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Here, you'll find the stories that I write for my monthly newsletters. I will continue to add to this page each month as they are released first in my newsletter. If you miss a month, or wonder what happened in the previous section..check here and get yourself caught up! Each section is about 1200 words in length, which translates into roughly an 8-10 minute read. Thanks for following along!
La Bella Vita pt. 1
February 2025
When I think about belonging, I think about the number of times that I have attempted to blend in and feel accepted. Perpetually an introverted fringe surfer with a deep desire to be liked and do well, I was always looking to be cozy with everyone: be a part of the group, welcomed in by the "mean girls" at school, or become "one of the guys" in the kitchen. On one very specific day, I was trying particularly hard to blend in and pretend that I really belonged. It was the day that the Italian police raided my place of work, searching for employee documentation from each person.
In the middle of a mid-week dinner service, we got a heads up in the kitchen that the Carabinieri had entered the building. Everyone in the room was instantly on edge, but not possibly more than me -- The Canadian Girl with an incomplete visa, without proper paperwork to be legally employed. The small kitchen of the restaurant that I had been working in for a few weeks had two entrances. One from the hallway that led guests from the front door, past the kitchen, around a corner, and out to the al fresco dining room. Another door on the opposite side of the kitchen opened into a small staff courtyard that connected to the rest of the restaurant. My Sous Chef, Marco grabbed my arm and swiftly escorted me out the back entrance of the kitchen, into the little courtyard, and down the hallway where he peeked around a corner, waiting for a clear sight. Once the officers were in the kitchen, he hustled me down a flight of heavy stone steps, that curved with the shape of the building, almost spiraling downwards. How apt. I looked around to see a room I hadn't yet been shown: the chilly antiquated basement that also acted as a wine cellar. Marco whispered for me to stay quiet and stay put. He explained that he wanted to keep me in the building instead of ushering me out the front doors in case more officers were outside patrolling the streets. And certainly I didn't look like I belonged in this posh, historic Roman neighborhood, with my pale complexion, black rubber clogs, and hair that was a mess from working all day in a hot stuffy room that is the industrial kitchen.
I had just landed in Rome a few weeks earlier, so eager to assimilate into this new environment. Act like a local. Walk and talk like a local. But all I wanted in this moment was to make myself completely invisible. I made an attempt at stuffing myself in an empty box, looking around for something I could cover myself with in case the officers came searching through every last corner of the building, for me.
Would I go to jail?
Would I be deported?
Would my family know?
I had fully prepared before I hopped on a plane and landed myself in this beautiful European country. I found an apartment on Kijiji with three other girls. Two from France and one from Lithuania. I took Italian classes and watched Italian TV shows to perfect my conversation skills. I got a visa and sent my resume to every top restaurant within the Rome city limits. But preparing for an interaction with the police and what would surely become the end of my time here was not on my prep list.
I waited in that cold, dimly lit — almost romantically so — cellar for what felt like ages. Looking around at the large stones that made up the walls and the floors and wondered how long they'd be here for. Finally, Marco came to get me and instructed me to change out of my uniform and into my own clothes. I thought I was being sent home to my roommates, where I'd go and instantly reach for a hot shower, probably finding nothing but a cold stream after one of them spent the night dying their hair and rinsing it with warm water until it ran clear. Draining the tank. Instead of being sent home, he put me at a table in the middle of the busy restaurant with a menu, and a glass of water, quietly cautioning me "mimetizzarti" -- try to blend in, or camouflage yourself. At the entrance of the restaurant were framed photos of the dapper looking owners with various celebrities who had dined here: Russel Crowe, James Franco, Madonna! I was 21, in my skater girl era, and had just evaded the police by hiding out in a wine cellar. Blending in, or looking like I belonged was not within the realm of possibilities for me at this time. I sat silently, seated beside an attractive man and woman who were enjoying a date night out, while my life was quietly blowing up behind closed doors. Marco filled the couple in on what was happening and they all had a little laugh together. Just another Wednesday in Rome, I wondered? A server came by often to refill my glass, while I pretended to be immensely interested in the menu.
Before arriving in Italy, I had secured a work visa. However, unsurprisingly, the Italian government functions differently from others and my visa was only half completed in Canada, with the other half of it needing to be done at my port of landing. Since arriving, I had spent weeks going around to every single government office. I went to one office that I was supposed to be at, only for them to tell me to go to a different office on the opposite end of this ancient metropolis. I’d arrive there and find that they only work on Wednesdays from some arbitrary time like 8:35-10:17am, and so I’d have to come back the following week. I took the train and the bus all over the city, spending hours and getting nowhere. Eventually, the father of the owner of the restaurant I had a job at offered to chaperone me around to a few different offices in his tiny, old Fiat. It felt like a Flintstones car. Small. Rickety. I was pretty certain the bottom was going to fall out if we hit the wrong bump. I was thankful for the help, and hopeful that today would be the day that the right public servant would solve all of my problems. But again, we went to several more offices unsuccessfully. They didn’t have what I needed, or I didn’t understand, or they didn’t understand, and the dad didn’t speak English so he couldn’t translate. I was completely defeated. I think out of desire to cheer me up and show me around, we finished the morning with visiting his friends who owned a wholesale produce store. We pulled up in front of a storefront that was like an urban fruit warehouse. Boxes, 8 feet high, of big, fresh oranges lined the sidewalks. Cases of persimmon and strawberries. Fresh fruits and vegetables as far as the eye could see, packed into this space in the heart of Rome, on a quiet side street that was shaded by the towering stone buildings from the hot October sun.
A few days after the grande, private Fiat tour of the city, and a week after the police raid, I showed up to work. Marco met me in the changeroom and said "mi scusa" -- I'm sorry. "This is just too dangerous. We can't risk having you work here and receiving a fine. Or worse." With a level of pain and sadness in his eyes that only an Italian man can conjure, he handed me a stash of bills for the hours I had worked up until then. He apologized yet again, and let me go. Without proper paperwork, fluent Italian, or knowing anyone local in the city, I was without a job. Without a job, I couldn't afford my rent. Sure, I had saved enough to get me through the first few months. But not the year that I had planned on being here for! I had worked so hard to get here. I was supposed to be "one of them!" I was not willing to turn around and go home at this point.
La Bella Vita pt. 2
March 2025
I let my roommates know that I would be moving out earlier than originally planned. As in 10 months earlier. I was about to become fully immersed in the Italian culture.
On a cold, rainy day in November, my friend and soon-to-be-neighbour Nico came to help me move out. We loaded my too-heavy suitcases down a few narrow flights of stairs and into his old blue 2-door Jeep. A Jeep with a broken gas gauge that required keeping track of how far he’d driven since the last fill up so he’d know roughly when he was getting close to empty. We drove out of Rome and headed South to my new home: a small 2-bedroom apartment that I would be sharing with my boyfriend Jose and his parents, in an ancient little town called Genzano di Roma.
Genzano di Roma is about 30km south of Rome and is part of a cluster of towns in the region known as the Castelli Romani. Genzano sits at the rim of Lago de Nemi, a volcanic lake roughly 5km in diameter. The Pope’s summer home isn’t too far away in Castel Gandolfo on a neighbouring volcanic lake, Lago Albano. The cobblestone main street is full of shops and cafes, each offering their own variety of cheeses, pizza a talgio, Aperol Spritz, fresh pasta and sweets. It is broken up by the town square and fountain in the centre of town, where little old ladies hang around to people watch and gossip. Genzano is in the Lazio region of Italy and is best known for a festival they host every June called Infiorata – “decorated with flowers”. Infiorata dates all the way back to the 1400’s. Over the span of a few days, the original main street is turned into a carpet of artwork created from flower petals. Cases of freshly picked flowers and herbs are brought in and stored out of the summer heat in the expansive network of tunnels beneath the town. Teams of people work throughout the night and day to turn their own section of road into a painting of sorts, depicting various religious scenes. The festival concludes at the end of the weekend with a procession through the artwork. They begin at the top, which is also the entrance to an important church in town. After the religious leaders complete their passing, all of the small children in town race from the top to the bottom, stirring up all of the flower petals and signifying the end to the festival. Genzano di Roma is a special little town with deep history and tradition.
