Fifteen years ago, I tucked my fresh, unstamped passport into my purse, closed the small travel locks on my brand new Kelty pack, made sure my iPod was loaded with plenty of John Mayer and Maroon 5, and headed east on an overnight Air France flight. My travel companions and I landed in Paris, only to realize very quickly that we should have thought about exchanging money, or how we were going to get to our hostile, long before landing. In these days, cell phones didn’t work in Europe, the online-world wasn’t really a “thing” yet, and American debit cards wouldn’t work in foreign countries.
I spent a lot of that month crying as I very gruffly and painfully learned how to navigate Western Europe. The multiple pickpockets, bomb-threats, union strikes, and robberies certainly didn’t help. By the end, just one last travel companion and I remained, and we often joked about duck-taping our passports into our underwear and never coming back. A lot of our anguish was due to my youth and naive view of the world – I’d never ridden a subway, never navigated train travel or large cities, never learned how to be aware of dangers that naturally swarm to travelers. Some of these lessons came hard. Here’s one for you: the men dressed up in gladiator costumes outside the coliseum in Rome certainly don’t want their picture taken – at least, for free. Duh.
The first stint of our trip was spent in France. That’s a story for a day when I’m, perhaps, feeling a bit more charitable. In our attempt to leave France, the airport had a bomb threat, which caused us to miss our flight, which caused the airline to say “Sorry, sucks to be you.”, which caused me to have a complete, sobbing, meltdown in front of the airline begging them to have mercy on us. “I have nowhere to go!” I sobbed. So I sat in front of their desk until eventually, the stewardess printed fresh tickets for us and quietly shoved them across the counter towards me.
Our crew arrived in Italy hungry, tired, and weary. I tried to call Stuart from the payphone upon our arrival in Sienna using a prepaid calling card (anyone else remember those dinosaurs?). The buttons wouldn’t work and for all my effort, I couldn’t get the call to go through. An old Italian man, hunched over with age and with plenty of sun-wrinkles to spare, walked over to me amongst my struggle. At first, I was sure he was coming over to yell at me… or rob me… but instead he explained to me in broken English that in Italy, to get the payphone to work, you had to press the buttons like you meant it. Like it’s a matter of life and death, he said. He quietly showed me how to press each button, slowly and intentionally and fiercely. The call went through and I beamed a smile his direction as he shuffled away, pleased with his humanitarian efforts for the day. Perhaps he had seen the weariness on my face – I, unfortunately, have never been one to hide my emotions well.
Through tears, I talked with Stuart. I vented about the French transportation strike and my hunger – the croissants and chocolate bars of France had done little to curb my protein-hungry American appetite. I did happen to enjoy a meat sandwich somewhere in France, but the meat was so impossibly tough we dubbed it the “shoe leather” sandwich and I had to settle for just nibbling the butter brushed bread instead. Stuart, who had spent plenty of time traveling in Europe himself, encouraged me to carry on. Chin up.
After our phone call, I slung my pack over my back once again, now accustomed to the heavy weight of it, and marched to join my fellow travelers. We happened to arrive in Sienna in mid-afternoon, when a majority of the shops and restaurants are closed for an afternoon rest. Unaccustomed to this ritual, and very hungry, I found the closest restaurant I could and knocked on the door. Perhaps this is a restaurant that you had to ask for permission to enter? I didn’t care. I was so hungry.
No one answered.
I sat on the porch of the restaurant, completely defeated, when an Italian woman, sturdy and vibrant, came to the door. She turned the archaic key and the forest green door swung up. Her thick arm motioned for us to come in and we weakly obliged.
The restaurant was completely empty. The lights were shut off and the drapes were closed. We sat where she told us to and she lit the candle on our table before promptly walking away into the kitchen. We didn’t order anything – she never asked, never showed us a menu. Instead, we sat there, sipping our water in silence.
Moments later, plates began to arrive at our table. I remember there were about four different rounds of food that arrived – warm, salty, nourishing. Only one dish I remember in particular, however: gnocchi.
