When I was a teenager, my beloved grandmother, Nonna Valentina told me: "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach." I smiled, but those words made little sense to me. I was already quite good in the kitchen, having begun at the age of seven as Emilia's apprentice. Emilia (for those who haven't read my first book) was our cook, an imperious yard and a half of a woman with a bit of a beard and stocky legs that, disregarding the notion of ankles, ended into a pair of perpetually swollen feet. She placed me in front of the stove and I never left it.
Like all cooks, she had an attitude, and my entire family tip-toed around her, careful not to displease her. But she loved us children fiercely, and generously offered to teach me her culinary secrets. My life, under Emilia's guidance, took another direction, my gastronomical future determined from an early age.
Today as I stand in my Umbrian orto, my bountiful vegetable garden, picking the ingredients for our evening meal, I'm reminded of her. I smile, visualizing her chubby fingers palpating tomatoes and eggplants at Livorno's covered market. She so infuriated the vendors, who screamed at her in thick dialect to leave it immediately, or else! Emilia would just shrug and continue investigating the goods.
I can't go longer than a week without cooking, even when I travel. As soon as I land in a foreign place I look around, immediately drawn by grocery stores, supermarkets, vegetable stands. I've prepared meals in Japan, China and Singapore, all over Europe, Argentina and wherever life has taken me.
I love the entire routine, from menu-planning to shopping, prepping, cooking and finally serving my dishes to friends and family. The joy of seeing that certain look in the eyes of those who taste my food and eat my bread, who plunge their forks into a basic pasta alla Carbonara or Amatriciana, is worth all the time I spend kneading, cleaning, stuffing, whisking, baking, stirring.
Cooking is like a disease, a strong itch that needs to be scratched. Whenever I feel the urge to put my hands on some ingredients, I immediately have to rush to a kitchen. Any kitchen.
Nonna Valentina was right, it's been a great (and not so secret) weapon but my culinary skills have always attracted all kinds of people, and not just men. Even during my years as a model I continued to cook for whoever wanted to try my recipes. My friends were aware that I had to be left alone during collections week, but often, the very moment those crazy days were over, I would come home and a smilingportiere, the doorman, would hand me a few plastic bags filled with ingredients and a note: "Will you cook us dinner? We'll be at your apartment at 9 p.m."
At times, though, there were some misunderstandings.
I used to be very close to M, a great guy from Milano. We spent many days and evenings together, going to movies and concerts and dancing the night away at fashionable clubs. Extremely wealthy and a bit spoiled, M had all the girlfriends he wanted, but ours was a special connection, built on pure camaraderie. Or so I thought...
One day I received a gift from the owner of the best bakery in via Veneto: a fabulous tart of visciole -- those special cherries, dark red, a bit sour and yet so sweet-smelling -- that grow in Ciociaria, near Rome. I took it home and positioned it in the place of honor, on my living-room table.
That night M and I had a movie date and when he drove me home I invited him up to "eat the crostata di visciole." I'd never seen him jump out of the car so fast. A real gourmand, I told myself. We took the elevator to my penthouse and sat on the sofa. Youth and enthusiasm contributed to the disappearance of the whole cake in less than half an hour.
At which point, without any further ado, he jumped on me.
"What the heck are you doing?" I yelled. Horrified, I pushed him away.
"What do you think?" he grinned, surprised by my silly question. By then he seemed to have become an octopus, his hands and arms wrapped all over my body.
"Stop it immediately!"
"Hey, you invited me up for a crostata..." Poor M looked positively stunned by my reaction.
"Precisely: a crostata. We ate it, you liked it and now you can go home," I answered, even more puzzled by his behavior.
Needless to say, I never saw him again. Ever.
The moral of the story? Hmm, not sure, but after that night I certainly thought twice before asking someone up for dessert and wine. Unless I too had some special scheme in mind...
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