My new home was on the main floor of a low-rise apartment building, in a neighbourhood of buildings that looked nearly identical to each other. All 8-10 units, beige concrete walls and terracotta shingle rooves. The windows all had steel shutters over them that served both as a way of keeping potential intruders out, but also prevented us from baking inside as they blocked the hot summer sun. The main floor apartments had small concrete yards, while the upper levels had little balconies where cigarettes were smoked and laundry was hung. Our apartment was within steps of the front door to the building, and Nico lived directly across the hall with his brother Simone and mom, Maria. We were a 10-minute walk from the bustling centre of town. Jose’s parents welcomed me into their home – although maybe his dad more than his mom. Day by day, my Italian was improving but I never felt ‘Italian enough’ for her. Which shouldn’t be a surprise. Because newsflash: I’m not Italian at all. Giuseppe always had a smile on his face and laughed when I didn’t understand something he rambled on about. I can still hear his rough cackle when I think about it. Daniella always seemed to look frustrated, moving with quick aggressive motions wherever she went, often yelling at the shaggy yellow whining dog to shut up, and chain smoking like it was going out of style. They were my new family, and we lived closely together, sharing their 900 sq ft., single floor home.
Before moving to Italy, I had not only sent my resume to every fine dining establishment in Rome, but I had also gotten the contact information for a few different people with restaurants in other parts of the country. I was confident that sharing an apartment with my boyfriend’s family was going to be a temporary situation and was extremely eager to get a job and get my own place. I searched through my email for the contacts I had made back home, desperate for someone to offer me work. Within a week, I was on the train to Florence to interview for a position at a literal castle in the Tuscan countryside. An Estate that rents out rooms, vacation apartments, and makes their own wine and olive oil. I arrived to sprawling early winter views of mist covered vines, rolling hills, and a restaurant on site. It was an expansive, yellow concrete building with 20ft high ceilings, an enormous hearth in the kitchen, a courtyard for gatherings. Everything of grand scale. Because I was travelling from quite a distance for the interview, the owner provided me with a room to spend the night. Not long after arriving and being shown around, I was made aware that my interview would be to make the family dinner. I’m not classically very good at thinking on the spot, and with very limited supplies, I made one of the most abysmal meals of my life. The potatoes were burnt. The chicken was dry. It was edible, but I was embarrassed. Thankfully, the family didn’t seem too phased and instead of focusing entirely on the food, the conversation switched to my legal status for working as they handed my Passport around the table. I was assured that I could indeed have a job in the kitchen, but that I would need to get my paperwork figured out. “We’re just in too touristy of a destination to risk anything. In the busy season, the police come through here often, searching for documentation. Get your paperwork sorted and we’ll hire you.” Maria explained. Another promising job opportunity, and another time that I would be defeated by the system.
The ride from Florence to Rome felt like an eternity, but I eventually arrived back at my new home. The thing about small towns, especially small towns in social cultures, is that everybody knows somebody. Sometimes that can be overbearing, but other times it can be helpful. Lucky for me, it came in handy more than once. The owner of the jewelry store in town also happened to be a bouncer at a lounge in Rome. And they were hiring servers. I had gone to school for culinary. I spent a year working at the Hilton Amsterdam, getting hours of credible work under my belt. Serving cocktails wasn’t my idea of a dream job, but it was a job that I was being offered, and so I reluctantly took it.
Latte Piu was a strange place to spend my weekends. A cocktail bar inspired by the movie Clockwork Orange. The owner, my boss, was an eccentric man in his mid-40’s who didn’t seem to like me very much, but regardless, continued to hand me cash at the end of every shift. The space was dimly lit in the shade of purple. Provocative paintings and furniture, and naked mannequins filled the room. One head server was in charge of taking orders, while another server, Lorella, and I quickly floated from table to table, delivering patrons their drinks. Lorella was bubbly and outgoing and clearly in her element, while I spent my nights anxiously trying to remember who got what one of the 200+ cocktails on the menu. Trying not to spill any pink martinis on my white jeans – it happened once. Trying not to converse too much with the guests. Trying to stay out of the way when the nightly entertainment began. The Nightly Entertainment. Each night, the owner put on a show of sorts. The first at 11pm, and the second at 1am. It involved blaring classical music over the speakers, while a woman wearing nothing but a thong, stilettos and a huge feather headdress walked through the lounge carrying a very large candle. She would be helped up onto a platform where she stood stoically, while the owner roller skated around like he was performing for the Olympics. He was dressed in a black bowler hat, gloves, and a white outfit with black suspenders. Eventually he rolled around to pick up a squeezy bottle of lighter fluid in one hand and a flame in the other. In tandem with the music, he shot streams of fuel onto the marble bar, igniting them into 2ft flames. This went on until he drained multiple bottles, exploding them seldomly, skated back around the room, helped the model off of her platform, and the lights went dark. It was such a bizarre experience to work there, and I was thankful when a new proposition at a bakery closer to home popped up. The bakery was getting the rights to a pizzeria in a busy park for the summer and they needed staff.
Before moving to Italy, I had not only sent my resume to every fine dining establishment in Rome, but I had also gotten the contact information for a few different people with restaurants in other parts of the country. I was confident that sharing an apartment with my boyfriend’s family was going to be a temporary situation and was extremely eager to get a job and get my own place. I searched through my email for the contacts I had made back home, desperate for someone to offer me work. Within a week, I was on the train to Florence to interview for a position at a literal castle in the Tuscan countryside. An Estate that rents out rooms, vacation apartments, and makes their own wine and olive oil. I arrived to sprawling early winter views of mist covered vines, rolling hills, and a restaurant on site. It was an expansive, yellow concrete building with 20ft high ceilings, an enormous hearth in the kitchen, a courtyard for gatherings. Everything of grand scale. Because I was travelling from quite a distance for the interview, the owner provided me with a room to spend the night. Not long after arriving and being shown around, I was made aware that my interview would be to make the family dinner. I’m not classically very good at thinking on the spot, and with very limited supplies, I made one of the most abysmal meals of my life. The potatoes were burnt. The chicken was dry. It was edible, but I was embarrassed. Thankfully, the family didn’t seem too phased and instead of focusing entirely on the food, the conversation switched to my legal status for working as they handed my Passport around the table. I was assured that I could indeed have a job in the kitchen, but that I would need to get my paperwork figured out. “We’re just in too touristy of a destination to risk anything. In the busy season, the police come through here often, searching for documentation. Get your paperwork sorted and we’ll hire you.” Maria explained. Another promising job opportunity, and another time that I would be defeated by the system.
La Bella Vita pt. 3
April 2025
The owner of a bakery in town got the rights to run a pizzeria out of a park building for the summer, and Jose and I were brought onto the team from the start. From what I could tell, there were a few people that were in on the deal: Michele, the bakery owner, Franco, a muscly Arnold Schwarzenegger type who ran a gym and public pool on the bottom floor of the building, and Silvio, the very mafia-esque landlord.
Michele was a bubbly 40-something married father of a young daughter and son. He was kind, and passionate, and always talking about what he was or was not eating that week – “Laurena – make us a bunch of steaks for dinner, will you? I’m in ketosis this week!” Most of the guys in the restaurant took to calling me “Laurena”, their Italian take on my name. If it wasn’t Laurena, it was “ehhh Canadese!", pronounced ‘Can-ah-dayz-eh’. Always shouted with an extra bit of Italian flair. Michele worked like crazy and spent the mornings at the bakery, the afternoons and evenings at the pizzeria, and the in-betweens of picking me or Jose up to come to work. He was kind to me, and always also told me how great I was, how cool I was, but also mentioned how he wished his wife would take a lesson.
”She’s like a what do you call it? A chicken…with no head?”
“Ohh..like a headless chicken?” I asked.
“Yes..but no…like an ugly chicken with…its head cut off. Is that how you say it?”
He liked to practice his English with me, never shy about making mistakes. Even if the content wasn’t always savoury. He gave me creative freedom to try out different things in the kitchen and basically handed me the reins to the kitchen side of the pizza operation.
Franco was a big burly man, and his entire family, including his wife Sofia, his daughter Giada, and his son Matteo all worked in the gym on the bottom floor. Giada, wearing her fashionable workout outfits and shiny diamond jewelry taught fitness classes on self-propelled treadmills at the poolside in the hot August sun. She was about the same age as me, but blonde, muscular, and so Italian. She had a confidence to her that intimidated me and prevented me from giving her much more than a shy smile when we made eye contact. Matteo worked as the life guard, and together they functioned like a well-oiled machine. In the evenings, Giada and Matteo switched gears to serve in the pizzeria. Giada was quick and efficient and knew how to work the floor. Matteo wasn’t as ambitious, and perhaps more interested in his shiny designer shoes without socks.
