Good People

A Grrek woman I knew and loved as much for her unabashed opinions as for the unabashed sass with which she expressed them would listen politely when people would talk of their travels outside the US. Every once in a while she would murmur "oh, yah" with what seemed like enthusiasm. When the erstwhile traveler left her presence, though, she would plant herself in her rightful kitchen chair, throw her arms arms across her chest, raise her nose so she could sway her chin side to side and proclaim "What a show-off!" There were many of these offenders, and I suppose,were she alive, I would now be added to the list. I accept the moniker and readers, be forewarned, I am now going to show off.
Within days of my arrival in Abruzzo in general and this area of it in particular, there occurs an attitude adjustment of such magnitude that I become a different person. It comes inadvertently from the people here. I visit my favorite ceramics shop in Bisenti. The shop owner, Patrizia, and I hug, genuinely happy to see each other.
     "La familia, sta bene?" "Your family is well? "
      "Si, si!" I say, and she beams, even though she has never met my family. "E la tua? Tue figlie stanno crescendo, vero? " "Your girls are growing, right?"  I have met her daughters and they are beautiful.
       "Si, si! Anche la piccola!" "Yes, yes, even the youngest!"
        I can't wait to see her. I can't imagine her growing. She has been the tiny one ever since I met her four years ago.
        I pick out a spoon rest to replace one I broke last summer. It depicts a country scene in sepia, green, and yellow with an old stone farmhouse near a creek. The scene is alive with detail. Her husband, Camillo's specialty, I know. I also pick out a card of hand-made paper. I need to send a thank-you note. She looks at the price on the spoon rest ans shrugs.
       "Veinte euro." 20 instead of the 24 euro on the price tag. The card she slides back to me.    
        "Nineteen. Un regalo." "Nothing. A gift." 

          The next day guests drive me to see a new pasticeria they have found in nearby Castilenti. Tony, one of them, is a passionate foodie and is excited to have discovered this treasure. As soon as we enter, the woman behind the counter recognizes him.
        "Bon di! " she greets him, local dialect for "buon giorno". Her wattage increases exponentially as she and Tony continue chatting in the dialect, which neither his wife nor I can understand. After a particularly bright word punctuation, the bakery woman zips behind the counter and pops back around with rotund sugared doughnuts, each about the size of a golf ball.  We must each tek one. Tony and Mary decline, so the woman hands all three to me, beaming with expectation. So even though I never, and I mean never for as long as I can remember, eat doughnuts, I politely take one and bite into it. It is the best piece of pastry I have ever eaten! Light, mildly sweet, even with the sugar, and filled with real, creamy smooth egg custard. My eyes bug out and a smile explodes on my
face. The woman claps her hands and proceeds to fill a lunch bag sized sack full of these and other
pastries. All the while the three of us are waving our hands and crying, "No, no, no, no!".  To no
avail. The woman rolls down the top of the bag and thrusts it at us.
      "Mangia domani, doppo domani. Non e' molto! " "Eat tomorrow, or the day after. It's not much."

The rounds in the middle tray are known as "bomba" : bombs. You certainly could eat enough of them to explode!

       The town's butcher, Donato, does likewise with sausages. Plus he buys us all coffee.

Donato the butcher. 

       These could, by our skeptical American minds, be dismissed as a uniquely Italian form of
product promotion. The equivalent of free samples in the local grocery store. But wait - there's. Ore to show off.
       Twice I have been invited for dinner to the home of Giovanna, the woman who cleans my house. Mine is not the only one she cleans. She works for several other people. She cleans, cares for a bed-ridden elderly lady, and baby-sits three small children. Carlo, her husband, works in a nearby factory that makes bathroom fixtures. When we arrive each time, he gives us the grand tour of their farm - the impossibly tidy rows of chicken wire, straight and even that house his ducks, geese, hens, roosters, and goats. In back of them is a long, low barn with pigeon pens, rabbit hutches, and a stall for this year's suckling pig. He walks us through the vegetable garden, past his fig trees, over to the
vineyard, and points out the hillside with their 150 olive trees. The equipment for caring for all of this agriculture is stored in an open set of bays under a corrugated tin roof supported by massive concrete
and rebar pillars. All of this he maintains himself. While working full time.

Carlo firing up the grill for arrosticini. Yes, with a blow torch. 

When he had stalled us enough so that Giovanna can complete her tasks in the kitchen, he ushers us into the house. We eat. Frittelli (a fried dough kind of bread), antipasto of prosciutto, capitols, and pancetta made from last
year's pig, pappardelle pasta, two additional meats for "il secondo", not pepper condiments made from those grown in their garden, homemade wine, salad with their exquisite olive oil, strawberries and fresh whipped cream, limoncello, crema limone, and chocolate liquor. My house gift to them of a box of chocolates from the gourmet chocolate shop in town seems blatantly paltry. When we are all able to breathe again; when I am sure I can drive up/down the one-lane road that winds from their house to mine, we take our leave, expressing thanks with words that cannot hold them. We make our way to the car gingerly, so we don't drop the eggs, meat, lemons, wine, fritelli, and preserved peppers sotto olio that Giovanna has insisted we take home. She also insists we come again.
      At home, it is all I can do to flop on my bed, worn out from feasting. Giovanna has piles of dishes to wash, food to put away, napkins and tablecloths to launder. And work to go to early in the morning. But as we left, as she shooed us away from helping her with any clean-up, she told us how
happy she was to have us,
      "E' stato un piacere!" "It was a pleasure!"  "Voi siete familia!  Tu e  Mary siete come sorelle", she finished as her eyes shine. "You are all family! You and Mary are like sisters!"
        On my bed, my head spinning like Dorothy's after the tornado-instigated bonk on the head, I know I am not in Kansas any more. Or anywhere else in the States. I am in a land where sharing, opening one's heart to others is so much the norm it is unthinkable to do otherwise. Generosity, the joy of sharing, the pleasure of opening one's home and being to others is innate. Crack. I hear the sound of an American attitude adjusting.