Folding Tortelloni, Hitting Bedrock

Numbers continue to be molto difficile. By now, I can rattle off my birthdate and phone number pretty well, but discerning the digits in someone else's string is another story. More than twice I’ve booked reservations for the wrong hour, mistaken 8:30 for 18:30, or handed over 19 euros instead of 9. When we invited budding friends Federica and family for a recent Sunday supper, I thought we’d said 16:00, until they showed up at 14:00. Amy Lee and I were still in house clothes and slippers stirring pots and prepping. We’d been guests at their home, but this was their first time to ours. My plan of batched cocktails and measured first impressions flew out the window. What we experienced instead was exponentially more impactful.

Everyone aproned up and jumped right in, even the kids. We’d heard aplenty about the Veronese being un po’ chiuso (a little closed); about how, as stranieri (foreigners), we might be fortunate enough to receive invitations to organizzarci per un’aperitivo (get together for a cocktail) OUT, but good luck ever being invited IN. Having left behind a cadre of intimates with whom we’ve cooked and cried, we had no intention of settling here for casual relations that show for happy hour but don’t answer mayday calls in the eleventh hour.

Coming up on the nine-month mark, we’ve found four anchor families that have our backs. One is Italian-American with a familiar expat-dual-citizenship story, another is actual bloodline family (our great-grandfathers were brothers!), and the other two are Veronese quartets (mom, dad, two kids) who lead with kindness, patience, and open-heart willingness to let us in.

We love to cook and we’ve got range, but our sweet spot is certainly Italian. Were we really ready to cook Italian for Italians in Italy, though? Hell to the sì! Making fresh pasta is foundational in my life. Mia nonna “Grandma Meatballs” Francesca taught me, and then my kids learned from their grandparents, Nonni & Pop. It makes perfect sense that this tradition of passed-down wisdom radiates throughout Italy, but what I couldn't have known was the part we’d play in nourishing it along.

I first saw the rotella taglia (cutter wheel) months ago in a window on Via Anfiteatro across from Flying Tiger, the Danish chain that sells home goods and fun gifts like our light-up marquis that currently reads “È SEMPRE / L’ORA DELL’ / APERITIVO.” Outside of Verona’s historic center, there are some big box general stores along the bus line, but around our place in Centro, every negozio is a specialist: Lo Scrittoio is a pen and ink boutique, Ficcanaso (literally, “nosy”) is a perfume shop, and Saponeria is where you go for soap, detergent, and cleaning supplies. At Plurimix, walls shimmer with stainless steel baking utensils, shelves of confectionery accoutrements, and all the bronze-tipped wooden tools a pasta granny could ever want.

Babbo Natale (Daddy Christmas, Italian name for Santa) brought me a Marcato Atlas 150, the very same hand-cranked pasta machine Grandma Meatballs used—but in hot rod red. Since Christmas, Team Tesauro has cranked out tagliatelle, bigoli, farfalle, and ravioli al plin. Watching Cecilia and Juliano tag each other’s apron with floured handprints inspires the same simple joy of a pillow fight. I recall core memories as they make their own and all three of us fold these into our dough like so many golden yolks.

For Federica’s family, the vision was a primavera spectacular involving all of it: due colore tortelloni1 con ricotta, Grana Padano2, asparagi verdi, scaglione, e bucce di limone nel burro e salvia—two color tortelloni with ricotta, Grana Padano, green asparagus, shallot, and lemon zest in butter and sage. The vision, of course, was to have the messy work done by the time they arrived so that we’d spend our time on the balcony sharing antipasti and conversation. Instead if being insulted, Federica became inspired! She showed us her method—cutting, filling, and folding with the muscle memory of a hundred Sundays at her own nonna’s side. She usually slows her Italian a touch so that I can keep pace, but along the tortelloni assembly line, she raced. Fingers flying, stories flowing… although she hadn’t done this in years, she smiled and said, “è come andare in bici” (it’s like riding a bike).

Pasta fresca fatto a mano (hand-made fresh pasta) softened Federica just like with the kids. Whether it’s a clam-shelled teenager or a poco chiuso Veronese, throw hands into dough and feelings flow. Amy Lee’s worries that our chaos might’ve been too much were assuaged with a message next morning. In that moment, new roots hit bedrock and begged use of a new phrase I learned: il mio cuore è pieno come un’uovo (my heart is full as an egg).

Caro Jason. Ieri è stato meraviglioso per me e la mia famiglia! Ti ringrazio tantissimo per avermi regalato questo tuffo nel mio passato. Sei venuto in Italia per cercare contatto con le tue origini e ieri è successo miracolosamente che io abbia ritrovato le mie! Un abbraccio e a presto!

Dear Jason. Yesterday was wonderful for me and my family! Thank you so much for giving me this dive into my past. You came to Italy to seek contact with your origins and yesterday it miraculously happened that I found mine again! Hugs and see you soon!

This isn’t exactly where I’m from, but it’s certainly where we’re supposed to be.

Shared with gratitude 272 days into l’avventure d’Italia….