Silvio was an interesting character, and I never really knew why he spent so much time at the restaurant, so I can only assume that he was the landlord. He was a man in his 60’s that seemed to be aging quickly. I later found out that he was going through treatment for cancer. Silvio rarely travelled alone. He seemed to constantly keep the company of one or two other men who were much larger and completely covered with tattoos. Spider webs on their elbows or hands. I spied the odd swastika. Silvio gave off a strong air of being in control, and there were more than a few instances that made me feel like he had more power than I could possibly need or want to understand. After dinner service, when we were all sitting down for a drink and a snack, he would tell stories of the night before when he held someone at gunpoint on the stairs just 20 ft away. “That motherfucker, I told him to stop fucking around or I’d smash his head in on the concrete.” At the end of the summer, when I was planning to head back home he said “what do you need to go home for? What will you have there that you don’t have here?”
“I don’t know”…I said… “maybe going to a doctor would be nice. You know. Seeing my family.”
“A doctor? You want to see a doctor? What kind of doctor do you need? You let me know and I’ll get you an appointment.”
The kitchen was broken down into 3 separate rooms that were all connected with their own doorway. The majority of the action took place in the biggest room where the large, 15ft deep wood fired pizza oven could be found. There were counters on 3 walls of the room where soft, white dough balls went from being rolled out, to topped, to being baked, and then finishing on the stainless steel by being plated up, finished off with oils, or cheeses, or arugula, and then being carried away to the tables. I spent some time in here, and was eventually allowed to help roll out pizza doughs at the beginning of service. Michele patiently walked me through how they make their very simple tomato sauce – blitzing up a whole can of tomatoes, with a glug of good olive oil, a handful of basil, and a few cloves of garlic. Simple and fresh.
Usually, however, I spent my nights in a small space off of the pizza room, in front of 3 ovens, where I cooked up thin steaks, prepared simple salads, or plates of marinated vegetables. I had 12 burners at my disposal, a fresh arsenal of pots and pans, and bounced around from the different kitchen spaces to help out when my area wasn’t busy.
Off of my private kitchen space was the dish pit where the many dirty plates were funneled in and handed off to Alina, our Romanian dishwasher. Alina and I spent a fair amount of time talking to each other. For both of us, Italian was our second language. She had been at it much longer than I had, but it felt like a bit more of an even playing field conversing with her. I often pitched in and helped her out when she inevitably got overwhelmed with a towering stack of giant white porcelain pizza plates.
The restaurant was a busy place to be! It was completely outside and was protected from the odd night of rain by umbrellas and clear plexiglass roof panels. On the average night, between 6-9pm, we would put out at least 150 pizzas. The park was bustling and often had live music in one area, or at the bare minimum, music playing over the loudspeakers. I distinctly remember Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep” or “Set Fire to the Rain” playing on blast, as I ran a few laps around the park before work. There were tennis courts, and paths that people strolled hand-in-hand through, runners getting their steps in for the day before taking a swim at the pool. It was shaded with large, overgrown Ficus trees to provide a place of refuge from the hot summer sun. Some nights, salsa dancing lessons were taught on a concrete pad out below the restaurant. I tried my feet at this one night with my friend Valeria. What a mistake. Valeria was actually a performing dancer. I was just looking to try out something new. She looked over at me mid-lesson, tripping over my own feet “suck your stomach in, silly” she berated me in her quick, assertive Italian. Sometimes I felt like the direct translation wasn’t meant to be as abrupt. There was nuance that I was missing. This was the only time I tried out Salsa dancing.
We prepared the restaurant in the Spring by moving around and cleaning all of the tables, vacuuming the AstroTurf, washing the windows, unpacking boxes of chocolate bars and pops to offer out of a small shop, and setting up the kitchen spaces. Once the weather turned summery, business picked up. We were open 5 days a week –Tuesday – Sunday, and it was all hands on deck. The business was a real family affair, and a few of the staff members in the kitchen were Michele’s brothers: Mario and Luca. Luca was the middle child and I often got the feeling that he was trying to prove himself to his brothers. One beautiful afternoon, Luca took it upon himself to light the pizza oven in anticipation of yet another busy evening. I was prepping away in the kitchen when I heard a big “WHOOSH” come from the pizza room and a feeble “uhh…ahh…”…Thinking - that’s weird -…I went to check things out. I walked in to see a very stunned and torched version of Luca. With his mouth wide open, eyebrows singed, and a confused look on his face, he slowly took the fingers of his right hand and brought them down to touch is left forearm. In that moment, I knew something was incredibly wrong. He slowly pulled his fingers away from his forearm and a piece of crepey paper that used to be the skin on his arm came with it. He let out a confused scream and I ran to find help.
La Bella Vita pt. 4
May 2025
We were setting up for a mid-week dinner service and even though it was a Thursday, there were several people milling about on the patio. Mob boss Silvio was one of them and came running once he heard me yelling for help. I got the feeling that he was the right guy to deal with such a situation. Like he’d seen things like this, and worse, many times over. Probably because he caused the predicaments that he ended up in. Silvio immediately took charge, directing people to get towels, get the car started, ice, as he took Luca over to the big sinks in the dish pit and ran his scorched arm under cold water. Once they cooled him down and the shock started to wear off, Silvio and Luca headed for the hospital.
What was supposed to be a busy summer with as many hours as you could work would end up being a very slow summer for Luca, being relegated to a taxi service and delivery driver while his arm slowly healed in a cast. “You fucking idiot, look what you did to yourself” his brothers would constantly chide him. Luca was sweet and desperate to find love. But he was not extremely intelligent. He was goofy, and definitely the younger brother. I say younger brother, because even though they were all in their 40’s, hierarchy within the birth order was very apparent. With his one functioning arm, he was still able to drive the little Ford Transit van around to be useful. He was often my ride to work and I listened to all of his stories while he drove me from Genzano, through Ariccia, and to the far side of Albano to the pizzeria, or eventually to the bakery.
It was a busy place to work! The pizzas were classic Roman style – large, thin crust, and flavours such as Quattro Stagioni, or “Four Seasons.” It was divided into quadrants, each with their own ingredients: tomato sauce, artichokes, olives, mozzarella, ham, a cracked egg baked on top. Or the Diavola, “the Devil” that was spice on spice: tomato sauce, mozzarella, spicy salami, spicy sausage, chili oil. Because we all chatted quite a bit and being social was really encouraged, it was a well-known fact that I love a Hawaiian pizza. How the saltiness of the ham balances with the sweetness of the roasted pineapple. The melted mozzarella to bring it all together, with a touch of zing from the fresh tomato sauce. Perfection! And created in Chatham, Ontario none-the-less! One night Michele appeased me by buying a pineapple and let me free to create the pizza that no one had tried before, let alone heard of. All agreed: Che Esse?? Che Americano eh?! “ ehhhh, how American!” And why stop there. We made panzerotti with Nutella, ice cream, and strawberries in the middle. Everyone was so curious and eager to get a taste. We worked hard and we got to play around when time allowed it.
I worked for Michele and the pizzeria until the end of August when they shut things down. My plane ticket was booked for the end of September and I worked in his traditional Roman bakery until it was time to go. I prepared pies and tarts, or broke down chickens and made ragu. “I didn’t know you could make a ragu in less than 3 hours”, I was told. “Ma che buono!” – how delicious!, I was also told. I watched as various teams of guys worked through their own specialties. It didn’t occur to me until I started writing that I was very much the sole female in the bakery side of things. The men mixed and baked the dough. The women sold it. This seems to be the case in most of the restaurants I worked in, at least until later in my career. Very much a male-dominated industry, which I find ironic considering cooking dinner at home has traditionally been viewed as the female role to play.
The oven was a big, deep, wood fired masterpiece. When baking with fire as the heat source, it is as much an art as it is a science, and you are very much dancing a dance with the temperatures that the wood is providing at a specific time in its burn. In the morning, doughs were mixed in a huge rotating mixer, with some of yesterday’s dough added as a leavener as well as for flavour. It seemed much more touch and go for how much dough got added, rather than focusing on the particulars of precision. I shadowed Michele around the small, floury space, interested in everything he was doing, from throwing wood in the fire, to being called over to the telephone, where he grabbed a handful of flour and rubbed it between his big doughy hands over the garbage can while he took orders and then shouted them across the bakery to someone ready to receive them.
