“You…” she points at her watch “pasta…” she points at the boiling pot of water containing the pasta “seis.” She smiles gently at me. “Ok?” “Ok,” I respond. Holding up six fingers, “Ho capito.” I understand. And I mark the time on my watch, determined to get this right. Then the marchesa bursts through the kitchen door, with her arms in the air, saying in Italian and Hungarian “Oh, carina… il cafe. My coffee.”
She places herself at the unfinished kitchen island and pops a slender cigarette in her mouth. The cloth-covered stuffed tomatoes offer a brief distraction before she lights her cigarette and tastes from her demitasse. She heaves a sigh, welcoming the respite from two hours of cooking in the now sweltering but deliciously aromatic kitchen.
Then the piccolo principe - only two, blond, with round eyes of blue - wakes up. His mother comes in to fetch him. And the marchese, his Nono, follows suit. The family hovers about this child, and not without cause, for he charms the way he says “O, Dio,” and “O, Mama,” corks wine bottles, makes up little songs, and laughs easily and often. Nono and Nona both tend to his afternoon snack, and the soft-spoken Hungarian cousin to a meat dish. The whole scene distracts me completely and I forget the time for the pasta.
Suddenly, bubbling from the stove reminds the marchesa and she cries, “The pasta!” Her cousin turns, looks at me guiltily. I say “culpa mia, culpa mia,” immediately, which is really quite a shame since the marchesa had just been singing my praises about what a help I was. Oops. I smile shyly and look at the cousin. She looks back at me, smiles and shrugs. The marchesa grumbles and resumes other kitchen activities, ignoring the pasta fiasco. Her cousin begins to dress the slightly soggy noodles with a poppy-seed paste, lemon zest and sugar. “Ok,” she whispers, smiling. “Ok.” And hands me a bow-tie for tasting. Ok, indeed. Just fine.
Soon, the wind of chaos blows in again. A servant goes to bring coffee to someone. “Vai!” “Dove?” “Come?” “Con questo! Dai” “Grazie.” “Ok!” Then someone gets a new idea. Moving something... “Can’t be done that way!” “Come?” Workmen shuffle around. “Cose?” “Perque!” And then dust settles again.
Chatting resumes over what little remains to be done in the kitchen. At this point I just sit. But nothing will budge me from my spot. Perhaps they will tell me to move more tomatoes or salt something. The marchesa tells me I do not have to help in the kitchen, if there is something else I would like to do. But I say I like to. What else will I do? What I have been doing the last two weeks: reading, writing, yoga, etc.? Anyway, it makes me feel useful. And less far from my own family. “Ah,” she replies. “Yes, that’s good. But also your family must be less chaotic.”
“Oh, noooo.” I smile. And explain my part Irish, part Italian, all Catholic family, with four of us growing up, fifteen cousins and dozens of second and third cousins. Divine chaos, divine, divine chaos defines our family get-togethers. Perhaps that is the energy of good families. Chaos and love.
These are the afternoon activities of a family at a (not-quite-finished) hilltop, Tuscan villa. And here I am, a part of it all. Why am I here? The paterfamilias has enlisted me to help improve his English. This we do when he can be spared from playing with his child, talking to his wife (the most beautiful 8-month pregnant woman I have ever seen), supervising construction , rounding up friends for a jetski outing or dinner party, watering his grass, hunting, or blackberrying or… well, eating. The latter takes a great deal of time; life revolves around it, understandably, as this is bella Italia.
This afternoon for lunch, we all sat “inside” to eat. The villa, built Roman style but to gigantic scale, has two cavernous rooms with yet unfinished fireplaces and still open, stable-like doors. The breeze blows in, but the wasps – a major problem just now – do not. So there we dined on meat and tomatoes, cucumber, and fried potatoes. To finish we had fresh peaches and grapes and some leftover tart. A little coffee, too.
When the piccolo principe went for a nap, quite a tiring afternoon playing in the baby pool, chasing cats and dogs, running from wasps, rolling about with Nono and Nona, the mater and paterfamilias and the Noni relaxed for a few moments on the couches at the gigantic room’s entrance, from where one can see a nearly complete panorama of the Tuscan hills. The gentle cousin made her way to her room in search of lighter clothing for a little sun bathing.
Only a few breaths went by, and familiar chaos began again. “Where is the mattress of the guest?” “The cupboard is in the wrong place.” “I have to watch him fix the closets, O, Dio!” “Senti, amore, what are we going to eat tonight?” And within a blink I found myself seated alone with the marchese, as he finished his pipe (he had not yet been called away, though his time came within moments), chatting about language.
I like this Calabria born man, with his bright blue eyes and his great patience. Last night, some fireworks surprised us all after dinner. We watched, from above, in silence. During the grand finale, the marchese remarked, “Ah, the grand finale. Il strazia bracchi.” “The what?” I asked, wanting to know the word in Italian. He smiled, a little embarrassed, “it’s the Neapolitan for ‘grand finale.’ ‘Strazia bracchi.’ It means… ‘strazia,’ break. ‘bracchi,’ the underwear.” He laughed. “It’s slang. From Naples.”
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