There is no country like Italy, where a good meal not only elevates the senses but also the spirit. The combination of traditional recipes, local high-quality ingredients, and preparations made with love can create a magical experience for diners. Raffaela Cecchelli, the chef and owner of La Trana dei Breilli, is a woman who honors recipes passed down for generations. She makes eating a meal at her restaurant an experience of receiving care that I rarely, if ever, experience in the United States.
Raffaela is well-versed in the art of gastronomic traditions, and her osteria with just a few tables is worthy of a visit to Massa Marittima in southern Tuscany. As the smallest restaurant in town, it offers traditional Tuscan cuisine that is hard to describe in words. The tortellini alla maremmana, two huge tortellini stuffed with ricotta and spinach and covered in an exquisite ragu, has won awards. The torta nonna, a classic Italian dessert made of shortbread and custard and covered in pine nuts, is like no other by the same name.
Returning the next day and feeling fortunate to do so without a prior reservation, I ordered Raffaela's nontraditional version of cacio e pepe, and my only regret was that it was too rich to be followed by dessert. Though she spoke no English, I understood her when she said that cooking has always been an act of love.
Sprezzatura is a uniquely Italian word that describes Raffaela's cooking: It means making something difficult look effortless. The origin of the word dates back to the 16th century when author Baldassare Castiglione coined the term sprezzatura to mean a self-deprecatory way of undervaluing what one does well. “We may call that art true art,” he wrote, “which does not seem to be art.”
Sprezzatura is sometimes used to refer to recipes that can be made quickly but, for me, a better translation is that great care is taken in the food preparation without artifice or pretension. Even when it takes a short time, there is effort behind the scenes leading up to the finish line. The preparation begins with a trip to the market where the freshest ingredients are selected, bought from merchants with whom the cooks have personal relationships. Each acknowledges the other in caring interactions.
On my last night in Tuscany, my host Gio arranged for me to have dinner in the home of Mamma Doriana. She does not have a restaurant, but she occasionally welcomes people into her home to join in a meal. Gio will sometimes go out on all day horseback rides with friends or clients and Doriana will prepare a meal for them, giving them a chance midday to eat and rest.
On the night I joined for dinner, Doriana was there with her husband, daughter Norma, and grandson Thomas. Also joining were Dora's friend Sara, who also has horses and takes customers for picturesque rides in nearby Maremma Natural Park and along the Mediterranean Sea.
The conversation around the table was in Italian, except for a few exchanges with Sara and her partner who know some English. I can name words in Italian, mostly around food, and have a few dozen sentences under my belt, which quickly disappear in the context of spontaneous conversation. While I didn't understand much of what was said, the language was familiar, and I felt I belonged in this gathering of kind and gracious people.
It is possible to connect to the heart behind the words, and to enjoy being part of a group of people who are connected to each other and have graciously invited you in. The entire Tuscan week with Gio, who intuitively connects with his guests, and the final evening with Mamma Doriana and her family, left me feeling held in the embrace of collective care.
My grandmother on my father's side, whose mother was born in a small village in the Dolomites, did not make memorable, traditional Italian dishes for her family. (Her pasties, however, were coveted, and she won a gold medal at the Michigan State Fair for them.)* Yet my grandma always prepared her food with love, even something as simple as a ground bologna sandwich, and that is the experience which lingers in my memories of her. I can see her beautiful, weathered hands in my mind's eye even as I write this.
Eating a meal made with love is a gift that creates a sense of connection with the person making and serving the food. We can honor that gift by slowing down and appreciating the care that went into it, by lingering over it, and by sharing meaningful conversation during it.
* The pasty is a beef and potato or root vegetable hand pie originating in Cornwall, England. Enjoyed by English and Finnish immigrants working in the ore mines, they are still a favorite in the upper peninsula of Michigan.
Exercises
Reflect on experiences of food that were meaningful for you. How have you experienced care (receiving and giving it) while eating?
Prepare some food as an act of love, for yourself and/or others. Notice how the experience changed when you intentionally brought care to the experience from beginning to end. Note: You do not have to be an award-winning chef to build connections around food!