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Enjoy the Slowness
How eating pasta in Italy helped me cope with postpartum depression
In a small trattoria in Florence, Italy, I sit in the dim light of candles burning in repurposed wine bottles. The wax drips down the rim and neck of the glass bottles in layers as my sister and I sample pecorino Romano cheese from an oval wooden platter. A small jar of honey sits on one end of the platter, across from thin, precise slices of crostini.
I shift in my seat, waiting for the pizza I’ve ordered. To my left, our server leans against the front counter, talking to another server with ease. At the 12 or so tables around us, the other patrons lean toward the wine-candles, talking to their dinner companions in hushed voices. Unlike the restaurants I frequent back home, the blue-light glow of a cellphone is absent.
I watch our waiter walk from the front counter to the kitchen at a leisurely pace. He pushes through the wooden door. It swings back and forth in response. Just as the door slows, he comes back through, a wide-rimmed bowl of pasta in one hand and a small, rectangular dish of steamed spinach in the other. He walks slowly toward our table, setting the pasta down in front of my sister and the spinach in front of my aunt.
I should be enjoying the experience, but I’m cringing at the…
