As I grab the little step stool so I can see over the counter, I see flour flying around the kitchen while my grandmother’s arms move in an aggressive, circular motion. She lifts, slaps, and massages the plump ball that will soon become tea biscuits. I grew up watching and learning techniques like this from the matriarch of the family and her disciples. Aunts, grandmothers, and mothers swarmed the kitchens of my childhood sharing recipes, critiquing how they wrap the stuffed grape leaves, and gossiping over Armenian coffee. The kitchen is a female territory in the traditional Armenian household; all of their secrets to making your favorite nostalgia-inducing dishes are revealed only to the few they can confide in. Trusting you to be able to see how they prepare these time-consuming dishes is not enough to be allowed to actually execute. You need to earn the right to wrap a grape leaf or fold a little meat dumpling. As a young girl, my determination to be accepted fueled my passion for cooking.
Every weekend revolved around cooking and eating with family and friends. This is a weekly ritual most Armenians partake in, especially within the diaspora. After the Armenian Genocide in 1915, Armenians fled all over the world, creating an extensive diasporan network. Cooking and eating together has become a way of preserving culture and traditions outside the homeland. And, it’s an excuse to eat, drink, and laugh with your loved ones. The women would spend the day preparing the intricate and time-consuming dishes made by our ancestors. The men traditionally congregated outside and cooked the meat kebabs to perfection over a charcoal fire. The nights always ended with black tea brewing in a double potted tea kettle. No Armenian house is complete without this large tea-brewing kettle. The young girls pass around the tea accompanied by some baked goods to the adults. My prideful grandmother would brag about how well I braided the cookies to all the elders who nodded considerately and spoke of my praises, eager to get back to their intense conversations (they always said they would never talk about religion or politics, and by tea time that is exactly where the discussions led). The kitchen was where I grew up and where I established this unbreakable bond with the women who inspired me to express my creativity in the kitchen. Those tea cookies were a catalyst to years of successes and failures, burn marks, and cut fingertips, and I cannot help but think of those memories when I smell and feel the soft, white flour.
I approached the clean, wide counter prepared to be dusty with flour, but this time I was not in my grandmother’s kitchen; I was in Florence, Italy. My semester abroad became my family’s perfect excuse to make a holiday trip out of it; mom, dad, and sister came along to “settle me in.” I was eager to leave Los Angeles to broaden my cultural scopes outside the Armenian community.
Preparing homemade pasta is on the agenda, and the apprehension is consuming me. Making fresh pasta had always been a skill I eagerly wished to acquire, but I always felt that my rite of passage would be to learn from an Italian “nona.” How lucky I felt to have been approached by a petite, gray-haired woman with forearms too large for her small stature; she clearly has rolled out her fair share of pasta dough. While the cooking class continued, she kept coming towards my side of the counter, enthused by my curiosity for the art of pasta. She reminded me so much of my grandma. I initially thought she was spending time near my family specifically for me, but soon I realized the least likely member of my family was just as fascinated as I was: my father. This was a man who never stepped foot in the kitchen, and the two of us were utterly captivated by our Maestra. When I would ask her about the ratios of the ingredients, she would give me a rough estimate, but followed with “I add a little of this and a little of that.” Nothing was an exact measurement, precisely the reason behind why the secrets of the Armenian kitchen were so enigmatic—most of the ingredients were measured with the eye (“achki chap” in Armenian).
The cooking class in Florence was merely a catalyst for my evolving culinary understanding in Italy. What I anticipated to be an immersive, cultural experience in a foreign country actually was quite familiar. The lively, passionate locals of Rome made me feel at home, for they were akin to the community I was brought up in (I guess traveling across the globe did not broaden my scopes as much as I imagined). Their pride for their heritage resonated with me, along with the daily rituals I was lucky to partake in that revolved around sharing stories over a generous, long meal with loved ones. I was pleasantly surprised by these familiar traditions; however, one particular peculiarity took me by surprise. Most of my culinary exposure throughout my time in Italy orbited men. The grandmothers and aunts from my childhood were replaced by honorary grandfathers and uncles. Through my program, I was introduced to two animated elderly men, uncle, and nephew. If it were not for their frosted hair and the deep lines on their faces earned with time and wisdom, you would think they were two adolescents excited to share their culture and passions with American students. Giorgio and Massimo taught me how to be Italian. It was in their little art studio where I truly understood the Italian essence. We painted, conversed in broken Italian, shared life stories, and, most importantly, cooked together. Giorgio and Massimo combined nostalgia with unfamiliarity into a truly unforgettable chapter of my life.
That chapter came to a severe close with the dawn of the global pandemic. My growth as an independent individual in a city that embraces art, history, and the simplicities of life was stunted due to a lockdown. Readjusting back to the life of a Los Angeleno was difficult because I was just starting to feel like a native Roman. There was only one thing that eased the stresses and anxieties induced by the quarantine we succumbed to — fresh pasta. Circling my hands in the cool soft flour to create a well for bright orange eggs became my form of meditation. While I kneaded and rolled my little ball of dough my mind journeyed back to my childhood, making tea biscuits with my grandmother. Rolling the dough by hand, folding and stretching the pale-yellow sheets into pappardelle, tagliatelle, or spaghetti brought my memories with Giorgio and Massimo to surface. I was calm amongst the chaos of the world, with my nostalgia pushing away the negativity 2020 imposed.
While pasta was my form of escape, it became my father’s claim to the kitchen. Our Italian nona set him on a culinary voyage that brought us together during our time at home. Every morning we scanned through cookbooks, looking for inspiration for our next experiment. It was thrilling to see him break the boundaries of the traditional Armenian household I have always known. We would prepare a dish, tasted it as we went along, and added a thing or two “achki chap.” My experience cooking with Giorgio and Massimo prepared me for sharing the kitchen with men. What once felt like an unprecedented occurrence became a habit. My father and I helped each other become pasta “maestri,” comparing flour to egg ratios, kneading techniques, and experimenting with various sauces to pair with our stringy, doughy canvases.
Pasta was not a part of my initial culinary exposure, but it became my haven. It became more than just a delicious meal. Making pasta is my mechanism for healing and comfort. It has provided me with countless opportunities to connect with strangers and family, alike. The sense of togetherness pasta provides me combines my love for my Armenian heritage and traditions with my fascination with the Italian spirit. I believe food is the ultimate bonding agent, and when I come together with family and friends, that agent consists of flour, egg, and sentimentality.