In early 2012 I visited Tuscany for the first time, to be honest I had actually never left America. When it came to the topic of meat, describing my incapacitation was an understatement. In my early years I was raised pescatarian, living on the coast of California, this was the common theme in the majority of households. Against my will, in my pre-teens, I moved to Arkansas. Attempting to keep this diet seemed merely impossible considering we were in a landlocked area, so vegetarianism (or flexitarian) was the next best option. As soon as I was of age to move in with roommates, they were all mainly vegetarian, I never had an issue or even thought about consuming meat, much less receiving any pressure at all. 

I am the kind of person that will try anything at least twice. I’m not at all rigid in my ways, so when I was in Italy that mild winter, I didn’t want to be that pain in the ass guest that everyone has to accommodate so I just smiled and politely ate everything on my plate. I just started asking what exactly I was eating because I had no earthly idea. Tuscany is known for cold cuts, prosciutto, salami, steak, tongue, liver, tripe, many types of ragù ranging from wild boar, hare, and duck. I recall from this visit, a dear friend called a restaurant early in the morning to book the table for that evening. 

The restaurant was small, it consisted of a modest sized room with a large table that was circled with heavy chairs. The walls had very old black and white photographs that were framed and hung, some floating wooden shelves that held bottles of red wine and hooks all around for coats, scarves, jackets, and bags. This restaurant was by reservation only, the chef took the headcount and assembled the meal for the evening. We arrived, entered in a single file, through the door, down some steep steps and hung our coats on the hooks, slowly turned inward to face the table and took our seats. The table was dressed in a white tablecloth with thin red and black stripes. At each end of the table small baskets filled with sliced tuscan bread. Once seated, pitchers of water soon ensued, and what seemed like endless bottles of red wine “vino della casa”. Large white flat porcelain plates covered with salami, bresaola, capocollo and things I can only try to describe, lay strewn across the plate as to try to conceal the pearly white color. The maximum the restaurant can take is 12 guests. Our group consisted of 8. There might have been another female there, I don’t recall, our table was male heavy. All beautiful Tuscan men with facial hair, dressed in layers with classic attire. Once the food began to arrive, it seemed like it didn’t stop. The conversation came to a halt and the Tuscans would pause with each bite, almost as if to send praise to the heavens above. Approving hums and “quanto è buono ragazzi”… “buonissimo”. My proficiency in Italian back then wasn’t as polished as it is now. I tried my hardest to keep up with the conversation thinking my knowledge of Spanish would help, but Italian is a beast of its own as a language, and I’m still trying to improve. Sometimes out of sheer kindness they would switch to English or speak very slowly for me. I felt like I was infiltrating their little food cult. The conversation slowly began to simmer about past meals and comparing them to what we had in front of us. Not wanting to interrupt, I would lean over and half whisper to my boyfriend at time now husband Sam, “hey what is this?!?” He replied a few times, almost rapidly as to get back to the celebration going on in his mouth, but also as to not alarm me because I was not accustomed to eating typical Tuscan things. The few responses I received were “ veal, cow hoof, pork snout, liver, calf brain”. I tried everything, because “When in Rome” right? Sam also would make hand gestures, as if to sign to me to keep going. 

Italians, I have noticed, use their hands a lot when they speak and are always talking about food. The only thing back home southern boys ever made a fuss about is a sports game or a craft beer, rarely is the conversation ongoing about food. 

In my experience, growing up in America, we rarely ate at the dining room table. Once a year at best for the holidays, but even that is becoming a rare occasion. Living in what is a daily rat race,  going out to eat is often opted in for because it is the easiest option, it requires little effort and no clean up and with the outrageous portions America serves, you come home with a box of leftovers, win win. Not to mention what seems like infinite dining options, Mexican, Thai, Japanese, Chinese, Indian, Barbeque, Koren, Seafood, Pizza, Sushi, Mediterranean, American diners, and fast food galore! Our dining room tables have become a place to toss your backpack, lunch box, and books after a long day at school, or unfinished arts, crafts, and science projects – a large surface that inevitably becomes a catch all for the entire household. I have seen neighbor’s home using their tables as a folding clothes station for their clean laundry. Italians would be absolutely appalled at this, their tables are absolutely sacred. They use them every single day, three times a day. They also don’t believe me when I tell them Americans never eat at the table, that most families eat in front of the television. In my family we were known for watching true crime and eating on the bed. I have never shared that with any italian. I will take that secret to my grave. I definitely don’t need another thing to add to their lengthy list of embarrassing things Americans do wrong. Don’t get them started on pineapple on pizza!

