Mangia

The most common Italian expression is, “Mangia! Mangia! (Eat! Eat!).” Here, I am always so preoccupied with the disturbing tactics my host mother slyly uses to stuff me full of carbs that I often forget that there are people in Italy who suffer from an opposite dilemma: they are starving.

In Viterbo, there is a residential quarter about a three minute walk from my school, hidden away down a long, lonely street. Dilapidated houses are concealed by the shadows from the back walls of expensive bakeries, coffee shops, pizza parlors and butcher stores that line the main road of Via Cavour. A green shutter with peeling paint hangs off the window frame of a small, cream-colored house and points down a street to a square, pastel pink building with a small stained-glass oval window planted in the middle near the roof. This abandoned church, converted into a free hostel and cafeteria, is now the refuge for alcoholics, homeless people, the developmentally disabled, and tsunami victims from Sri Lanka.

As I entered the already busy kitchen, which was the size of my entire apartment and cluttered with gleaming metal ovens, stoves, counters, and utensils, I had a single concern: do these Italians actually expect me to cook? I recalled my host mother’s sullen face when I explained to her that if I ever tried to cook dinner, I would probably burn down our apartment building. Donning a white apron and rubber gloves and breathing in the smell of rosemary and the cold Viterbese wind, I prepared in my head how to say the dreadful news: “Non posso cucinare (I cannot cook).” Luckily, these Italian chefs did not trust an American girl with their precious roasted rosemary chicken, baked potatoes and minestrone soup, so I made salad and lent an extra hand when necessary, doing the work no one wanted.

As I was washing each leaf on each lettuce head, carefully checking the front and back for bruises or dirt, the soup kitchen’s owner, a tall, plump man named Giovanni with wispy white hair and a cleanly shaved beard, dressed in a tight, white sweater and track pants under an oil-spattered apron, shared with me his thoughts on ‘mangia’.

“I work here to try and relieve the suffering and pain so many people must face daily. A good lunch can erase the traumas these poor people have experienced. So much suffering. Soooo much suffering,” he sighed, peeling potatoes. Giovanni cannot sober the alcoholics, house the homeless, repair the neurological defects in the developmentally disabled, or transport the tsunami victims back to Sri Lanka, but he can give these hungry people lunch every Saturday afternoon.

As I grabbed a handful of the lettuce I had washed five times, and hacked at it with a small knife, I kept thinking of how connected Italians are to their food. There are not three flavors of gelato, there are thirty. Meals do not have one course, they have five. I am forced to feign pity whenever my host sister complains about how hungry she is because she had no time for lunch and therefore only had a prosciutto crudo and parmesan sandwich with an apple. Great care is taken to make sure everything is fresh and of top quality. The refrigerator in our home is always bursting with yogurt, mozzarella, oranges, celery, milk, eggs, potatoes, lettuce and carrots, and I am not allowed to leave the house in the morning until I have taken a snack for break time.

Living with my Italian family prepared me well for the task that lay before me: giving people food. Even the people with perpetually grumbling stomachs interjected “Basta! Basta cosi! (Enough! Enough as it is!)” as we sloshed food onto the plates, ignoring their pleas.

“Vorrá il pane? (Would you like bread?)” I politely asked a tall, wheezing middle aged man with blue veins popping out of his large pale hands, clutching the edges of his black plastic tray.

“No grazie, (No thank you,)” he answered in a raspy voice.

Giovanni, overhearing as he artfully stacked glistening chicken breasts onto a small, flimsy, plastic plate, pointed out his left elbow towards the bread, pouted and raised his eyebrows. Understanding perfectly this special Italian food sign language, I asked, “Quante fette di pane vuole? (How many slices of bread do you want?)”

“Nessuna, (None,)” he replied as he began to edge his tray down, slightly annoyed.

Cheerfully, I tossed two slices of bread onto his tray and directed my attention to the next famished ospite (guest).

“Vorrá il pane? (Would you like bread?)” I asked a thirty year old Indian woman in a sequined, magenta sari, balancing a toddler on her hip.

“Certo! (Of course!)” she exclaimed, pushing her two plates of chicken, two bowls of minestrone soup, and one plate of salad as far to the edge of the tray as she could to make room for more food. Mimicking Giovanni, I built a Roman column using five bread slices. Then, without even asking, I decorated the edges of her chipped black tray with little brightly colored chocolate eggs, which caused the toddler to stretch her tired face into a smile and kick her legs.

That night at dinner, my host mother eagerly repeated the question she asks at every meal, “Vorrai ancora? (Would you like some more?)”

As I opened my mouth to refuse, she quickly placed another piece of fish on my plate and edged a piece of bread down the tablecloth until it rested on the edge of my knife. However, instead of inwardly groaning, I chuckled and picked up my fork, ready to begin clearing my plate a second time. My host mother cannot cure homesickness, stress, or sleepiness, but the least she can do is give me a wonderful, filling meal.