She sat the plate in front of me. A plate of little, grape size pillows, covered in a sauce. Was it a tomato sauce? It was so orange. Is this some sort of squash? Is this a vegetable? I didn’t know at the time. But I devoured it. My eyes grew wise and I declared to the group that this was the dish of my lifetime. I had found my golden city, my Mecca.
Sure, it was the tender, soft gnocchi that I loved. It nourished my body. It was absolutely delicious. I licked my plate clean (literally – sorry about those manners).
But it was so much more than that.
My arrival in Italy as a young-naive-wanderer was met with community. Strangers meeting me in my moments of need. Offering what they had, simple as it may be. There was an openness, a passion, a coloring of life, a humility. It was as if everyone they had all endured struggle, lived to tell the tale, remembered the lessons learned, and offered what they could to their fellow humans. There was a vibrancy in Italy – a pulse of life – that drew me in completely.
I have found this to be true on my subsequent trips to Italy. That vibration, that pulse, still remains.
My small, cottage kitchen is filled with the same as many Italians: harvests of vegetables grown in my home plot, economical cuts of meat, seasonal fruit, fresh flour, good salt, good wine. Perhaps this is what draws me in so deeply. While we’re a world apart, we share an affinity for many things (wine, of course, being only one of them).
Intensely local, fresh food.
A table filled with friends and open to strangers.
Laundry on the line, a small garden tucked in back.
A pot of flowers on an apartment windowsill.
Sunshine.
Appreciation of fellowship.
An appreciation of a homecook’s labor.
I have unfinished business in Italy. I lost my friend, Carla, one year ago this past May. I was supposed to be visiting her, in Bologna, the following month. This trip has gnawed at me. Her death has gnawed at me. Like many of you experienced during covid, it felt brutal to not be able to say goodbye. Carla and I had many plans in Italy preceding her death. We shared an affinity for simple food done exceptionally well and she, perhaps more than anyone, pushed me to have a deeper, richer appreciation for food and to seek simplicity and perfection in our Cooking Community. “Make it simple for them.”, she said, “But make it perfect.”. I remember writing her advice down in my phone so I wouldn’t forget that. Simple, but perfect. She had a special way of channeling her passion into her breads, her pastas, her dishes. I remember every single thing that I’ve eaten made by her hands. Like my first gnocchi in Italy, they were dishes made with a deep and honest desire to share something beautiful with a fellow human.
Italians do that very, very well.
So as a home cook, as a small-scale farmer, as someone who opens my table up to hundreds of thousands of people around the world, and as a fellow human, I’ll be delighted to find my feet on Italian soil again soon. I hope it helps me to recover a piece of the world that I thought was lost forever to pandemics and the death of my friend, my “home base” in Italy. I hope it helps me to find new ways to bring this simplicity, this comfort, to our community of home cooks we teach each month. I hope it creates a nourishment, passion, and education in me that I can translate to my workshop attendees. I hope it opens doors to host in-person workshops there in the future.
The way the waitress made me feel when she brought my weary bones a plate of warm, hand-rolled gnocchi? I hope I can make people feel like that.
If I can distill, bottle, and share Italy’s humble and home-grown comfort with you all, our homes, our kitchens, our tables, our fellowship, will be all the better for it.
Can’t wait to share this adventure with you all.
Salute.
Jeannie
I miss blogs. Just the other day I was visiting your blog and a couple others and no one had any new posts. I was sad because I wanted to read a complete thought and go on a journey, you know? You do. That’s why you write. Thank you!
Allison
I lived in Sicily for 5 years as a new military wife, NC born and bred. I never expected to love the country, people, customs, culture, food and tradition as much as I did. How can you not? The hum of life on Italian soil is different. The simplicity of food and connection and fellowship cannot be described. My first son was born there and he was loved there for the first 3 years of his life. Italy gave me a piece of life that can NEVER be created anywhere else. I call on her in my cooking, in my garden and in raising my family. Viva Italia. She has my heart and soul. ❤️
Ashelynn
So beautifully expressed. I certainly did not expect to be emotional due to a blog post, yet, here I am.
Elizabeth
I felt the same way; I didn’t expect to get a little teary. I think in some way, we’re longing for a sense of community and slow, peaceful living. It sounds absolutely wonderful to take a stroll through the Italian country side and share in a wonderful dish of pasta or gnocchi.