Once in the summer, during my “fancy nannying” years, I did something that was in my mind ordinary, I was brushing a beautiful, little sun-kissed, Italian girl’s hair after a long day of playing in the sea, then I decided to place the brush on the table to begin french braiding her hair. I was sitting at a chair next to the table, so to me it felt logical to set the brush down there as it was the nearest surface to me. The mother walks in and sees this, she is horrified, and grabs the brush off the dining table and says “absolutely not! We do not do this!!! No no no!” That moment has stuck with me for over a decade later, and I now enforce this rule in my own home. I am raising two young boys in Italy and I have an urge to instill in them the strong table culture that America lacks. I couldn’t tell if my mistake that day was out of plain ignorance to the sacredness of table culture in Italy, or if America plainly has no respect for honoring such a piece of richness that involves “breaking bread” with those you love the most. I think it was both. 

In my early years as a “relapsed” vegetarian, if you had asked me as a pop quiz, what kind of animal I was eating at the table.. I would be totally clueless. But I can identify any type of fish or seafood. I love lobster and oysters by the way! I can obviously distinguish chicken. The confusion begins with red meats. For the longest time Sam would ask me “What animal is it, pig or cow?” I would constantly get it wrong! I’m way more conscious about it now and rarely fail my random “security checks”. “Pork has a much sweeter taste” Sam would explain. 

Sam’s friends were enamoured by my meat innocence. One day on this same trip, Sam had a rehearsal with his rock band at the time “Sycamore Age” (look them up!). So what I referred to as one of his “brother-husbands” came to pick me up and show me around town. We were responsible for dinner that night. We planned to feed Sam and some of his bandmates. We went to the grocery store and I was blown away. The poultry section had full chickens with the feet, beaks, and mohawks totally intact. Everything minus the feathers. I was just amazed at how different the grocery stores were from back home. Milk, eggs, and beer were not refrigerated! I couldn’t believe it. In America our beer has its own aisle and is entirely refrigerated. I was too busy looking around and partially listening to the brother husband when he mentioned that for dinner we would be having “rabbit steaks”. After just hearing an unusual list of animal parts I had just consumed the night before, I didn’t give it a second thought. After romping around Arezzo, we made our way back to Sam’s house with our groceries. We walked into a room full of people. Sam, his father, his bandmates were in the living room hanging out having some wine. Sam asked the brother husband and I what we were having for dinner. I proudly proclaim “rabbit steaks!”. Faces narrowed followed by an eruption of laughter. I was so confused. When Sam and his father found their composure, they explained through chuckles and tears, that there is no such thing as rabbit steak. That the rabbit is too small to even make a steak. 

I WAS FUCKING SET UP!!!! 

I tried to redeem myself and question it… “what? Why not?! Why wouldn’t I believe it, I come from the land where chicken fried steak is a thing!” 

Living in Arkansas I heard the term “chicken fried steak” often but I wasn’t exactly sure what it was nor had I ever even tried it, I just knew it was a thing. I mean for fuck’s sake in Little Rock, Arkansas they stuff a chicken AND a duck inside of a turkey for Thanksgiving! “Turdunkin” is the term and then to top it off they shove a beer in its ass. Who was making the rules here?! This was a cruel cruel joke that was made at my expense, and I have never gotten over it.

When you make an Italian friend and they want to have you over for dinner, it’s a really good sign, expressing a strong deep fondness for you. Congratulations, you have made the cut in their book!