk. Me too. The best I could do was convey that on our first date, I let Ali eat from my plate, a detail I knew she would appreciate (and I have lived to regret!).

Pia took me to her room to show me portraits of her late husband and herself as a young beauty. A direct woman with little patience for sentimentality (as it pertained to her) but emotions running very deep. She held my hands and cried when we left.

We visited Ali’s father, Lino–a sweet, sad curmudgeon (you getting a theme here?) who calls me bella ragazza americana (beautiful american girl). He lives in an old age home, among the elderly, tho he is not elderly himself. Just scared.

When we were introduced, the nurse of Michela (Lino) leaned back, looked me up and down, pursed her lips and made that classic Italian gesture (finger tips pressed in a cluster, waving back and forth) of “check you out.” Then she looked at Ali as if to say, “How’d you manage that eh?” (HA!)

It was in fact a very intense experience to be “young” (ie: forty) around a small faction of Italian grandparents–maybe ten all told. We sat outside in a circle in the shade and breeze of the hilltop. A couple of the women were very interested in speaking with me, but again, we couldn’t understand each other. A lot of hand gestures and eye communication ensued. My clothes, hair, eyes, skin, all were discussed by them in this manner.

So when Franco said he would drive down the hill to Castelnuovo to fetch some things for dinner (or this is what I imagine he said) I was eager to join him and have a little break from the sweet spectacle-ness of it all. But mostly I wanted to let Ali to have some time alone with his father. It turned out to be my favorite part of the trip in a funny way.

(pictured left is one of six bottles of homemade olive oil Rosa insisted we take home, along with a sack full of jars of home-canned tomatoes. yum! basta!)

We drove into town, Franco acting out the word “earthquake” to explain why so many of the tall clay houses were propped up with wooden supports. We arrived at tiny butcher shop, greeted by the world’s most smiley carver of meat. When he learned that I spoke some French, he asked me all manner of questions which I greedily answered, after four days of mute frustration.

He was so curious and engaged and delighted to be alive. It was such a contrast to the frightened, withdrawn man we had just left, who would not even let us finish fixing his computer (tho he had asked us to) for whatever his reason, choosing instead to compulsively read the paper online while we stood there.

I thought: The Universe is offering you a bit of wisdom in the form of this butcher. Simply put: life is more fun when you stay open and live it. So I asked him if I could make his portrait, to remember, like a string tied around my finger. And now I offer it to you.