Breaking teeth

My mother never let me set foot in the kitchen, which turned me into a terrible cook. The only human being who would let me practise disastrous culinary experiments was my late grandma Nonna Disa, from the kitchen of her country home in Tuscany. Maybe distracted by the scenery, I would be able to prepare wonderful rice cakes forgetting to cook the rice. She would enter the kitchen, which I had turned into a Guernica of dirty plates, and tried a bite of my uncooked cake, happily breaking her teeth over it, to then tell me it was delicious and I was a wonderful chef. I think my lack of self awareness originated from that Tuscan kitchen experience. For the rest of my life I always assumed I was good. Good with people. Good with kids. Good at writing. Good at entertaining. Good at chatting and listening. Ultimately, a “good person.” I think this is what happens to most of us. We think we are good people. We minimise the mistakes we make and maximise the mistakes of others. I need to remind myself that for how good my intentions are, always, my rice can be undercook. Harsh. And involuntary nasty. The world is plenty of lovely humans hurting other lovely humans because they lack self awareness. Self raising flour can hide raw rice. Good intentions are not necessarily developing into good dishes. Even when we think we did everything right, we can still hurt others. Dear Nonna, thank you for giving me confidence and sorry if I broke your teeth.