A Container of Cannellini Beans
Farfalle with Garden Tomato and Cannellini Beans
I was greeted at the door by a container of cannellini beans, still warm.
"My mother made two pounds." He said.
For a while I feel transported. Traveling thousands of miles with just one forkful.
There are conversations taking place all around me, but I cannot understand every word. What I do understand is a nod. A smile. A kiss on the cheek—or two. Accepting that eating more than my stomach allows is not only customary, but remarkably easy under the circumstances.
And so the soul expands, digesting not only the nutrition, but the tradition.
When I deposit myself into the seat and take that first sip of wine, I've become a part of the fabric that covers a table set for as many as there are chairs to sit and food to eat.
100% linen, passed down. Scrubbed at waters edge and dried in the sun for generations far too great to count. And so my muscles relax and my skin suddenly smells of wild fennel and olive.
I motion to get up, to offer my assistance. It is welcomed, but not necessary.
I look down at my plate and see that there is more. Had I not just cleaned it?
I lift my fork once again and take another bite. I open my eyes.
"Is that all of it?" I ask.
"That's all of it." He replies.