“What are you doing?” I asked after he got off the phone. “You’re just picking up more flour and making a mess, why don’t you just go wash your hands?” I was in my Italian era at this point and didn’t shy away from straightforwardness.
“No no, Laurena. De flour. It dries up de dough and it all comes off your hands eezy. You don’t need water. It just makes a mess.”
The doughs were then moved over to the shaping bench in front of the glass windows that divided the bake shop from the store front. Two or three guys at a time worked with the soft white, pillowy dough to shape it into large loaves, or smaller ciabatta and buns. They scooped up the loaves-to-be and placed them on heavily floured couche, or long sheets of linen that are used to divide the bread as it goes through its final proof. They were then transferred to long boards on a makeshift rolling rack that was wheeled out of the way until ready to bake. The breads were one of the first things to enter the oven, as it was at the highest temperature it would reach for the day. Once the breads were ushered out and onto the shelves in the store, pizza a taglio started getting stretched out and being slid into the oven. Pizza a taglio is a traditional Roman style pizza. Like fruit by the foot, but with dough and sauces and toppings. The dough is stretched out onto 6ft long wooden boards and topped very simply with bright red fresh tomato sauce, or perhaps tomatoes and anchovies, olive oil and sea salt. Whatever it was, the flavours were kept quite simple. Pizza a talgio was a lunch. It was a snack. It was something to tide you over until the next meal. I consumed more than my fair share on the regular at 5pm while I waited for 8:30pm dinner to roll around.
After the morning breads were baked, and then the pizza a taglio, more delicate items like crostata – a delicate Italian jam tart, with an ever so lightly leavened crust went into the oven. While most of Italy shuts down from 1 to 4 or 5pm, the bakery behind the scenes keeps humming along. By the time the tarts and pies come out of the oven, half of the bakery staff have gone home, while the other half are preparing more dough for the evening Pizze, and refiring the oven for pre-order pizza nights. Michele never complained about how hard he worked, but my god, the guy worked like a dog…
La Bella Vita pt. 5
June 2025
I gradually began to learn about how traditional Italians were – whether it be about familial or national celebrations, or the food.
When I wasn’t working, serving drinks or cooking food, I was certainly surrounded by it and consuming plenty. Food and coffee seemed to hold a specific importance, in a way that I just haven’t been able to find elsewhere. Pasta made up one, if not two meals of the day. And as much as I can probably count on one hand the number of times that I consumed fresh pasta as opposed to the generic boxed stuff we consume in North America, there was one meal in particular that still stands out in my mind. Pappardelle alla Lepre, or Pappardelle with Wild Hare Ragu. Pappardelle is a wide, flat noodle, anywhere from 1-2” wide. The noodles were cooked absolutely perfectly with just a bit of bite to them. When you hear the word ragu, you might normally think of a tomato based sauce, but this was more of a creamy white sauce that covered the fresh semolina pasta in the most perfectly glossy coat. Small, braised pieces of tender rabbit intermingled, with a sprinkle of tarragon for garnish. It was so incredibly flawless, I actually started crying. Crying, right in the middle of a busy restaurant on a Saturday night. We could blame the heightened emotions on the wine, but I was 21 and hadn’t yet developed a discerning palette for the nectar of the Gods. It was all the food; recipes honed over decades of experience, passed down from one generation to the next. The restaurant was owned by Jose’s uncle who continued to serve us course after course before finally taking us into the kitchen to meet all of the Nonne who were busy slaving away at a young person’s job. The four grannies looked surprised as we entered their space to thank them for a deliciously memorable meal. We walked out the front doors for the evening and strolled down the cobblestone streets gleaming in the streetlights from a fresh coat of spring rain.
Because I found myself living with my boyfriend’s parents for the majority of my time in Italy, I also found myself stepping into a much more domestically traditional household than I grew up with. Sure, my mom usually planned the meals and made them, and my dad cut the grass and took the garbage out. But my new home had a different feeling to it. Maybe it was the constant bickering back and forth, or the aura of resentment that seemed to cloud the cigarette smoke filled walls we were confined within.
Daniella worked 6 days a week in a local Alimentari – like a small specialty grocery store that sold pasta, of course, but also steaks and cheeses, local dried sausages, freshly shaved, paper-thin prosciutto. Tomato passata -- the base for a quality tomato sauce any Italian will tell you. Giuseppe seemed to be retired and because Daniella didn’t drive, he would drop her off and pick her up at work two times a day. Most things in our town closed down daily from 1pm until 4 or 5. They would then re-open until 8 or 9pm. While Daniella was busy working away during her daily split-shift schedule, Giuseppe was out of the house, at the local legion-like establishment playing cards all day. She would come back home during her mid-day break to make lunch for everyone, get a round of laundry in, start prep for dinner, and maybe lay in bed watching her talk shows if time permitted. When I happened to be home at this time of day I often tried to pitch in. I’d help with doing laundry and hanging it in the courtyard, or preparing something for lunch. We had a grocery store just down the street and when I wasn’t inspired by what was in the fridge, I would stroll down to pick up a few things. One day in particular I noticed pesto on the store shelf. I’d never thought to buy it in a jar. I just always thought it only came from the blender. I was tired of the regular tomato sauce that regularly accompanied the noodles and felt like a change. After making lunch for everyone, Daniella arrived home and I was scolded for numerous reasons: “don’t spend your money. You should be saving your money. Use the food that is in the house, don’t go out and buy food. I’ll buy the food.” And, “Giuseppe hates pesto. He does not like pesto.” As much as I did like Giuseppe, I craved variety more, and “forgot” more than once how much he just did not like the fresh, green, basil and pine nut concoction that I love so. The first time I made it, there were no complaints. The second, third and fourth time however brought forth some of his own comments. But come on, who doesn’t like pesto?!
While lunch during the week was simple, lunch on Sundays was An Event. The morning started with cleaning up the house. Even though I didn’t usually get back from work until 2 or 3am from my serving job, I was handed a broom to sweep the floors, open the windows to air out the stale cigarette smoke and get ready for company. I was usually pretty harumphy about it, bitter that I was doing ‘a woman’s job’, while Jose was sleeping in, comfy under the covers. “Are you mad that you have to help get ready?” Daniella would ask me. “No” I would lie. “But Jose could maybe get out of bed and help too”.
“Ohh”, she would say. “You’re fine, let him be.”
It was a confusing dynamic to be a part of. On one hand I should help out. On the other, not in the wrong way.
Sunday lunches were when we could expect company. Usually it was just Jose’s brother and sister-in-law, Fabrizio and Yolanda. Other times, aunts and uncles joined, or cousins too, and the in-law parents at certain times of the year like special holidays. The food was definitely the spectacle, but so too was the soccer. While course after course arrived at the table, AC Milan -- the family’s chosen soccer team –played on the TV. Shouts of “vafunculo” were shouted with matching hand gestures when they were “wrongfully” scored on.
Sunday lunches started with one if not two pasta courses. One was always a simple pasta al sugo: pasta with tomato sauce. The other usually contained some sort of ragu. And a different pasta noodle to match the appropriate sauce of course! Then the meat would arrive, and variety was the name of the game. Scallopini – thin layers of veal, wrapped in prosciutto with a sage leaf tucked in the middle and then pan fried. Or Spiedini, kebabs or skewers. On special occasions tripe made an appearance, to my dismay. A few different vegetable dishes arrived to compliment the protein. Rice stuffed tomatoes, roasted potatoes, green beans that were cut in half and blanched until just tender before being tossed in a bright combination of lemon juice and olive oil. I could have eaten a whole bowl. Until I ate them every week for a year. Artichokes were a common guest at the table. Lightly steamed and then again coated in olive oil with maybe a sprinkle of salt. No Sunday lunch would be complete without dessert. Once the savoury courses were cleared and dishes were in the washer, an assortment of sweets from a local Pasticceria filled all of the space between us. Affogatto came out when the season was right – an espresso cup filled with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and covered with hot, caffeinated gold from the mocha pot.
If the local team was playing more than an hour and a half away, lunch lingered until late in the afternoon as we awaited the final outcome of AC Milan. Maybe a bottle of amaro would be passed around to join the second espresso. However, if they were playing within a reasonable driving distance, we zipped quickly through lunch before packing into a few cars and driving to the small town field they were battling it out at. I usually stayed for the first 10 minutes to show some sort of support. But after that I could not hide my disinterest. I put on headphones and took off to discover wherever we were visiting, walking for hours, exploring the cobblestone streets or white sandy beaches until the game was over. I only had a flip phone, so I had to keep track of which winding route got me to where I was so I could be back in time to get a ride home!
