Daily bread

The other day, I walked to a bakery near my apartment to get some bread for dinner. I usually don't have bread in the house-since I live in an area of small, accessible shops, I prefer to buy food as needed rather than in large, "We're-goin'-to-Kroger" quantities. But somehow, Italian bakery employees seem mystified by my desire for small pieces of focaccia, moving the knife over while I'm not looking until I end up with almost the whole loaf.

This particular bakery is a true Mom and Pop establishment, with all the basics: there are long slabs of pizza, baskets of biscotti and fresh fruit tortes. Pop stands behind the counter, ready to mete out thick slices of unsalted Tuscan bread; Mom sits doing a crossword behind the cash register.

I succeed in getting a simple piece of focaccia and head to the till. Mom puts down her word game and waits for me to hand over my small change. Problem is, my wallet is all the way at the bottom of my bag.

Earlier that day, you see, my New Jersey roommate had received a gigantic package from her doting Italian-American mother. The fact that I kindly agreed to help her bring some of the package contents home had nothing to do with the tin of homemade peanut butter chocolate chip cookies that also were in the package. My wallet, of course, had sunk below her precious cargo. I rummage around a little bit, but resign myself to taking everything out and doing a thorough search.

Out come the plastic container of designer deli breadcrumbs and the bottle of ITALIAN salad dressing. A DVD case, a box of mac-n'-cheese and a carton of herbal tea join the growing pile on the counter as the bakery lady looks on with growing irritation and bemusement. There, at the bottom of the bag, lays my crushed, close-to-empty wallet.

I fish it out, poke around to find the right change, and look up with a smile. But the woman seems far more interested in the items on the counter than in taking my money. She dangles the mac-n'-cheese gingerly between two fingertips, examining it as if I'd just produced a box of freeze-dried crickets. The following conversation takes place in Italian.

"What this is?"

"Macaroni and cheese-I mean, pasta and cheese."

"Noooo... what this is?"

"Food from America."

"No, is for animal, for cat-miao miao!"

"No, is for people..."

Only then do I notice that this brand of organic mac-n-cheese has chosen a rabbit as its symbol.

I let my hands drop to my side and stop trying to explain, knowing that it would be easier to go along with her assumption than resist with my feeble Italiano. Maybe then she would unhand my roommate's food and give me my bread.

"Yes, is for animals."

She shakes her head and looks on with confused disgust as I gather the detritus of my simple bakery trip and walk out the door. "There you have it," she must have thought. "Americans are so crazy, they even eat freeze-dried cat food. What will they think of next?"

(This from a woman who probably had tripe for lunch.)

Of course an Italian wouldn't understand why pasta would come in a box-it's like an instant version of a food item that's already instant!

At least I got a peanut butter chocolate chip cookie when I got home.

Emily Rotberg is a Trinity senior studying abroad in Florence, Italy. Her column runs every other Monday.