This is love. It is a tarte tatin. It was made by my oldest friend in Ticino, Valeria, for Friday night dinner. It was the day after the death of her sister-in-law, the beloved, indomitable sister of her husband. Hospitalized since Monday for what seemed like a minor problem, she took a sudden and unexpected turn for the worse on Tuesday. Her husband came hurrying back to the hospital, calling out Mari, Mari, as he rounded the door frame to her room, in a rush of love and tenderness and anguish. She died Thursday night, the 11th of September. Three months to the day of the also unexpected death of her beloved son, another death which had all too recently wrapped the entire family in a shroud of sadness and sorrow. And now Valeria, after standing vigil for days in the hospital, was doing what she does best, providing succor and sustenance for the family by cooking dinner. I stood in her kitchen as she browned the rack of lamb, pausing only to gather the vegetables that she would roast with the lamb. It was a choreography in the kitchen, a practiced swinging from one task to the next. To the side of her, on the wall by the sink, hangs a board holding the quote by Michel Bourdin: Cucinare é un modo di dare, Cooking is a way of giving. And that is Valeria.
She was my first friend in Ticino. Her husband used to joke that it was something like love at first sight when we first met, some 30 years ago. An instant, non-verbal recognition that we would be friends, good friends. She reminded me of Faye Dunaway in 3 Days of the Condor. She strides through life, straight and strong, clear-eyed and purposeful. It was a good thing that she could speak English as I spoke not a word of Italian. 5 years later when we decided to make our vacation home our permanent residence, Valeria was my lifeline. When she gives, she gives with her whole heart, openly and honestly. So when I looked at that tarte tatin glistening on the countertop, what I saw was love.