FINDING MEEMO
On a stormy day in Florence, my family and I hopped in big blue bus to Chianti in Ponzano to attend a Tuscan cooking class. Truth be told, we had some difficulty pulling the trigger, but the woman that we rented our apartment from, Claudia, said she had a great recommendation, and his name was Meemo.
An hour later we stepped off the bus and had four buildings to chose from in the tiny town “square.” We choose one called Enoteca Baldi and asked a waiter working behind the bar if he knew a man named Meemo. All of the sudden, a grey-bearded-Italian-Santa-Claus swings open the kitchen door and bellows, “YOU’RE LATE!”
Meemo kicked off the cooking class with a lengthy history lesson on the unification of Italy, material of choice: a pile of flour. There was the boot of Italy, in all her glory. After we had a glass of wine and loosened up, we started to learn how to make fresh pasta (properly.) To be fair, there was a lot of watching rather than making, va bene.
After a few glasses of wine (sans food) we were getting a little twirly. We didn’t want to interrupt and awkwardly ask for something to eat, but the situation was becoming dire. All of the sudden, Meemo preps a small plate of fresh risotto, which we assume is going to one of his lunch guests, but to our amazement he turns and hands us four spoons. I can tell you with absolute certainty it was one of the best thing I had ever tasted. Only the opening act, the performance continued. Fresh pumpkin risotto, popovers with aged salami, grilled chicken sandwich on homemade focaccia with homemade mayonnaise and homegrown tomatoes, fresh pizza with smoked provolone, tagliatelle with fresh pesto sauce, and finally, a Tunisian orange cake topped with fresh yogurt to cut the sweetness. After being in the kitchen with Meemo for almost 4 hours, we sat down in the now empty dining room. The rain was thrashing against the windows as we sat around a large wooden table and sipped espresso, talking about life, love, and heartbreak. It was one of those moments where everything is so good, you can feel yourself archiving the memory to relive later.
I remember looking over at Meemo and feeling a nostalgia for the experience, before it had ended. He must have noticed, and suddenly looked over at me, smiling. When we finally left, he kissed me on both cheeks and whispered, “you’re a lucky ragazza to be surrounded by these women.” I smiled and said, “so were you.”
On a stormy day in Florence, in a town we almost couldn't find, we found Meemo.
