Inviting a friend over for dinner comes with a whole series of rituals, even when the evening is meant to be simple and informal. Introducing someone we care about to food and wine means paying attention, showing affection, taking care in the most natural way. And I am not talking about etiquette or formal rules. Rules have never really worked for me. Rebellious, yet hopelessly romantic, I have always made my decisions by following love, the desire to share, the wish to make myself available and to offer whoever I am hosting a little comfort, a moment of joy and, why not, even a touch of ecstasy.
The first friend I am inviting to dinner tonight is my mother, the person who taught me to love cooking from the time I was a little girl.
She is the one who taught me how to tell the story behind the dishes we cooked, and about all the experiments needed before finding the right balance. When I think of her, I realise I could describe her through so many different dishes, but there are two that bring her to mind in every possible way: lasagna and roast with honey mustard.
Lasagna is the perfect expression of who she is: crisp and slightly burnt on top, soft and melting inside. Between one layer and the next, you always find something unexpected that makes you smile: a little pocket of meat sauce, a generous layer of béchamel, the browned edge of the pasta.
That is exactly what my mother is like. You talk to her, and the deeper you go, the more you discover something about her that leaves you amazed.
I would run into the living room and switch on the CD player, search for our Ludovico Einaudi collection and press PLAY: our music, our moment, our ritual.
They are memories I guard in my heart with infinite jealousy, clinging to them every day, terrified that one day I might forget them, that sometime in the future I may have to dig through the darker memories to recover those bright ones that make me feel happy and light while I sink and swim through so much pain.
I remember the dedication and patience she put into kneading the dough and cooking the pasta sheets, leaving them to dry on striped kitchen towels while the ragù simmered slowly in the air.
Every now and then I was granted the honour of making the béchamel, and to know when it was ready, the mixture had to be glossy and velvety.
“So velvety that it should hug the spoon without holding it too tightly. It should slip over it like a dress that fits perfectly.”
Cascades of Parmesan between one layer and the next, always scattered by hand, because spoons and kitchen scales were for restaurants. We measured ingredients strictly “by eye”. We had a sixth sense, something difficult to explain to people who cook only by following recipes step by step, gram by gram.
As a child, I drank Coca-Cola with lasagna. In fact, I almost forgot to mention it: her lasagna is what I have asked her to cook for my birthday for as long as I can remember.
Then, at some point, the Coca-Cola was replaced by a bottle of wine. And that was the beginning of another one of our rituals.
“Lasagna needs a serious red,” my mother would declare.
I never really understood exactly what “serious” meant.
For her, it mainly meant a wine that would not be overwhelmed by the ragù. For me, on the other hand, the wine was not supposed to fight the lasagna: it had to accompany it. And over that apparently insignificant difference, we managed to argue for years.
The first time, I arrived with a Sangiovese. I was convinced I had solved the problem: acidity, freshness, that character capable of cleansing the palate after the sweetness of the béchamel and the richness of the Parmesan.
Mum tasted the wine. Then the lasagna. Then the wine again.
“Good.”
When my mother simply says “good”, it means you have not won yet.
The following year I played it safe: Chianti Classico.
“Now this is a wine for lasagna.”
I thought I had finally achieved family peace.
The tannins followed the ragù, the acidity stood up to the béchamel, the savoury notes lingered alongside the Parmesan. Everything seemed to work. So well, in fact, that I felt something was missing: surprise.
So I started changing the bottle every year.
Choosing the wine became almost as important as the lasagna itself. I would arrive with the bottle hidden in my bag and she would try to guess what I had brought. We would argue before opening it, and we would keep arguing after the first glass.
Then one year I arrived with a Piedirosso from Campania.
Mum looked at the label.
“With lasagna?”
“With lasagna.”
She looked at me the way you look at someone you love when it is painfully obvious they are about to make a mistake.
We poured it.
Fruit, freshness, that Mediterranean, savoury streak, tannins that were present without being overpowering. The wine did not try to dominate the ragù. It walked alongside it. And it left room for the béchamel, the Parmesan, the pasta, even those little burnt edges I always searched for on my plate.
For a few minutes, she said nothing.
“So?”
She took another bite.
Then a sip.
“Not bad.”
I had won.
Of course, I never told her.
Because perhaps the best part was never really about finding the perfect wine for lasagna. It was about having a different bottle to open every year, something to argue about, a reason to sit opposite each other once again and start all over.
Lasagna, Ludovico Einaudi, a bottle on the table.
And my mother.
Maybe we can talk about the roast with honey mustard next time.