La Bella Vita pt. 6
July 2025
While I was gaining an understanding of how traditional Italians can be, I was also learning about how social of a culture they are, in general. Neither are characteristics that I can say I instinctually identify particularly strongly with. In elementary school I even had a teacher write on my report card that it would be good for me to branch out and socialize with more people than just my favourite buddy. Much more of a small group dweller than one to mix and mingle in a party. This was definitely a part of me that I had to learn to shove deep down to near extinction for this period of time.
Everything was a celebration. And with celebrations came gathering every friend and family member you knew to join in on the festivities. Living in Italy for a full calendar year meant that every single friend had a birthday, and each one was very much celebrated as a group. There were a few graduations, a (very Catholic) wedding to attend, any random Sunday evening, or some sort of traditional festival we all attended together, packed into a fleet of vehicles. I rarely did anything solo and instead was typically in the company of at least one friend, if not two or three, usually Valeria and Silvia, or Nico, or of course Jose.
Valeria and Fabrizio, a sister-brother duo lived just down the street from my home with Jose and his parents. Valeria and I were the same age, Fabrizio a year or two older. He was often referred to by the nickname Rosso for his uncharacteristically red, curly hair. Valeria drove a little yellow Fiat500 and she was always picking me up to go to different places: the beach, shopping for the innumerable birthday parties we were hosting, and wherever else we toured around together. In the mornings she would pick me up and we would drive through town, up a steep road, and then down the steeper hill to Lago di Nemi where we’d begin the day with a lap around the old volcanic lake. The 5km circumference was mostly paved, with old fig trees providing shade in some areas while we tried to beat the rising sun. We alternated between running and walking, chatting and huffing, passing the gated stone entrance to an aqueduct that was used to drain the lake in the 1920’s. In doing so, they discovered two large ships that were built under the power of Emperor Caligulain 12AD. The ships have since been placed in a Maritime Museum alongside the lake and are a work in progress to reconstruct. Blackberry bushes awaited us on the far side of the lake as a reward, up and down small hills that elicited breathless exclamations of: “perche facciamo cosi?!”, I would say. ”Why do we choose to do this?!”
“The beach body” Valeria would say, matter-of-factly. We often bantered back and forth in a mix of English and Italian, rarely sticking entirely to one or the other.
We ran together almost daily. And when I wasn’t running with Valeria, I ran with Nico, our neighbour. Nico was on another level, however. I had the best and longest run time of my life with Nico when he took me to the neighbouring lake town of Castel Gandolfo. It was the first and last time I ran 10km, and we did it in under an hour. I wanted and tried to give up, but Nico, pulling out packets of electrolytes from God knows where and squishing them into his mouth kept pushing me forward.
“Nah, nah, you can do it Laurena. No give up now, we are doing it.”
Or the more practical “we already come this far. It make no sense to turn ‘round now. And the road does not come out here, so I can not come get you. You just got to run.” He ran effortlessly, like a gazelle. I did everything I could to not fall over and curl up into a ball, sending up a flare for salvation.
Valeria and Fabrizio’s parents had a small plot of land on the outskirts of town. Except for a narrow gravel driveway and a small concrete building, every square inch was covered in old family grape vines. They grew grapes in the summer to press into wine in the fall; a yearly tradition. The wine was then kept in a huge metal tank under a sort of carport attached to the small dwelling. When a drink was desired, one just went over to the spigot with a water bottle, filled it up, drank what they want, and passed the rest around to room. The vineyard was the main gathering space among our group of friends, for just hanging out and celebrating alike.
From the outside, the concrete building was non-descript. One level, and very box-like. The inside was half furnished and livable, half still needing a bunch of work. It was basically two square rooms, separated by a short step up to a little hallway where a closet and bathroom that sometimes worked was located. Sometimes you got to pee in the bathroom, other times you had to go find a spot outside. The back room was more of a garage and acted as the processing and storage space for the wine. It was always cold, dark and damp, and filled with various pieces of obscure antique wine making equipment. The front room of the building contained a small kitchen area, with new counters and cupboards from IKEA. It had running water, a cooking range and a dishwasher. A long dining table with chairs filled the center of the room, with terracotta tile flooring that never seemed to warm up. On the opposite side of the kitchen was a big, comfy velvety grey couch with a large, flat TV mounted on the wall opposite. The entire room itself must have been maximum 400sq. ft. but we regularly gathered as a group of 8 or 10 people to play cards, watch movies, have Sunday evening dinners together, and of course celebrate birthdays.
My birthday is in August, and the Perseid Meteor Shower usually falls at around the same time. While we celebrated many other birthdays in a large group, for my birthday I just wanted to hang out with a few friends and go up to the roof of the vineyard with a bottle of Champane to watch the shooting stars. I got my wish. Several people couldn’t help themselves and dropped in throughout the night to say hello and happy birthday – Buon Compleanno Laurena! -- but for the most part it was just me and Jose, Valeria, Lorenzo, Fabrizio, and Luca. We put a ladder up against the wall and one by one we climbed the rungs up the roughly 15feet to the warm, flat, platform overlooking the farmer’s fields around us. We laid there for hours, passing around bottles of champagne, searching impossibly for shooting starts in a sky that was brightly lit with the full moon. I remember it being so hot that we were still sweating at midnight while we were laying there motionless, telling stories, laughing, and celebrating turning 23.
When we weren’t dining and drinking, socializing and celebrating at Valeria and Fabrizio’s vineyard, we were indulging at the local Fraschette. The Fraschette are a type of restaurant that are typical of the area, particularly a few towns over in Ariccia. Clustered in a small pocket, there are 10 or 15 of the same style of restaurant to choose from. They all offer the same thing, but miraculously they are all always busy. The Fraschette are a dangerous place to go if your willpower is weak. The food and drinks just do not stop flowing. For about $20pp, you can eat and drink until you can’t eat and drink any more. Upon sitting, your server greets you and asks how hungry everyone is.
“How do we feel tonight? Do we want a little bit of everything? Just meats? How many? How do we feel about vegetables? Do we want to get started with some fresh pasta? OK OK. Then we’ll bring out the meats. Tonight we have spiedini(kebabs), and steak. We also have grilled chicken. Do we like fish? We have marinated octopus tonight. Do we want salad and vegetables with that too? Yes, OK OK. Maybe we start with some bruschette (broo-skey-tay) and then let’s see how we go and we just go from there. OK.OK. Red Wine? White Wine? Both? OK OK. Va bene regazzi (friends/guys/buds)”
And then it all begins. 1L carafes of wine are placed on the table and replenished as soon as they are emptied. Plates of food arrive and are placed down the centre, as we shuffle glasses and cutlery to make space for more. Family Style: you take some of this and some of that. You want just one more but your neighbour got the last bite? No problemmo, they’re happy to bring out another round. Throughout the entire experience, the server is constantly touching in, clearing empty plates and replacing them with new dishes. It’s like a coordinated dining circus of an evening. So many moving parts. Fast and slow, all at the same time. After the savoury food is enjoyed and plates are removed, a pulse is taken on dessert.
“How are we feeling regazzi? Dolci? Tonight we have fresh eclairs. Yah, Sara is trying something new in the kitchen. You should have some. Un aperitivo? Amaro? Limoncello? Both? OK OK regazzi. Un momento”
He disappears and reappears with two bottles of liquor in one hand, and a tall stack of glasses in the other. Take what you want, leave what you don’t.
The whole experience is indulgent and fun, and friendly, and so uniquely particular to this specific area. It’s loud and delicious, and joyous, with many people spending hours here, dragging their dining and socializing out. It’s like nothing I’ve experienced before and it’s worth visiting the area just for that.
An Ode to
the Garden
August 2025
It feels like a goddamn miracle that we ended up with anything to save for the winter. In jars on the shelves, or bags in the freezer. Sometimes it felt like nature was just out to get me. With the blood thirsty mosquitos, or the poisonous looking twoonie sized yellow and black garden spiders. The snakes! The Japanese beetles that come out in hoards, with their protective iridescent armour, nibbling holes in the leaves of the bean plants. Or even the fluffy rabbits that were keen on mowing down the first signs of fresh pea shoots, beet greens, or vibrant, tender, leafy lettuce. Sending the dogs racing out the backdoor, right up to the fence line, patrolling and eagerly sniffing didn’t even seem to keep the garden predators away. The dogs would just return to the house with dew covered noses and wet paws. And these are only the enemies that I could see. They don’t even scratch the surface of the temperamental weather. Too much rain. Then not enough. The scorching sun that burns the newly transplanted tomato and basil plants, turning their leaves into thin, crinkly tissue paper that blows away with the early summer breeze.
