Tasting an Italian Cooking Class

After taking a ferry across Lake Como and touring a villa on what felt like the hottest day I’d spent in Italy, I was scheduled to spend the afternoon in a cooking class. 

My trip to Italy for an art and faith retreat a few weeks ago was in the middle of their hottest summer in ten years {according to the locals} and my century-old hotel didn’t have air conditioning. I was hot, sleepy and completely lacking energy to tackle a cooking class. 

I thought about skipping it to put my feet up in front of the oscillating fan in my hotel room, but how could I come to Italy and not learn to cook?

So I walked up the steep steps to the top of the village hill and up even more steps to the tiny cooking school. 

I put on an apron {that felt more like a coat} and read the chalkboard hanging on the wall that held our menu: bruschetta, spinach ravioli, tagliatelle, and tiramisu for dessert.

Our large retreat group was split into several small groups since the kitchen space couldn't accommodate all of us. I’d asked those who’d gone before me how intense it was. 

{I was still a little battle-scarred from the beginner culinary course I’d taken last summer since my skills hadn't advanced much.}

No pressure, they assured me, you could do as much or as little as you liked.

We got started with the tiramisu so it could chill while we cooked the other dishes.

When the instructor Elizabetta, a charming girl who spoke almost flawless English, asked for someone to whip the mascarpone cheese and egg yolks, I volunteered. 

Whipping ingredients for baking I could do; rolling out pasta dough, I wasn’t so sure about. I also offered to dip the lady fingers in the coffee, arrange them in the pan and spread the cream over them.

I figured if I volunteered for the easy stuff early on, maybe I could leave the more challenging work to others.

I think it would be awfully nice if life followed this formula, don’t you? 

I’d avoid what compels me to step forward in faith, sidestep what calls me to stretch beyond my capabilities, and steer clear of what moves me outside my carefully constructed comfort zone into unknown territory. 

But I think that's called living on autopilot. Doing only what's familiar, without a lot of risk, and not putting my heart into it.

I think I'd rather approach life wholeheartedly, even when it's awkward and uncomfortable. I'd rather be willing to answer God's invitation to join him on adventures, like this journey to Italy. 

Even when what I'm doing is rolling out dough in a sticky, hot kitchen across the ocean.

As I watched my fellow culinary colleagues make the noodles thinner and thinner and then stretch it into the ravioli molds, I decided to give it a try.

But Elizabetta took a phone call just as I started to form the ravioli and I wasn't sure what to do next. 

My spoonfuls of spinach filling seemed too big but one of the girls helped me seal the noodles shut.

When Elizabetta returned she gently slid my imperfect little pillows of spinach ravioli to the side, saying they were a bit too plump to use.

But not to worry, she said, it's all good.

Finally, after hours of cooking in the kitchen, Mama Italiano breezed in to finish off our class. She was Elizabetta's mother and spoke little English but exuded hospitality. 

I watched as she expertly seasoned our bruschetta, gave a quick stir to the pan of tomato sauce on the stove, and poured our wine.

 

As we gathered to eat our dinner at this Italian table out on the courtyard, I listened to the life stories of Cindy and her daughters Minet and Natalie from California, Donna from Ohio, and Jane from Virginia. 

It didn’t matter that my pasta didn’t make the cooking pot or that I was hot and disheveled and sweaty. 

The evening was enchanting. 

We celebrated our diplomas that we'd completed an Italian cooking course. And in this small circle of friends, surrounded by the summer heat of Italy, with the aroma of tomato sauce wafting out from the kitchen, I knew this was one of my favorite nights here.

My apron that I wore all evening was mine to keep. I tucked it in my suitcase and decided not to wash it when I got home. 

The little pieces of pasta dough stuck to it and the flour dusted over it are just little bits of my keepsake of Corsi di cucina gusto Italiano, which means taste Italian cooking classes.

I did. And it couldn’t have been more delicious.

I'm linking up with my friends at Holley Gerth's place at Coffee for your Heart. Join me there for more posts from my blogger friends!