T. and I are celebrating 8 years of marriage. We've actually been together for 16 years now, which is insanely surreal to think about. Along the journey we've experienced highs and lows, celebrations and disasters, and two unbelievable kids. Oh, and food. Some really good food.
In 2001 we honeymooned in Italy. I'd like to say it was flawlessly romantic, but in truth it was equal parts amazing and frustrating. Our first couple of days in Florence found my newly wed husband lying on either the hotel bed or the bathroom floor exhausted and sick to his stomach. Not the best start for a marriage or a vacation in foodie paradise. But eventually he slept, healed and we moved on to the next destination: Villa Vignamaggio - a winery and villa in the Chianti hillside. http://www.vignamaggio.com/
Everyone should stay here at least once. Vignamaggio has been the home of the (supposed) model for Da Vinci's Mona Lisa and the set for Kenneth Branaugh's Much Ado About Nothing. It has thick stone walls, beautiful gardens, and surreal views of Chianti's rolling hillsides. I dream of going back, only this time staying much, much longer.
One of the first joys we experienced in Chianti was a tomato that we sliced with a knife and ate out of hand. There's not much I can tell you about a tomato that you don't already know, but this particular one was life-altering. Warm, juicy, and with a deep flavor that I still haven't forgotten. I also tasted ribollita for the first time (a vegetable and bread soup that is so thick you eat it with a fork), served by a chef who precariously dangled an inch-long cigarette ash over the pot as he plated my soup (and yes, it was served on a plate). Luckily the ribollita escaped the ash and was rich and satisfying.
But the jewel in the crown was the pork sandwich that I fought for at the local farmer's market. Yep -a pork sandwich. Being a food geek, I had read about the porchetta, or pork, in a guidebook. I had my heart set on this pork sandwich, so I staked my place in a line that was at least 20 people deep while T. waited nearby, probably wondering why he had just married a girl who would stand in line for a sandwich. But this is who I am. A glutton, a hedonist, a girl who loves pork. This was easily the slowest line of my life.
About 25 minutes in, I was still a good five or six people back but I was close enough to finally see the action. And by action, I mean a 75 year old man, painstakingly carving thin slices of roast pork in what must have been slow motion. He took the slicing to a whole new level; it was an art form that couldn't be rushed (and wasn't helped by the bandage that ran the length of his forearm). Sloooooooooowly, he sliced the pork and arranged it methodically onto a sliced roll. He stacked and re-stacked the pork until it sat in a perfect mound atop the bread and then repeated, again and again. I'm not going to lie; it was painful. The wait was excruciating. After another 10 minutes had passed, I was finally up and he repeated the process all over again, sculpting a tower of pork. He asked (or gestured since I knew almost no Italian except for the basic tourist phrases) if I wanted the extra bits. I may have been a tourist but I'm not stupid - of course I did. Those bits included slivers of crisped brown skin and fat and slow-roasted garlic cloves and was redolent of rosemary, wild fennel and other spices. The smell alone was enough to make you swoon. When he was finally done arranging the sandwich he carefully handed it over to his daughter who wrapped it in paper and I was on my way, much to T's. relief.
Walking down narrow streets, we found a quiet curb on which to sit and eat the damn thing. Doubting how anything could live up to a wait that long, I peeled back the paper and sank my teeth in. (This is where I would like to insert over-the-top effects like fireworks, marching bands playing John Phillip Sousa, shooting stars, choirs, and trains going through tunnels). Yes, it really was THAT good. Crispy, juicy, soft, savory, and slicked with garlic and rosemary - it was unctuous and delicious. If I could sing spirituals I would. I gallantly passed it to my new husband so he could take a bite - after all, he earned his just rewards too. There we sat, sitting on a curb in Italy, eating the best pork sandwich on the planet.
To this day, I think of that pork sandwich as one of the best things I have ever eaten. And in many ways, it's not unlike my marriage. It was a long, slow journey getting there, and there were a few bumps along the way. But in the end, all the components came together to make something that was greater than the sum of their parts. It's not a pricey Michelin-starred meal but it's one you'll always carry with you because it's delicious and indelible because it's made with love. I'm guessing the gentleman who made that pork is no longer crafting the perfect sandwich, but his commitment to creating a thing of art is a pretty good lesson, too. It takes work. Sometimes it feel painstakingly slow and hard. But you keep at it because, in the end it's what you love and what you do. It's real and it has weight and meaning. It's love, plain and simple. It feeds you on so many levels. And your life is profoundly better because of it.
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