Hi friends,
Gray and rainy, this past work week stretched on and on — a vicious combination of kitchen shifts, freelance writing deadlines, and insufficient sleep. As I mentioned before, the pace of the kitchen here is much more relaxed than my previous New York kitchens, but we cooks are still laboring on our feet for many hours at a time in a relatively tense environment. And my brain is working double time, grasping to understand what my colleagues are saying in Italian and to bridge the gap between our native tongues. As for my freelance work outside of the kitchen, I’ve found it harder to meet deadlines since arriving in Rome. The heart-pounding pulse of New York isn’t here to spur me to action, and instead I feel defiant against the obscene New York hours I’ve grown so accustomed to working. I should take on fewer articles, but the extra money helps. Sigh. It’s been a week of reality checks.
At least the food was as good as ever! At work I made ribollita, a Tuscan soup with bread, beans, and greens, that’s considered a result of “cucina povera” or “cooking of the poor.” Ribollita is a resourceful way to transform stale bread into a warm, comforting meal, and I’m glad it exists. Another evening, I blanched cabbage leaves and filled them with an earthy, herby blend of mushrooms and rice. All rolled up, they were the sweetest little packages you ever did see, and we served them warm in a ladleful of broth with a shower of Parmesan on top. Another dish that delighted me this week was an onion-potato sheet pan frittata for the lunch buffet. It tasted like a Spanish tortilla (one of my favorite things to eat), but took no time at all thanks to some leftover boiled potatoes and caramelized onions that we wanted to use up. It was nice on its own, but it was better when I tucked it inside a piece of salty, oily pizza bianca for my lunch with the staff.
After a week of hard work and good food (always good food), the weather cleared up for the weekend. Out of the Academy bubble, I rediscovered Rome.
I visited Santa Maria Maggiore, a basilica on the Esquiline Hill in the Monti district. Built in 430 A.D., it’s home to a golden coffered ceiling and famed early Christian mosaics. Until I entered the basilica, I didn’t realize that I’d already visited back in 2019, when my family and I spent Christmas in Rome at the end of my semester abroad in Bologna. Once I walked inside and witnessed the space’s unmistakeable grandeur, a memory rushed back to me: my mom, brother, and I wandered out of the nearby Termini train station, all of us clueless to the intricacies of Rome, and happened upon Santa Maria Maggiore. We took turns going inside, one of us standing outside with our pile of luggage as the others explored, and it was immediately clear that we had come across not just any church but a treasure. Accidentally revisiting the same place this morning, I felt the same delight; Rome is a city of history, of memories, of unexpected spectacles.
I walked back across the Tiber and up the Janiculum Hill, and ultimately reached the Fontana Dell’Acqua Paola, mere yards from the Academy. The fountain marks one of the most remarkable views of Rome in the whole city. It is, of course, mind-boggling to see so many famous sites from above, but I’m most struck by the mountains — big, vast mountains just there, beyond the city. The looming mountain range gives you much-needed perspective from within the city limits. If only we could see mountains from New York City! Maybe we wouldn’t feel so self-important, as if New York is the only place to live.
I wrote most of this letter in my bedroom, windows flung open to reveal the Bass Garden, designed to resemble the long-gone landscape of the Roman countryside. (And yes, I’m painfully aware that any future writing studio of mine will never surpass this one.) It’s snowy at home in New England, but here the grass is lush and speckled with daisies, abstractly spaced out as if a young flower girl had flung them by the fistful as she walked down the wedding aisle. The light is golden, angular, and dramatic, and every detail has a story, like the stone wall that encloses part of the garden, constructed in the 1640s by Pope Urban VIII as a defensive boundary. The Bass Garden is a tiny fraction of the city, yet it holds so much nuance.
As I made my way home from Santa Maria Maggiore earlier today, I went to an English bookstore in Trastevere and purchased Dinner in Rome by Andreas Viestad. I’ve only just begun reading the book, but its structure already resonates with me. Viestad recounts a singular Roman dinner from his first bite of bread to his final spoonful of sorbetto di limone, and unfolds the history of Rome through a culinary lens with each hefty chapter. He explains that bread isn’t just a hunger-satiating, plate-sopping staple, but a form of nourishment that has sustained Rome since its ancient beginnings. It isn’t just a wall in the garden; it isn’t just bread on the table.
Don’t tell anyone, but tonight I’m eating takeout sushi with Friends playing in the background. What can I say? I needed this.
Lots of love,
Phoebe
Hi Phoebe, I just want to know if you are assigned what to make, or if you get to pick! It all sounds so amazing. And the location. It’s all yummy. Xoxo
Beautifully written 🥰