Everything Good Came in Her Bowls

In the earliest iterations of Something Italian, I wrote about how everything good in my mother’s cooking began in the basement. Everything Good was one of my original titles for the book. Alas, to market, adding Italian to the title was important from a marketing standpoint.

In hindsight, not everything good started in the basement. My sisters and I, when we’re together, tell stories of underage parties in the basement where we emptied my parents’ clear liquor bottles and filled them back up with water. There was a scratchy tweed couch with a blue sheet covering it for protection, as opposed to the old plastic covers. I once referred to the furniture as the “makeout couch,” having an appreciation for the consonance of the phrase. My sister called it the “sex couch.” She had a deeper appreciation for its use.

Still, whatever my mother started to cook or bake in the basement kitchen, had its roots in a bowl, as if it were only the bowl could be the proverbial proving ground. All food must muster pass this checkpoint before being allowed to grow into ravioli, to-tos, or tiramisu.

Recently, I came to see my mother’s bowls as lumps of clay that were transformed. I in the same way writing transforms. First, you begin with a clay block. An idea you can’t put away. Next, you dip fingers in water, smooth out the edges, add in additional elements, thin and expand, thin and expand, like delving deeper, revising and rewriting. And then the bowl is fired and firm, a bit like editing and publishing in book or other form.

For my paid subscribers, here’s a piccolo tesoro, titled simply. Her Bowls. And some writing considerations too.