In what seems like ages ago in another life, Angelo and I went to Italy for six weeks and I began writing my second book. Or maybe it was my third book—I had lots of ideas back then and, two years after the publication of my first book, working on a second and third book seemed reasonable. Expected, even. But then, everything changed.
When I found myself poking around in those old ideas, I came across this essay; to be included in the book I was writing about the differences and similarities between living in a small Italian commune and a small Connecticut town. I updated it at the end.
Si
In Italy, the answer to everything is yes. But not just yes… there is only “yes-yes-yes-yes-yes-yes.”
Like with the young waitress at the trattoria in Melfi who practically invented a new word in her earnestness to assure us that they had a table and took American credit cards. “Si-si-si-si-si-si-si-si! Certo,” she added in case we were still unclear. Her pronunciation of the word made it sound like she was about to say, “Shh” but then the word lilted upward into the affirming “e” sound. Her version also had a touch of gravitas to it, knitted eyebrows to affirm that she would take care of us.
When you’re at the pasticceria—the pastry shop—and you only want a couple of treats, they always say yes. But be sure you’re ready to eat them--you don’t bring home fresh pastries to save for later. Fresh cannoli, sfogliatelle, and napoleons are made to be eaten now. The same goes for the cheese shop and the butcher. You unwrap those delights, open a bottle of wine and enjoy. Don’t put them in the fridge, don’t wrap them individually to freeze for later. There is no later, and in the land of earthquakes, world wars and fascism it’s easy to see how this attitude developed.
The wedding we all arrived in Italy to attend was going to be spectacular, not the least of which would be the food. My sister-in-law was dreading all the courses she knew she was not going to be able to say “no” to. Antipasto, handmade pasta, grilled meats, fresh vegetables, creamy cheeses, airy desserts. Even Angelo tries to say no sometimes…it does not work. Also, it’s not that polite. Not when cousin Angela has gone to the trouble of spending the morning making tiny, dime-sized cavatelli from scratch for Sunday dinner. When you walk into a home and see almost every flat surface covered with a dishtowel spread with delectable morsels of homemade love, you say yes. To it all.
When you’re in Italy, the answer to almost everything is Yes. Yes, you’ll eat the handmade pasta, yes, you’ll have a “goccia” more wine. Yes, you’ll drive over a half an hour to go to a restaurant that your cousin suggests even though it seems like a really long way to go out to eat because once you get there you’ll have one of the most delightful experiences of your trip. Yes, you’ll go back again.
As I get older, I am more comfortable with this answer. I find myself saying yes more and more to questions and situations that arise in my life. In almost all of them, the short answer is yes. Whether or not there are more considerations or more information to gather (there always is) is just the next part of the answer. I want to respond yes to everything.
Update: It was interesting coming upon this particular essay; I realized I wrote about saying yes in another piece that was recently published in the Fast, Fierce Women anthology. I don’t necessarily think of myself as a “Yes-ma’am,” but I guess I am. Even in the face of my family’s ongoing challenges when you’d think I’d be screaming “No!” at the top of my lungs—No more, universe, no more!—I believe in the power of yes. The bad news, the hard times, the struggles—if I’m with my family, my loved ones, my heart? Then, yes—I’m here for it all.
🥰
Loved this! Pining away for Italy and some of that yes, love, and food right now!