When I look over at the wooden shelves in the kitchen, or at the pantry in the basement on full display, each full with rows of colourful jars, they shine brightly back at me as if to say "good job, you worked hard." A pep talk I can use every now and then, least expecting it to come from these inanimate objects.
Through all of the strife, I know that the garden ended up treating us well. After strategically placing children’s dollar store windmills in the plots to scare the rabbits away. After accepting defeat to the mosquitos and layering on Vitamin E oil to help the bites heal faster. After spraying the tomato plants with a homemade mixture of Dawn water and chili powder to ward off the flea beetles. After several shrieks and startles from the grasshoppers that jump out of seemingly nowhere, and the spiders that act as if they’re around just for shock value.
Bottled up inside of these smooth, crystalline jars, labelled with a strip of green painters tape on their silver lids are the flavours of the rain, and the sun, and the energy of the warmest days of the year. And with them, flashbacks of time we won't get back; But for a moment, when cracking the lid and tasting that hot summer day on your lips in the form of a chicken wing. Coated in sticky, sweet, peach Bourbon BBQ sauce, packed with Niagara peaches and the last swig of whiskey from the cupboard. Or the precious containers of dried beans that were once cocooned in their pods, hanging from the vines that lined the South-East studio wall. Much more chaotic-jungle-like than perfectly manicured yard. A shady oasis for the ecosystem that a garden creates.
The glass vessels of smoky tomato hot sauce are a vibrant fire-engine red, and spiced with peppers that spent weeks ripening under the heat of the August sun. Bright yellow beans, assembled like soldiers in a line, behind a strong, clear shield are tightly packed in a translucent liquid with hints of garlic and dill floating about, awaiting their much needed attendance on a Friday night Charcuterie board. The yellow and green heirloom cucumbers, 4” in diameter, and cut into thin discs are stacked snuggly, with alternating colours, and flavoured with curry, mustard and turmeric. A contrast to the vibrancy of the bright summertime colours are the jewel-toned ramps. They are incredibly time intensive to harvest and clean and process, and are doled out to only the most special of company. Lifting the solid jar and looking at these wild leek bulbs yields late Spring memories of foraging through the mosquito laden Maple bush for our yearly bounty. The O’Briens were kind enough to tour me around their acreage in exchange for a warm dinner later in the week. While foraging, I learn a little bit about their maple syrup operation – how the tubing that sucks sap from the trees is connected to the sugar shack where it gets boiled and reduced, and turned into topping for pancakes or added to a salad dressing for sweetness. The jars on the shelf that are filled with soft pinks and peaches, speckled with red, are from friends' pepper jellies and peach jams, originating from their own gardens and kitchen adventures. Lovingly created and labelled, and gifted as a sign of thanks.
These jars dwindle in number as the winter goes on. Topping fresh bagels with tomato jam, jazzing up a deluxe burger with curry pickled cucumbers, becoming the foundation of the perfect pizza with sweet onion tomato sauce. Before we get through the yearly rations, we begin planning to start the whole cycle all over again. First comes the plotting: deciding where each plant will do best. Using knowledge gained from previous years to rotate the species from one area to another in order to limit the number of pests and disease that will inevitably pop up. And then, while the days get longer but we’re still cooped up inside, seeds get placed in their individual pods on tables by the fire. The warmth of the stove creates a cozy environment for each one to germinate, sending out its roots, looking for a fresh start. They’re kept under careful observation, controlling each element – hours of daylight, quantity of water and vitamins –to start them on their journey from seed to plant, with their best foot forward. By March, trays of squash, melons, tomatoes, onions, peppers, tobacco, and all of their micro leaves are a blanket of green. They’re a symbol of hope, hard work, and self-sustenance which seems especially important in a time that the world feels like it’s upside down. Preservation and self-reliance. They’re evidence of years of practice and success, with a strong dose of failure. Adapting to different regions, neighbourhoods, and methods of growing. They provide a sense of safety and optimism that we might just be OK. And some how the scary snakes and spiders, annoying mosquitos and grasshoppers and hungry rabbits aren’t such a problem anymore.
New Beginnings
September 2025
I arrived in London, England at the end of a cold, wet, and perpetually windy January. I had initially planned on moving there with my Italian boyfriend – to a country that spoke English, was easy to get a VISA for, and was somewhere in the middle of the places we both grew up. We were planning on flying into Gatwick on the same day and meeting up to start our new life in a new country together. But we broke up a month before the day our plane tickets were booked for, and rather than just throwing that money in the garbage, I decided to take the flight anyways.
Before moving to England, I set myself up with an account to a program called WWOOF - World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms. WWOOF is a global organization that connects farming operations with willing and able workers. Although payment for hours worked is sometimes offered, it is usually more of an exchange of labour for a place to sleep and food to eat. I had never been a part of WWOOF before but thought that it would be a simple, economical way of settling into a new country while I was getting my footing. I Kijiji’d my way into an apartment with roommates in Rome, but wanted to set foot on the foreign land before I searched for a home base here. I perused the options and contacted several hosts: cheesemakers on a goat farm, apple orchards, sheep farming for wool. I contacted many, but found that the ones that I was most interested in were booked full many months out. The timing just didn’t seem like it was going to work out. But then I got in contact with Paul and Francis Hambly. They lived in the small town of Wadhurst, about an hour South of London. The Hamblys were Medicinal Herbalists and ran an Herbal Dispensary. They had a farm on the outskirts of town where when the weather was nicer, they would organically grow all of the products that they used in their shop and house their WWOOFers in an off-grid yurt. There were also several pigs and sheep at the farm, and big plans to expand as the years went on. Because I was arriving in the middle of winter and I was their only WWOOFer at the time, the Hamblys generously provided me with my own private, cozy room above the Dispensary that smelled like lavender and sage, and cedar, and all of the natural and healthful concoctions they created.
Wadhurst was an old, small town of about 5000 people. The streets were narrow, the buildings short, and most people, including the Hamblys, lived in a house that was attached to their business. Herbal Dispensary and treatment space in the front, family living in the back. In the backyard of their property was a shed, and attached to it was an enclosure for their cluster of chickens that clucked away and dug at the hard, semi-frozen ground searching for bugs. The Hamblys had two children: a daughter, Elly, who was fairly close to my age, and Finn, who was a few years younger. They were a very kind family, and took me in as one of their own. We ate all our meals together, watched TV together, and they introduced me to a few English classics: Pim’s, Haggis, and steamed puddings. Elly and I would take their old Range Rover out to the farm to feed the animals and walk the trails with their dog. She wore a classic pair of sleek, high, Hunter rain boots, or Wellys as they called them. I had a much shorter pair acquired from Sears. They weren’t fancy Hunter’s, but they were fleece-lined and I absolutely loved them. The pigs heard us long before we got to them, snorting away as we trucked up a steep hill with their buckets of food. A dozen big, bristly black and pink pigs would oink and push their way around as we made sure they all got something to eat. The herd of sheep would charge over and jump on us in excitement for dinner, nearly pushing me to the ground!
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Because it was winter and the plants at the farm were in hibernation mode, I spent my days working away in the back shed at the house, staining piece after piece of wood for a yurt that they would be building in the spring for future WWOOFers. The shed was not heated, so I bundled up in layers and drank what seemed like litres of tea to help try and keep me warm. On my days off, I toured around the nearby historical towns with Elly, or took the train into London to interview for jobs and look for a place to live.
I can’t begin to remember how I arranged it, but before leaving home, I had secured a job interview at a top restaurant in London. One early morning that the sun thankfully decided to shine, I hopped on the train from Wadhurst and headed out straight for London. Once I arrived at Charring Cross, I hit the sidewalks and walked and walked through fancy neighbourhoods, past parents or nannies dropping their kids off for private school. I walked past one of Jamie Oliver’s restaurants, and important landmarks, and I continued to walk until I found myself a few doors down from the restaurant I would be trying out for. Most of the time in the restaurant world, an interview is not just sitting down and talking, answering questions about how you would handle different scenarios. It usually involves a quick chat, and then you’re put to work. It’s a working interview, and sometimes if you’re offered the job at the end of the 6, 8, 12-hour shift, you’re compensated. Other times, it’s just part of the industry. Getting the job is the prize. Suck it up and get to work.