Monika
Hi there, I’ve been following you for a long time and heard through you about Jovial and Carla. Early this summer we spent a month in Lucca and I was hoping to attend some cooking classes of Carla’s when I heard what happened. So sad.
Are you saying that you will be teaching some at her place in Lucca?
Jessica
Beautiful words. So sorry for the missed good byes, but so glad for the deep relationship forged in making beautiful art out of the ordinary and taken for granted.
Peace to you
Jeannie
This was a beautiful post. Italy looks wonderful, the food, the people and you describe it all so well. Very inspirational Shaye. I hope you have a lovely trip there.
Laurie
That was beautifully written and I could feel the experience!! What memories to treasure even with the loss of your friend!! She gave you something no one else could and now your sharing that something with the rest if us!! Now to the food!!! I have a gnocchi board and have not been brave enough to try it…. now I think I will!!! Thank you soooooooo much!!!!
Natalie
Your writing is beautiful. It is a dream to go to Italy some day
Cosette Benoit
I really love this post. Thank you!! And I remember very well the few days Stuart spent with my family in Switzerland so long ago. If you happen to visit Switzerland, please, let me know. It would be a pleasure to share with you that kind of fellowship you describe. 🤩✨
Claire Anderson
My heart goes out to you as you come to terms with the loss of your friend and someone who appears to have been your kindred spirit.
I’ve travelled to some wonderful places but there is something different about Italy. I read your beautiful post and finally realised what it was – it is the quiet simplicity and conviction that surrounds everything they do. I had the most amazing pizza, which only had three components – the base, the sauce and the cheese – but each element was created with such intent. Simple and perfect!
Rachel Costenbader
I’m so glad that you are finding your way back to Italy Shaye! Thank you for introducing me to Jovial, Carla and Einkorn.
Clair
I miss Carla and mourn that we will never cook with her again. Roger and I can’t wait to get back to Italy. Hello to you and Stuart.
Brooke
Simple, perfect, beautiful! Thank you for always inspiring!
Ashley
This is so beautifully written, Shaye. Also, Hoorah! for the blog coming back!
Tina
A precious, heartfelt story. Thank you so much for taking us along. I find such inspiration in your channel, your recipes and words. Thank you for being you. 😊
Carolyn Carlon
Sorry but this covid/pandemic reference has made me decide to cancel my monthly subscription.
Love your channel but not the reference…my friend died of Covid.
Enough! So many other possibilities & health considerations to consider. Besides being personal medical information. Accuracy?
Jennifer
What of her reference has anything to do with medical information?? And, why would you be so upset?? She simply means that there was so much loss without the ability to say goodbye, just as she has now had a loss without the ability to say goodbye!! She is saying that she has lost a friend, too, and to a sickness that happened quickly and ended quickly.
I am so sorry for your loss and her loss—everyone’s losses. She is mourning her friend, too.
Virginia C
Shaye,
I love that you are honest, sharing the thoughts of your heart, wherever they take you. I feel that heartache is something we share as humans, just like food, it is nice to know your journey.
I discovered einkorn a few years back and found jovial foods, Carla’s beautiful cookbook, and company. I didn’t know of her passing, and really am glad you shared. I am glad that she had such a wide impact.
I do feel your Elliot homestead is a lovely inspiration to me. The beauty of your gardens, your practical teaching style, your lovely photography. Keep doing things tour way. That’s what makes you so very special. Blessings!
Tammy
Hello Shaye – Such a beautiful story. You are making a difference in the world. Through your kitchen, farming, gardening, your words, art, as a mother and wife. Your usually calm and relaxing manner draws me to learn from you. Your humor and heart delight. Love your podcast. You inspire me and so many. With a fuller and more blessed heart, I Thank you for taking us on your journeys in this life.
Olena
Loved your post! The way you described what you experienced in Italy is the way you share about the food (and life) on your channel – generously, unapologetically, keeping things real and practical while savoring the multidimensional beauty of the moments and flavors.
Michelle Jackson
Shaye, you and the work you do is part of Carla’s legacy. Be filled with sweet memories and every time you take a bite, thank God you met such wonderful people.