A Bowl of Pasta

by Danielle Peluso (Canada)

Making a local connection Italy

My identity has always been split into two, growing up biracial. Yet, I never truly belonged to either side. My dream had been to travel to Italy, as I have an Italian father. Travel to where my grandparents had emigrated from. Experience the culture in the purest form. Speak the language I learnt for years but rarely spoke. Taste the food I grew up eating but hadn’t eaten in years. In April 2019, I got my chance. This is my story of a night in Tuscany. As the bus rounded the corner, it revealed the vineyard. Hidden away like a secret, nestled between vast rolling hills and lush valleys. I stepped off the bus, warm spring air welcomed me to a place I have never been but knew all too well. Memories of summers spent in a garden in Canada, with its own modest vineyard, flickered across my mind. I wandered closer to the entrance; a handsome man stood waiting to greet us. He ushered his guests to where we would be spending the evening sampling his wine. While we began to take our seats, a small older woman, humbly dressed, stood front and centre, waiting patiently. The man introduced her as his mother. She introduced herself as Nonna. Smiling proudly, she said she had been cooking all day to prepare our meal. As she said this, large white bowls, filled to the brim with pasta, were placed on the tables. I sat and ate. Each bite reminded me of my childhood. With every mouthful, Nonna hovered closely, observing to see if everyone was enjoying their meal. The look of satisfaction and pride sweeping across her face as one after the other, plates were wiped clean. After I finished, I stared into my empty dish, looking for answers I would not find—longing for just one more bowl. The night was winding down, fellow passengers bought bottles of wine and made their way back to the bus. But I had one thing I needed to do. One thing, before I could leave this place behind. I began to run aimlessly under the vastness of the star-speckled night sky, desperately trying to find her before being forced to leave. Finally, I found her. I found her where all Nonna’s feel most at home. Her kitchen. I stared at her, gathering my courage to speak. I felt as if I was standing in a kitchen I had spent countless hours in. There were so many things I wanted to say. However, the words tasted bitter and struggled to escape my mouth. Tears welled in my eyes. Finally, it all spilled over. “My Nonna,” I stuttered, “She is not doing well.” Nonna looked at me with such warmth and comfort and hugged me tightly, stroking my hair. Her embrace was the catalyst I was desperately searching for, granting me catharsis for my guilt. Guilt that had been growing over the last few years. However, she wasn’t the person that needed my apology. That person was thousands of miles away, fading away. As I wandered back to the bus, I reminisced about my childhood. The warmth of the sun on my skin, swimming in her pool on hot summer days. Memories of belly flops and cannonballs. The smell of her cooking welcoming me as I opened her front door. Glassware hiding behind cabinets never to used or touched. Sitting around long white tables having family dinners. My stomach bursting from savouring every delicious bite of her cooking. Watching her stand in her driveway waving, becoming smaller and smaller as we drove further and further. A bowl of pasta.