food

In Italy, food is love. If you love someone, you feed them. So it follows that all these Italians loving up on each other at dinner parties are probably not dishing growth-hormoned, Eboli-infested, faux-organic, battery-caged crap. Italy never went there with food because that's not love. That's poison.

Unfortunately, America went there. And after three months in Italy, my relationship with American food is strained at best. I constantly ask, "Where did this food come from?" and rarely trust the answer. (The Italians look at me like I'm asking where babies come from.)

What I love about America is our wide-eyed, dog-eared optimism. Woven into our national fabric are stories of the Little Guy demanding a better world. It's the "Dagnabit! Let's get out there and do something about this" approach. Today's Times Magazine story Street Farmer is an inspiring example.

Last night, 6 of us prepared a feast and ate it in Kristin's back garden. I made bruschetta and a quinoa with peppers, cilantro, and soy croutons. Kristin made bluefish and salmon filets and a bountiful salad of arugula, avocado, tomatoes and red onions. Ian made homestyle mojitos with fresh mint. Catherine made a knock-your-socks-off salad of watermelon, feta, onions, parsley and olives. Chris and John grilled chicken sausage topped with yellow peppers and onions.

Cooking and sharing food together. Simple. Tribal. True.