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Before making my way through the front doors of the restaurant, I fixed my hair and rearranged my backpack on my sweaty skin. I had it loaded up with my knife kit, chef’s whites and heavy steel toe kitchen clogs. I took a big breath and walked in. A blonde-ish, medium-framed woman in her 50’s who possessed a strong heir of confidence and authority looked up to greet me from her seat at a small, round, glass and rattan table in the back corner. She was reading the newspaper, drinking an espresso. Her name was Claire. The owner. We were in the café part of the restaurant that was at street level. It was a small room, with a bar at one end, and maybe 10 sets of tables and chairs of a similar design spread throughout. At the back of the room was a flight of stairs that I would eventually walk down, into the restaurant in the basement. She invited me over to her table and we chatted for a few minutes about the basics that you would expect:
What is your restaurant experience? What are your goals? Why are you here? What do you know about our restaurant? Where are you staying? How long are you planning on staying here for? You have a VISA right? We don’t hire people without a VISA. Did you bring a proper uniform with your tools? Your outfit with your heels won’t cut it in the kitchen.
When she decided she’d learned enough, she instructed me to follow her down a curving flight of stairs into the restaurant below. My clacking shoes on the hard marble, and the angle of walking down into a room instead of up, let the kitchen staff know I was on my way well before I got a chance to make eye contact and shyly smile at anyone. Even though it was only 9am, the kitchen was bustling. A few Front of House staff were shining glasses and cutlery on tables, smoothing out linens, and answering the phone for reservations. Claire very briskly toured me around the kitchen, introducing me to the Maitre’D, the Sous Chef, the prep guys and Pastry Chef. Not a female in sight.
New Beginnings pt 2
November 2025
I was shown the changing room and told to get into my chef’s whites quickly. “You said you prefer to do Pastry, so we’ll put you with Bruno for the first few hours. Then we’ll see where we can float you around so you get a good idea of how the kitchen runs here,” said Claire.
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Bruno, the Pastry Chef, was pretty relaxed in comparison to Claire. He explained what was on the to-do list for the day and put me to work with simple odd jobs to help accomplish the prep. Being in a new kitchen can sometimes make you feel like a fish out of water. You don’t know who anyone is, or where any of the tools are kept. How high are their standards? Do they cut the tape or rip it? In restaurants, painter’s tape is what is usually used to label your containers – so you know what’s in it and when it was prepared. Some people (we call them cowboys) just rip a piece of tape off, write the name of the contents on it in any colour of sharpie that’s in their jacket collar that day, and slap it on side. I cannot stand looking at a fridge full of beautifully prepared ingredients in matching clear containers with tape that has been ripped haphazardly, and written on with various markers.
No way.
The tape must be cut.
Straight on all sides.
And it must be labelled with a specific sharpie.
Not the marker. It’s too bulky. It takes up too much space.
The marker is for writing on plastic wrap.
Not the fine tip pen either. It isn’t vibrant enough and does much better on paper.
It’s for writing the prep list.
The labels must be straight on all sides, labelled with the ultra-fine-tip marker, and placed in the middle, on the side of the container. I was glad to see that Bruno followed the same guidelines for labelling that I live by. “Ahh” I thought. “We’ll get along fine.”
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In a restaurant, the Pastry Department often prepares ingredients and components for other stations in the kitchen while also producing everything for the Dessert Menu. Bruno had me start my trial shift with rolling out a savoury pie dough that would carefully get placed into these tiny boat-shaped tins. They would then get baked until golden perfection before being handed over to the Garde-Manger section – the team in charge of all the cold, and some of the warm appetizers. Once these were finished, I was provided with their recipe for a silky smooth, vanilla bean dotted crème anglaise. The energy in the kitchen was starting to get buzzier as we neared the beginning of lunch service. Savoury aromatics permeated the air, while bins of dirty pots and pans made their way to the dish pit. Bruno set me free to wander the kitchen from station to station and see what the other cooks were working on. I watched how the Sous Chef flipped tiny pancakes – blini – that would get topped with caviar as the amuse bouche of the day. I chatted with a few of the cooks in the kitchen. One of them asked me how long I was planning on staying around for. Was I just travelling through or was I looking for a permanent job? “I’m not sure yet.” He then told me about a place in Scotland, in case I happened to have plans of travelling up there. “21212. They run a tight ship. They have Michelin stars. You should stage there and check it out if you’re going up that way.” I thanked him for his advice and continued to float around. I stood on the side-lines during lunch service, watching intricate dishes get plated up, slide over the pass, and into the steady hands of the server that would present them to the waiting diners. Service bubbled along smoothly and quietly. Focused.
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Once most of the tables had been served and cleared, Claire reappeared and ushered me over to an empty table to chat. She asked what I thought about the day, if I had any questions, and if I’d be interested in accepting a job. “The pay starts at 30,000 pounds. We’ll see how you go. You can work in Pastry with Bruno and the other Pastry Cooks. You would work 50 hours a week, 5, 10-hour shifts. An optional benefits package is available after 1 year.”
I didn’t quite have the conversion down in my brain yet and told her I would think about it. “Can I have a few days to think it over? I have an apartment to go view tonight. I need to find a place to live. So if the apartment works out, count me in! Thank you so so much. I’ll be in touch soon.”
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At this time, it was nearly 4:30pm and I did indeed have a viewing appointment to attend for a flat that I had discovered online. While I tiredly walked with my heavy backpack to the train stop, I thought the day over in my head... Committing to 50 hours a week for 30,000 pounds? When I do the conversion now, I realize that the offer wasn’t bad at all. It was higher than what I was making back home and would make for the next several years, honestly. But the cost of living in London was also much higher than anywhere else I’d lived before, even Amsterdam, and I had other expenses to factor in as well – like a train pass. Eating food would be nice too. Saving up money so I’d be able to get home when I wanted was also something that was on my mind.
It was getting dark out. I was exhausted. I was feeling a bit defeated, wondering if I should even go to the viewing. But I kept an eye on the stops as the train chugged along, peering at the instructions I had written on a folded-up piece of paper in my pocket. When the train arrived at my stop, I hustled out and made my way to the slippery, wet, and cold January sidewalk. Mentally, I already decided that I was not going to accept the job, and unless this apartment was incredible, I was not going to take the apartment. But I walked and walked, just as I had, nearly 12 hours prior, searching for the address I had an appointment at. Up ahead I noticed a large group of people, maybe 10 or 12. As I kept on walking and watching the numbers on the buildings, I realized they were all standing in front of my apartment. I stopped and joined the group, listening to their conversations. I realized we all had an appointment at 7pm to view this apartment. Competition for a rental?! What a nightmare! Eventually the realtor showed up and introduced themselves before herding us all up the steep flights of stairs and into the shoebox of an apartment. Of course we couldn’t all fit in there together. We took turns, 1 or 2 people at a time. The entire space was no more than 100sq ft. It reminded me of my first-year college dorm. When you entered, you were within arm’s reach of every single thing in the room. The low, single bed sat on one wall, with a 3ft counter on the opposite. It contained a bar fridge and an induction burner. There was no dresser, or space for one for that matter. The tiny bathroom is where the only sink in the space was, and the shower was the bathroom. You could literally sit on the toilet and take a shower at the same time. If I was cold, tired, and defeated before, this really kicked things down a notch. I didn’t even take an application as I turned around and walked out. I’d made up my mind: I cannot stay here. Maybe that guy in the kitchen was onto something with mentioning Scotland…
New Beginnings pt 3
December 2025
After an extremely long day, I made my way back to the train station in the cold drizzle of a January evening so I could catch my hour-long commute back to my temporary home with my WOOFing family. I got back chilled and exhausted, but with a bit more confidence in the direction of where my next steps would take me. After a quick hot shower in the main house, I quietly padded my way back to my private room and curled up for a cozy sleep.
