Autumn
is upon us. Hurried and harried, Florence’s entire population is coming to
terms with all that has been waiting in the wings since summertime. Deadlines
are harvested far faster than pumpkins, and bosses and colleagues heartily
welcome fall storms by generating them.
Perhaps
your stomach is steelier than mine and you can take undue pressure without
succumbing to the emotional state that Italians refer to as andare nel pallone. Not me. When
over-solicited, I become as confused as a soccer ball dribbled across the field
by heedless athletes who have their own goalposts in mind. The only solution to
midweek angst is a Saturday trip to the countryside where old friends and schiacciata con l’uva will suddenly make
things right again. ‘Bread and words,’ my grandfather used to say, ‘that’s how
the Lord made man new.’
For
me, going to visit Sandra in the country is always a pilgrimage of sorts,
because, let’s face it, wholesomeness is holy. In an era where age is enemy and
fat is treated like a frightening phantom, Sandra stands her ground, a survivor
of Italy’s older generation, the kind with hearty builds and staunch opinions.
Sandra and all her neighbors live on the lower level of their modest country
houses, keeping the upstairs cold until company comes, sometime around the
first day of Christmas. If Sandra loves you, she will not let you venture into
the stairwell that leads to her first floor. Piano terra is where the healing happens-where she cooks the meals
and concocts the stories that are sure to improve your mood. Watch her at the
counter as she works: she’ll pepper the spirit with politics and proverbs,
flipping your solemn side right-side up, with the same wrist action it takes to
save golden sage from turning dark brown.
Talk to her of stress
and she’ll wave it away, straight toward her screenless window. ‘Su, via,’ she said as I told her of an
office quarrel and hurt feelings that would probably last until New Year’s
bonfire. ‘Il tuo problema è che non sai
aspettare. You don’t know how to wait. Everything eventually resolves
itself. In the end, all fruit gets ripe on the tree. Stand still and keep
watch. Sooner or later, le cose cascano a
fagiolo. And whatever you’re hoping for will happen.’
For
Sandra, my worries were simply hanging on their branch awaiting proper
ripening. When the timing was right, she said, things would suddenly fit. The
solution would cascare a fagiolo-fall
into place like beans in a basket. Tight and fresh as peas in their pod.
It was
a nice thought, I agreed, the plucky idea that things would work out for the
best if one had serenity enough to wait and watch it happen. But, having come
from a week of unresolved disputes, I inadvertently argued with Sandra as well.
‘Patience is fine,’ I insisted, ‘but someone has to make things work, and I
don’t know how to go about it.’
Sandra
shook her head. ‘Conosco I miei polli.
I know my chickens. In Italy, timing is everything. When the time is right,
what doesn’t happen in a year will happen in an hour. Now, listen,’ she urged,
‘try this pane al ramerino.’
All
right then. Sandra can make miracles with flour, water and rosemary. At the end
of the afternoon, I returned, city-bound, stomach full and mind emptied. The
economy’s down, inspections are up, and worries are being minted faster than
money. We live in a country where anti-age cream costs more euro than the years
you need to use it and where laws regulate the weight of catwalk models. Yet
there is good news: Italy has the highest life expectancy rate in the world,
which means that it’s brimming with old people who can tell us a story or two
about how to love hard and live long. ‘Timing’ and ‘beans’ are the words of the
week. Hold them near and dear when the autumn winds begin to whirl around you.
Sandra knows her chickens. That’s why she’s usually right.
