La Cucina: The Italian Kitchen

I have two distinct memories of Italian kitchens--well, technically three. My first experience with Italian kitchens was with Ivo in Cinque Terre. He didn't have one, as his home was under renovation/construction. Therefore my second experience is really my first, when I took the train to Vicchio and visited Danny's parents' house. 

This is what a kitchen should be, I thought to myself as Danny put a pot of water on the stove. Under the Tuscan Sun had placed unrealistic, idyllic expectations in my head—of hanging herbs, generations-old pots, wooden cutting boards and bowls of vegetables ready to be turned into a elegantly simple meal. 


Danny’s kitchen—well, his mama’s kitchen—was missing some of the tangible elements, but the result was still authentic and lovely. No abundance of stainless steel, designer cabinets, or high-tech machinery. Dishes stacked neatly in the cupboards, a few glasses in the sink. The refrigerator has the week’s grocery list posted in the midst of a sizable collection of magnets from tourist destinations. A petite television tuned to “Rai Uno” provides background noise to boiling water and Toby the dog’s whining from the patio. 


Danny’s sickeningly gorgeous sister bounces in, spews Italian sentences in a singsong voice, acknowledges me with a smile and a squeeze of the shoulder, then departs as suddenly as she appeared.

Watching Danny cook is a pleasure. He sets no timers, measures nothing, and traverses the kitchen like he has been cooking all his life. He most likely has studied the art since infancy, learning through osmosis as he watched his mother or grandmother, unaware of the skills he was acquiring. 


He translates the television program for me—something about the Love Parade in Germany. I offer to help, but I am told to stay put. An American offering to help an Italian in the kitchen? Perhaps a ridiculous notion. Pasta and pesto is served in abundance, and slices of fresh tomato with a dash of salt acts as the salad. This meal is where I learn to appreciate acqua frizzante, the club soda-esque water Europeans are so fond of. I tell Danny that we don’t serve frizzante in the States, which sparks a conversation about common foods and dining customs (with many exclamations of "Madonna..." for commentary). Time passes easily as Danny and I talk and laugh and eat, continuing our intercultural education under the soft breeze of an electric fan. 


***


Fast forward four weeks to another kitchen in the Florentine suburb of Scandicci. Alessandro (an only child with a gourmet organic chef for a father) invites me and a few friends out to his home to make authentic tiramisu. From scratch. And we are to participate. Alessandro drives us to the super market first to pick up ingredients and some items for lunch (can't cook hungry). 

Restocking. 

Alessandro's kitchen is similar to Danny's. Clean, efficient. A cabinet full of spices. Sparkling white tile countertops. An Italian stovetop coffee maker. It is the kitchen of an Italian chef and I come to the realization that it is not the style of the kitchen but the efficiency and the skill of the cook that makes the food. Seems obvious, but I think Americans forget that a Sub Zero refrigerator or a gourmet kitchen-grade gas stove is not going to make their food taste any better. 


Alessandro's mother and father greet us. Neither speaks fluent English, but they appear thrilled to have quattro americane (four american females) in their home. Lunch is served on the patio. Pasta, pasta pasta. Fresh melone e prosciutto. Alessandro's father's homemade organic tomato sauce. Ample portions and ample laughter. 

In Alessandro's kitchen.

We help clear the table and begin setting up the tiramisu ingredients in the kitchen. Alessandro patiently explains the process, telling us what makes a perfect tiramisu. Lady fingers are a must, as is a very robust coffee or espresso to soak the cookies in. Real mascarpone blended with egg yolks into a whipped fluffy mixture is the key, so do not settle for any cheap alternatives or pre-made mix. 


We set up six containers, perfect for individual servings (enough for Alessandro's parents to have one). We dip the lady fingers in the coffee, layer Alessandro's perfectly whipped egg yolks and mascarpone in between, and leave our creations to set overnight in the fridge. 


The next day, Alessandro brings our creations to the Gould. He almost didn't bring them--it is the best batch he has ever tasted and was tempted to tell us they turned out poorly. 


We all take a bite at the same time. The flavors and textures are indescribable. I am convinced my first tiramisu experience will never be beat. At least, not until I find myself in an Italian kitchen once again.