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Over breakfast the next morning, I walked through my trial workday with the Hamblys. “But 30,000 pounds for someone your age is really the going offer around here,” said Frances. “Maybe”, I said. I just couldn’t get it out of my head that I was committing to a certain pay without any opportunity to work harder for more. And it just didn’t sound like enough in my brain, especially for the number of hours that I was expected to work. We chatted some more and I shared my idea that I’d woken up with that day. “I think I’m just going to leave here when my time is up with you guys and I’m going to travel around instead of working. I’ve been in a relationship for 3 years. I’m newly single. Maybe I need to go out and explore and really try to figure out who I am.” I had planned on staying with the Hamblys for 2 weeks. They offered to keep me for a month if I wanted, or to go and travel and return for as long as I wanted to stay, maybe even working part time in their herbal dispensary. Or if I travelled until the Spring, there would be lots to do on the farm. “I really think I need to just get out and see what else is out there”, I said. “If I come back to the area, I’ll get it touch!”
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By this time in January we were nearing Robby Burns Day. As much as he was Scottish, the Hamblys decided we needed a celebration. Introduce the Canadian to a little culture. We went to the store to procure some Haggis and a few different items to round out the night. Elly, the daughter and I, spent the afternoon preparing a steamed pudding. I had never made a steamed pudding before, so it was a completely new experience as we mixed up a batter, poured it into a pan, put the pan in a pot of boiling water, and let it simmer away for a few hours until it was tender and delicious. They passed around the Pimms, we listened to music, and had a nice little party with lots of candles and banter. The Hamblys were nothing but a comforting and welcoming family to spend my first weeks in the UK with.
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Over the next few days, when I wasn’t busy staining wood and drilling holes in it for the yurts they would be building, I got to doing some research and planning the first stops of the route I would travel over the next month and a half. In my overloaded backpack, alongside my knife kit and steel toe clogs, I brought a notebook with recipes from the restaurant I had been working in back home. I flipped it upside down and backwards so that when I opened the first page, I was writing on the last page of the booklet which would leave several empty pages to fill before connecting with the recipes in the front half of the book. I started with drawing out a rough map of the UK, marking down a few major cities, and how much cash I was starting with in my pocket. I logged onto the internet on my computer and started looking at places to go, places to stay. Three days ago I was staging for a job that I could work long term at, and interviewing for an apartment to rent. Now I was packing my bags and planning a trip, just 2 days into the future at a time. I decided to start with London. As much as Elly had taken me to the city to explore one day, and I did spend the day there working, I really didn’t get to see too much. I wanted to check out Covent Garden, the Borough Market, maybe St Paul’s Cathedral, the Amy Winehouse statue in Camden Town. I got busy looking for (very) affordable places to stay. After quite a bit of time clicking around on several different websites, I booked my first of what would be many stays through hostelworld.com. Hostels were the only accommodation option in my budget. By the end of the night I had secured a bunk bed level in a room of 8, in the centre of London, 48 hours from now.
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Two days later I was stuffing everything I flew overseas with into my backpack and bidding farewell to the people that had been my family for the last two weeks. “Be safe! Call if you need anything. We’re here if you want to come back. Stay in touch!”, they said as we hugged and I loaded myself on the train, headed north to the big city of London. I remember it being a pretty day. The sun was out for a change. Although it was still the middle of winter and quite chilly, it was nice. It was fresh. It was the feeling of a new chapter. I had instructions written on a piece of paper that I could discreetly look at once I arrived in London. I looked up on maps before I left so that I could write down every step and turn to take to get me to my hostel. Not only did I not have a phone with data for using a map app while I was walking – as far as I know that wasn’t readily available -- but I also didn’t want to stand out. As ironic as that can be for someone carrying around a backpack that is half the size of their body, towering over their head. I had seen so many backpackers when I was living in Amsterdam and had judgy preconceived notions of them. Here I found myself…one of them. And initially embarrassed by it. Not only that, but I didn’t want anyone who was so obviously watching my every move, to know that I didn’t know where I was going or what the hell I was doing. So when I arrived at the train station, I discreetly pulled out my note with walking directions and made my way, under the sunny blue wintery sky, to the hostel I had booked myself into for the next two nights.
New Beginnings pt 4
February 2026
The hostel was very rudimentary. But it was bustling with energy. The lobby/common area was full of people lazing on couches, playing games, chatting and drinking. As I walked through with my oversized backpack, looking for the check-in counter I thought “how do all of these different people know each other so well?!”
I had planned to spend a full day and a half in London. First up: getting dressed up and taking myself to see Stomp, the theatrical percussion group that grew its roots out of Brighton, England. I was excited for a celebratory event to kick off for this solo trip of mine. I’d heard of groups like The Blue Man Group and Stomp, and others, but had never gotten the chance to see any of them. I was very excited to find out that they were performing in a small theatre just a few tram stops from my hostel. I pulled on the only “fancy” thing I packed in my bag: a silky, long sleeved black dress that could be folded up into a tiny bundle with minimal wrinkles. I grabbed my umbrella, went to Pret a Manger for a sandwich, and then walked to the theatre. Over the next few months I would eat many, many sandwiches. They became the meal of choice. A sandwich: economical, available everywhere, easy to eat on the go, relatively balanced, and not needing to be eaten in a restaurant where I’d sit down and admit to the world that I was alone.
The Ambassador’s Theatre was a small, historic theatre that sat less than 500 people. It reminded me of something like what I imagine Shakespeare would have performed in. The intricate paintings and carvings on the walls, the soft light, the rusty red corduroy fold up chairs – they all contrasted starkly with the Stomp stage set-up. It was made to look like a junkyard with beat up cars and car parts hanging from the rafters, stacked up seemingly precariously between the piles of garbage bins. Graffiti everywhere. When the performers came out on stage, the sounds just filled my body. It was so exhilarating: the brooms banging on the ground in a strong, consistent rhythm, the trash can lids clapping between their muscular arms. Music made from simple tools and the shoes on their feet. Over the past year, I’d lived so frugally to save up for this big move to the UK. Going to a live show felt like such a treat and a very good start to a trip that had no timeline.
I made a plan to travel Northerly, getting to where I was going by train as much as possible, bus for connecting train trips, and the odd taxi when I needed to get to an airport. My very basic map would take me through places that I deemed of importance or had been told not to miss. Oxford would come first – visiting the University felt significant and like I’d just been dropped into the magical world of Harry Potter. I waltzed around the campus, a world-class institute that can boast itself as being the oldest University in the English-speaking world.
The architecture in Bath was noted as a must-see. The Royal Crescent is an icon in the town: a curved row of 30 townhouses built in the 1700s. I took a group walking tour with a woman who looked like she was in her 70’s but moved around the cobblestone streets like she was in her teens. I had a hard time keeping at the front of the pack without running out of breath!
Heading out from Bath, I took a daytrip with 3 or 4 other strangers to the Cotswolds. For 35 pounds each, we hopped into our energetic tour guide’s roomy Mercedes van first thing in the morning and were driven around the English countryside for the day. He told us about the drystone walls that followed us wherever we drove, being particularly prominent in this region. They were built to make property lines obvious and to contain livestock – but not the goats. Goats can jump extraordinarily high, and rather than being contained by the walls, we saw many of them walking atop the dry stacked stones, using the fencing as a sort of catwalk.
We toured churches built in the 13th century, and ate lunch in another, surrounded on the outside by a graveyard where many people were buried above ground rather than below. We stopped in to the iconic and picturesque town of Bibury to stroll the streets and get an obligatory photo in front of Arlington Row – the row of houses that first comes to mind when someone mentions “The Cotswolds”. The cottages in Arlington Row were built in the late 1300’s as a monastic wool store. Their function has changed over the centuries, but the preservation of this beautiful antiquity was something else! With moss covering the rooves, and the rain misting down from the grey clouds, everything felt so vibrant and alive, but slow and ancient at the same time. Our small tour group were the only ones visiting the town at the time, and it was serene to have the place to ourselves, although we were indeed cautioned not to act like tourists and pay attention to cars that needed to get through. “People live here you know.” Our informative tour guide brought stale bread for us to feed the ducks alongside the river. They were clearly accustomed to human interaction and eager to get their daily dose of carbs.
We were picked up first thing in the morning and dropped off right before dinner. It was an incredible way to adventure the Cotswolds. This unexpected trip was getting better and better by the day.
I kept on gradually making my way North, zig-zagging back and forth across the country. I landed in Stratford – hello Shakespear! York made it on the list for being close to “The Hambleton Hills”. Although instead of hiking through my namesake, I took the train in a snowstorm West to the Lake District to settle into Grasmere for a few days of strolling the countryside (read: getting very lost). From there, I crossed the border into Edinburgh, joined a small group tour up to the Isle of Skye, and came back down South to Glasgow before eventually hopping on a plane to Northern Ireland…
