There is was again.
The loud, intrusive buzzer that made us jump each time it echoed
through our concrete Italian villa. Someone was at our security gate, buzzing to come in.
An unfamiliar part of our new life in Naples included a security fence around our home. A button next to the pedestrian gate in the fence, allowed visitors to buzz the occupants, us, asking to be let in.
An unfamiliar part of our new life in Naples included a security fence around our home. A button next to the pedestrian gate in the fence, allowed visitors to buzz the occupants, us, asking to be let in.
Looking out the window I saw our Italian neighbor, Rita,
smiling up at me with a plate in her hand. It was her sixth visit in the three
days since we’d moved into this small Italian neighborhood, and I knew what the buzzer
meant every time I heard it.
Rita was delivering another plate of “welcome to our neighborhood.”
The first time Rita showed up the Italian movers were
unloading our furniture. Delighted when she walked into the yard carrying a
small metal pot of Italian coffee and several tiny plastic cups, the men
eagerly swigged the potent little shots of coffee.
I politely sipped mine. The strong acid flavor of the
thick, dark brew was a far cry from the milky lattes I was used to drinking at
home in California, but I didn’t want to be rude, and that quickly became a
pattern.
I felt a twinge of guilt every time Rita appeared at
our gate. The Italian fare she made was pasta or starchy Gnocchi which I
politely sampled in small bites.
My husband on the other hand, was thrilled when Rita
appeared.
“We are lucky!” he exclaimed each time I passed him one of
her culinary gifts, which he devoured with relish. Yes, we were lucky to have a
beautiful villa next to a friendly Italian neighbor.
“What did she bring today?”
He was already sniffing the plate I’d carried inside.
“It’s all yours,” I said, feeling relieved that he was so delighted with
Rita’s cooking.
I had caught a whiff of the strong seafood aroma coming
from the plate, and it was too pungent for my taste on a lazy Sunday morning
when all I could think about was pancakes and eggs.
“OK, well, I’m eating it.”
We sat on the back veranda gazing out at our view of
the Mediterranean.
“I wonder what kind of seafood this is?” he said, studying
the shells on his plate. That’s when it occurred to me my husband did not
know he was eating snails for breakfast.
I felt a little wicked. Despite being self-described
“foodies” who often experimented with different cuisines, I knew my husband was
no more a fan of Escargot than myself.
Chuckling at the reaction, I knew that despite my
reluctance to partake of the pasta and snails, Rita had made something very
special for us. Her consistent giving from her kitchen was a gracious Italian
welcome, and it was time for us to reciprocate.
But what does an American cook for an Italian?
My specialties were international dishes – Thai and
Mexican. They wouldn’t adequately represent traditional American cuisine at
all.
“Why don’t we make something special for Rita?”
He must have been reading my mind. Scott was back to
eating the plate of pasta, but I could see the snails had been carefully set to
one side. “I’m thinking maybe I’ll deep fry a turkey for her” he said. A deepfried turkey? For an Italian?
Leave it to a boy from North Carolina to come up with fried
poultry. Next he’d be suggesting corn fritters and collard greens. But who was
I to judge? At least it was traditional food from our country.
Decked out with a head lamp against the dimming light and clad in denim coveralls, he brandished a cigar in one hand and Kentucky bourbon in the other. My husband was boldly displaying his southern roots, gesturing proudly at the turkey fryer and 14-pound bird, waiting to be dipped.
"Why don’t you go get Rita so she can watch?” He
asked.
When Rita arrived, we stood together on the terrace above
the yard and watched Scott dip her turkey into the pot on stilts. Amazed at the
bubbling oil and mouth-watering aroma emitting from the smoke, Rita was
fascinated.
We watched for several minutes, sipping the homemade wine
she had brought and letting the moment bridge the language barrier.
An hour later, the crispy bird arranged on a platter, Scott
offered to carry it across the street. The look on Rita’s face spoke
volumes, and strangely, I recognized her expression.
It mirrored mine the morning the snail dish had arrived.
Oblivious to the nuance and reading it as reluctance to accept his grand gift,
Scott carved off a piece of breast meat and held out to Rita on a
fork. The steaming bite had an unmistakably spicy Cajun aroma to it.
He had injected it. I should have known.
Reluctantly, Rita took the large bite in her mouth then
frantically began waving her hands in front of her face. Gulping her wine, her
eyes were wide and watering.
“Troppo caldo! Troppo caldo! Molto Spezia!” She exclaimed. I rushed to get
her water as my mortified husband stood by, unsure what to do.
Snails came to mind.
Consistent in her graciousness, Rita took the offending
Cajun turkey home. We later learned the bird had been passed to the homes
of three of Rita’s relatives – none of whom could eat the spicy fowl.
Two weeks went by with no more gifts from Rita, and we
started to wonder if we had seriously offended our Italian neighbors and broken
the chain of food gifts with our Cajun turkey.
One day two bottles of homemade champagne showed up outside
the gate and I knew that the mistake was forgiven. Maybe my list of things
to do while I live in Italy should include learning to cook snails.
The End