MEMOIR

Summer 1996.
I was a seven-year-old breezy, genial, greedy and, lively girl. My mum had brought my three-year-old brother and I to Italy for a summer vacation. My dad was not able to come with us because my mum told me that “somebody had to work.” We stayed at my grandparents' place. Since my grandfather left Italy and moved to France, it has been a family tradition to spend three months in Noci every year. Noci is a small Italian village about forty kilometers away from the Mediterranean cost. The name itself has always been funny to me because in English, "noci" means “nuts.”

I don't particularly remember what happened that summer in regards with my mom and brother, but I do remember the place, atmosphere, and flavors. I remember that the journey was long, about eighteen hours by car from Strasbourg. When I got out of the car, the first thing I noticed was the landscape. The sight of olive trees everywhere, the scent of fruit trees, the natural bright light from the sun, and the tiny roads are among some of the things I recall.

 Summers in Noci, Bari are very hot. During the afternoon, the air would be so dry and hot that hidding in the vault is the only thing left to do. My grandma or one of my great aunts would be cooking and spending almost their whole time in the vault. The vault entrance is a fairly fresh  big space, big enough to have twenty-five people sitting here during family reunions. The floor is a cold grey, the ceiling is white and one side of the wall is completely light brown. A window is on the left side of the entrance. You can also access the vault from within the house, using the imposing stairs. I never did this, probably because I was too afraid to get lost in this house. The three floors made out of marble were what I imagined a staircase of a deserted castle to look like.

Not a noise could be heard during the afternoon. Everybody was either sleeping or went to the beach for the day. One could access the vault by the lower level of the courtyard, but going to the vault from the oustide of the house was the entrance I found to be more fun. I would get aimlessly lost into the garden until I wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Probably less than thirty minutes though, otherwise I am sure somebody would have come after me. We were in Italy after all.

My detour would begin on the first floor - I had no choice but to use the imposing stairs, my bedroom was on the second floor – Once there, I would go to the white brick terrace. Being outside did not bother me. I liked the blinding sun. Then, once outside, I would take the terrace stairs and go to the garden. There would be pink and red roses surrounding me. I am not sure whether those were roses, but they certainly looked like roses to me. I would smell them and then my attention quickly changed to my move toward my main interest in the garden, the fig tree. I would smell the figs and start picking them. I usually could not resist eating them right away. Further away was the kitchen garden, right after the cactuses. A million and one savors were awaiting me. Smells of tomato, pepper, and a plethora of other spices like basil, marjoram, and thyme lingered.

Right behind the kitchen garden was another part of my journey: the turtles. Ten turtles were living their lives in the garden. I would feed them salad leaves. I never had a pet before, so spending six weeks with the turtles was the closest that I came to having one of my own.

Finally, I would take the stairs to go down to the lower level courtyard. I was to the opposite side of the house now. In front of me was the vault cave. I would find my grandma in the kitchen inside the vault, cooking. Around dinner time, the vault would be full of people, friends, family who would stop by and taste the food that was being cooked. In the afternoon, I would be the only one in the corner of the kitchen, sitting on a chair, right before the table, looking at my grandma in silence. I would be watching the entire cooking experience without even being able to relate what it was like. I would be uplifted by the odors as she prepared a variety of food. My mind would get away from me as I got lost in the flavors. Then, the voice of my nonno speaking in Italian to my grandmother would bring me back to earth. When nonno entered the kitchen, it usually meant that it was time for dinner. I would be so focused on what my grandmother was doing that the meal would be prepared in what seemed like no time at all. Unlike the other kids my age who were probably thinking about candy and chocolate, I was fixated on the natural smells that lingered from her cooking.

I once saw an advertisement on the Italian TV about Toscany, and I thought to myself that it was probably the most wonderful place to me, though I had never been. My mind was without limits. I would then sometimes imagine myself cooking the most exquisite meal with selected fresh ingredients. The ingredients I imagined myself cooking with were normally ones I saw during the week while shopping or going to the market.

I recall one morning when I went to the food market with my nonno and the place was packed. People would be speaking really loudly in Italian and others were screaming. Italians do not have the same sound intensity as others nations, that was for sure. I couldn’t help but cover my ears when things became too loud. Despite the noise, the food market was an incredible place. There was such variety in what was there. There was a real sea market that had pesce for as far as the eye could see. Not only was there pesce, but all sorts of foods such as il pomodoro, la pera, la fragola, l'uva, la mela. In other parts of the market, there was il pane, il salame, il formaggio, le tagliatelle, and il gelato. (While I was there, I was able to speak in Italian, but unfortunately after my leaving, the language is hard to remember. Food words remained in my mind.) Then, just when I thought the experience was over, a whole new market was awaiting me only a few steps away. There would be not only food, but shoes, clothes, and sea supplies too. It was like a real bazaar. After a good two to three hours, depending on how many people you would run into during the journey, we would go back to the house, where my grandma would be waiting for us.

Looking back on that summer, it’s a real shame that I never asked my grandmother if I could cook with her. At the time, just being in her presence while she was cooking was enough. The kitchen was paradise for me. Not wanting to break the silence between my grandma and myself was partly to blame for me never asking. I was too afraid to disrupt her while she was doing what seemed to be a magically thing from my perspective. One thing she specifically made that I enjoyed was her tomato sauce. It is undoubtedly the most wonderful tomato sauce on the earth.

Dinnertime was a sacred thing for my family, so the hours spent at the dinner table are memorable. My grandfather would always say “mangia, mangia!” ( “eat, eat” ) I also can’t forget that my family would always say “Julie, you’re so skinny! Don’t you eat in France?” Of course I was eating in France, just not the same quantity as they made me eat in Noci. In Italy, food IS life. They don’t eat for nutrition; they eat for comfort and leisure. Eating is seen as a relaxing activity that should be enjoyed and then followed by a nap, if you were eating lunch. Food serves as entertainment here. Italian people are able to spend hours and hours talking about food while eating. In Italy, food is the symbol of the entire nation. Praising food should actually become a national sport.
The fact that I remember more about the food that summer than any other part of vacation is interesting to me. It is no wonder I am addicted to food now as an adult. My entire childhood had been centered on my trips to Italy where I looked forward to the food-centered atmosphere with my grandparents. I close my eyes and I see pizza, calamari, panzarotti, ice cream, pasta, tomato sauce.... Food was cornu copia for me in Italy.