Creative Non-Fiction

By: Alexandra Holt

Pomodorini di collina.

Isn’t that a fantastic thing to attempt saying! It’s one of my personal favorites, as well as being the only thing I do in the kitchen beside boil water with salt and olive oil. Oh! And, I occasionally cut mushrooms too. So when it comes to choosing pasta at night, he gives me a limited choice.

“Penne or rigatoni?” “Linguine or fettucine?” “Manicotti or jumbo shells?”

This ingenious method, created by Giacomo, allows me the pleasure of choosing while simultaneously limiting the types of pasta that suit his culinary experience.

Perfecto.

Two big jugs of Italian Extra Virgin Olive Oil went next, followed by three cans of jumbo-size whole stewed tomatoes. Generic. I guess tomatoes are tomatoes. A sheath of garlic, two sprigs of fresh rosemary, a bunch of Italian flat-leaf parsley, and a hunk of aged Parmesan cheese, distributed amongst the blue.

On to the coffee, tea, jelly, jam, honey, peanut butter aisle. Giacomo walked a little behind me, probably lost visually amongst the five brands of pickles, the thirty-four types of cookies, and a man considering his feet beside his wife.

In Italy, coffee holds particular significance to the daily routine. Italian men drink, on average, about eight espressos a day and one cappuccino as their breakfast.

Cappuccino is breakfast.

Espresso is … air.

A real cappuccino, mind you, not this espresso-hot-water-milk medley they serve at Starbucks. Authentic cappuccino is a single shot of Italian fresh-ground, fresh-pressed espresso-grade coffee, topped by a beautifully frothy waff of hot steamed milk.

Bellisimo. The Starbucks down the street offers unlimited variations of drink configurations. With the Italian mentality, of coffee as a life essential, all these options are superfluous. Giacomo sees espresso and cappuccino only. He’d ordered a dopio espresso the three previous trips, and he was up for a change.

“Get me a cappuccino please.”

Starbuck’s version was dismissed at the first sip.

“What is this?” Giacomo asked, “She made a mistake?” One eyebrow raised and the left of his lip pressing upward to his nose. Giggling, I asked him for the cup and took a drink.

“Nope. No mistake. That’s their cappuccino.”

He threw it away.

In our grocery store, one entire side of an aisle is dedicated to coffee. It is greatly populated by the newly devised, individually packaged, plastic cups of environmental death.

Keurig, Oh, Keurig. Way to play into the laziness of the American consumer. I hate your product; I happen to also own one -- imagine a face of shame here. Thanks to Giacomo, and this first trip to the grocery store, I am happy to say, my Keurig is tidily tucked away, deep underneath the counter, in a cabinet, probably still with water in it, stored and waiting for the ultimate destination, donation station.

Folgers is predominant, a shining red display. Blue Maxwell House was next door. Giacomo immediately spots the color he is looking for, neither red, nor blue, nor the silvery shimmer of “the fancy-pants stuff”. He bullets toward a sunflower yellow package, vacuum sealed, bold font type: Café Bustelo. Now that I have tasted it, many, many, many times, I can truthfully say Café Bustelo is the fancy-pants stuff. Every morning I sip at its softness, rich, bold, thickness caressing my tongue, sugar rendered nearly unnecessary. Giacomo and espresso in the morning.

Cielo.

I admired the cart, a sea of deep blue cardboard edges, now dotted by a bright yellow center, red cans, green veggies, cheese scattered, like bulbs on a blue tree. With a swift sweep of his hands, the cart now contained a jumbo sized Nesquick, a jumbo sized Nutella, and a big bag of sugar. Smiling ear to ear I was thinking so indecisive with pasta brands, but there’s only one Nutella! I hugged him there, right in the middle of the breakfast-condiment aisle. I tripped a little on his foot. He caught me, and kissed my forehead.

“Come on bella, where is wine?”

I pick wine by the label.

Yes. I know, this is no way to pick the product of a highly developed art form with centuries of history. I just can’t help myself when I see a creative design, a wire-thin hot air balloon floating over a phone line, small painted birds dotting the sky above a city, a big fat hippo curling down the edge of the label with its imaginary weight. Giacomo knows the risks. Unlike the pasta, he lets my whim follow me to the visual nature of the wine aisle. Sometimes it works out. Sometimes…not so much.

In the cart I placed a Malbec with a mountain scene, a Chianti with an etching of another time, and a Cabernet Sauvignon with a lush Oak and a bird. These treasures went into the top basket, the place intended for a young child.