Nourishment

Who knew how much a white apron and a soup recipe could teach me about myself.

Tuscany, September 2016.

There was a note on the chalkboard in the dining room that read:

Cooking class

Ribollita¹

Vegetable soup with white beans and cabbage

15:30

I jotted my name down on the signup sheet without much expectation. When I walked into the kitchen later that afternoon, I was handed a white apron. I slipped it over my head and found an empty space at the tall stainless-steel table that was covered in fresh produce - heaps of delicate parsley, heads of cabbage, orange carrots with their leafy tops still attached, deep purple onions, bright red tomatoes in large white bowls, nubby potatoes flecked with dirt, deep green zucchini, and hearty kale leaves.

Mari, a petite older woman with messy blonde hair, welcomed the 10 of us who stood there in our matching aprons. Only a few days earlier, we had piled into a van at the Florence train station and arrived at

Jennifer Pastiloff

’s yoga retreat² a little over an hour later. During the drive, I watched out the window as the city skyline gave way to green, rolling hills. When we turned down a narrow, dusty road in the Tuscan countryside, I had no idea what to expect and the not knowing was equal parts thrilling and terrifying.

“Today we are going to make soup. Beautiful soup.” Mari gestured to the large, silver pots that had been placed on the stove. As she did, gold hoop earrings swung back and forth under her chin and thick black-rimmed glasses slid down her nose. “And we must drink champagne!”

At nearly seven years sober, I hadn’t even held a glass of champagne in longer than I could remember, but I appreciated the sentiment. It felt so Italian. When the other women raised their glasses in the air, I lifted up my can of coke and repeated after Mari who said, “Cin Cin. Beautiful.”

She showed the group of us how to tear apart day-old bread and blend white beans into a thick, creamy liquid. Side by side, we chopped cabbage and diced onions. We boiled tomatoes, then carefully peeled back their tender skin.

“Beautiful.” Mari would shout every so often. “This is beautiful!”