But what was most shocking to me was that you didn’t have to do anything. Light the stove (with a lighter, none of this electric nonsense). Throw in some sausage, some peppers, mushrooms, onions; soon the tantalizing scent is billowing from the popping, sizzling pan, filling the room. Meanwhile you have some tomato sauce heating on the stove (ingredients: tomato, water), dump in the vegetables and sausage once they’ve reached golden-brown perfection. Spices--whatever is in the cabinet. Can’t read the Italian labels? Doesn’t matter, everything goes in. Now things are heating up, let the sauce simmer, salt water on the stove, wait till it’s boiling, in goes fresh pasta, out it comes again, onto plates, pour on the sauce, slice of bread, glass of wine--what more could a hungry stomach, a yearning palate ask? But the three of us crowding, jostling over these bubbling pots and pans (each much more confidant in his own cooking prowess than that of the others), we were only observers in this fantastic transformation, this synthesis of delicacy from bare raw materials.
It was with glee that I shoveled ingredients around the frying pan, watching in wonder as the peppers slowly shed their awkward stiffness and opened up, the onions relinquished their caustic, impersonal disposition, the sausage pulled itself together into something you could sit across the table from and have a conversation. This was greater than mere food preparation, I was witnessing a movement of social cohesion. These were the kindergarteners who clung fiercely to their mothers before the first day of school only to refuse the once anticipated return home at 3 o’clock, the high school freshmen afraid they wouldn’t fit in who find themselves in tears to leave their dearest friends at graduation, so many shy crushes which blossom into passionate lovers--this was us, the study abroad, a smattering of students smeared across Rome which somehow morphed into coherent, relevant social clans.
At first there were no words, we could only ravenously scoop this manna from heaven into our mouths and question what we had done to deserve this celestial meal. But as our hunger gave way, conversation slowly filled the gaps. Cam, to my right, was, at over 6 foot, an imposing figure. More than ten years older than us, he was a bit aloof, often out who knew where until who knew when in the morning. I knew that he was already a longtime bachelor and had military experience, but other than a shared love for Maxwell, I could not begin to probe at the void of time between his high school graduation and today. Matt, across the table, was my age. A self-proclaimed “bro”, earlier I had heard him mention, regarding the United States, “What I miss most is sitting at home watching Sports Center drinking a Coors.” Right now he was lamenting that he couldn’t decide what to bring home for his family as souvenirs from Rome. Suddenly the answer was in my hands, I cut in:
“You should bring back food as souvenirs for everyone--It could be a metaphor for the temporary nature of existence: just as the sites we visited once were complete and functional and beautiful but have been eaten away by millions of years until now all that remains is an empty shell, the food will start out complete and delicious but it will be slowly eaten until all that remains is the empty container!”
Pause.
“Yeah, no.”
“You’re talking to a finance and a health major. We don’t think like that.”
The plight of an English major.
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