Writing for food. Literally

A self-discovery journey into an inner self

The more I write, the more I feel I am a writer.

The journey

It all started with a poem that won third place in some obscure school competition when I was eight. Writing felt as natural as reading, and in that moment I became a writer.

Part-time archaeologist that would have been top-notch, but I could settle for becoming the next Virginia Woolf, I thought.

I had it all very clear: my inspiration was the local librarian.

She was a beautiful, ageless lady, single and living comfortably. In winter, she donned a beautiful handmade wool oversized sweater and corduroy pants. In summer, she wore breezy linen clothes with Iris Apfel jewellery. She got to spend all her time among books, and once her working day was over, she could go home to her majestic Persian cat.

“What a life” I said to myself even if I was just eight years old, and already a frequent flyer of the local library, always on the hunt for a new book to read.

Or a dozen.

The Education

Unfortunately, becoming a librarian was next to impossible: I could not live off the 1 in a million chance of winning the only public competition for such a place.

So I found an alternative: by reading about many authors’ lives, I soon discovered many had a side job—primarily clerical or governmental.

Eça de Queiróz for instance was a diplomat. Pessoa worked as a translator and office clerk. Many others - Dante Alighieri himself was doing clerical duties to foot his bills.

“Something in diplomacy” I thought.

That looked like a promising career: a tedious daily job that did not fry my brain cells but allowed me to earn enough money to live decently, travel and get inspired, and - especially, would allow me a lot of free time to write.

The only trick was to avoid getting tangled up in some rat race and, simultaneously, get a foot into the door by faking corporate enthusiasm enough to settle a job.

A Step Closer

Of course, I tried to go the passion route: I interned in a winery in Tuscany for my own version of Under the Tuscan Sun. When my internship was over, my co-intern and I were called by management to thank us and to hire him and let me go—he was an extrovert and quite the bully, and I was sadly yet another lady in an office full of ladies who had just gotten serially pregnant.

“You know, you are 28, you may well have a child, and we cannot afford another maternity leave.”

I got it.

They had six employees out in turn for the past decade that took time off work to grow the next generation. I did not say I was just a recent graduate with zero intentions to settle down - for the moment, or ever.

My philosophy is that things come easy or are not meant for us, so it was. In hindsight, it was a blessing in disguise: I like wines less and less every year, and I especially started disliking big red oaky wines á la Parker, which are a bit the signature of that winery.

Zuid Holland

That is when I moved to The Netherlands.

I thought the HQ of the entity that hired me was in Lyon, but I had misheard of it during the recruitment call and ended up in The Hague - my boss and recruiter had a hefty French accent, and I did not hear well due to line connection issues.

For a while, I thought I would be living in France, but in reality, it was the Netherlands. It was a bit of a bummer for the blooming gastronomer in me!

By then, however, I had a plan: I would stay there until the contract was over, and then I would be free to go and do whatever I wanted. By then, I thought I would be adult enough to decide everything about my life.

I was so mistaken. Who knew that “adulting” wasn’t something one could magically acquire in their thirties?

I am afraid I will never grew out of that eternal post-teenage feeling of never being adult enough for life-changing decisions.

I had fun in a bureaucratic job for a long time, and when I felt that I was not having fun anymore, I thought of leaving. This coincided with the pandemic of 2020 when I found myself cut out from my everyday travelling life and purposeless in that land beaten by northern winds.

I wanted to migrate south and stay there.

Not Climbing the Ladder

So, I left my well-paid clerical job at the European Commission in 2021.

It was about time: almost ten years had passed, and everyone was pushing me to “grow,” to “be ambitious,” and to “add responsibilities.”

I remember going to HR and asking for a part-time position. I was denied it—apparently, only parents can ask for this accommodation. I toyed with having a child just to get the desired reduced schedule. But I was single and committed to stay so. And my cats didn’t really like children.

I remember being called by the interim manager of my unit and told that one of the tasks I had successfully kept for the past eight years was no longer mine. I had been excellent at nurturing the community, growing the impact of this working group, and steering the work, but I needed to let go and grow professionally. I had held that task since I was a trainee, and now, suddenly, I was overqualified.

I was furious.

I said no.

I said I had accepted that job and stayed there for ten years because of that specific task. It was the only thing I liked to do during my working hours. The only thing between me and resigning.

He did not want to listen and told me I did not have ambitions. How could I? I was so brilliant!

He said I needed to grow in my career, take on additional responsibilities and look towards management.

I did look, yes.

I looked at him dead in the eyes and told him I was then sending my resignation at my convenience—I still had one year and a half of my contract left. I told him that not everybody wants to grow, work longer hours, and have additional responsibilities and worries.

I told him that what I really wanted was to work part-time and have time to write, work remotely, stay close to my family, and travel.

He still didn’t understand.

The “other” job

For many writers, writing full-time is just a dream.

The reality is that I still have a clerical job that pays the bills, but that does not define who I am—I never speak about it, for instance. I could be peeling potatoes in a restaurant or landscaping gardens or whatever.

I am a writer, and all my brainpower, attention, wishes, and desires are in this direction.

But as anyone, I need food and a roof above my head, so I trade some of my living hours for this. Not one second more - all the rest of my time, I think, write, elaborate. Even at work, I am often distracted by my thoughts when useless meetings that could have been a email drag on too much.

My quiet-quitter nature makes me a bit afraid of leaving a salary for freelance work, but I will have to make this leap sooner or later - in search of purpose.

A Writer

I have been working on a series of tales for some years, and I just signed a contract with a publisher to publish my first book —in paper! I am excited and terrified, as I have just a couple of months to finish polishing the texts and eventually let go of my first book. In the end, I do not know if this will actually happen - the publishing industry is quite in disarray in Italy, and even with a signed contract, all could go titsup before actually happening.

But I keep my hopes - and spirits - high.

I am also super excited because now I can focus on something else - another book. I have an entire draft to polish, reconstruct and rebuild and see whether it can be made into a readable text.

A Blogger

Blogging on Substack gives me a lot of freedom.

This blog, in particular, is a sort of open-air diary where I interlace my gastronomic journey with a broader gastronomic discussion.

It is so liberating!

On

Mountain Foodways

I specifically talk about high-altitude gastronomic ecosystems and, on

Oltre il baccalà: guida gastronomica del Portogallo

I write about gastronomical treasures in Portugal.

Make it Do

When I took the leap in 2021, going from a secure, international governmental job with heaps of diplomatic advantages to an online NGO job, it was a bit scary. I am momentarily back to another (remote) governmental job. Once again, I have a fantastic team and not-so-fantastic tasks, but that is working life, I guess.

I make it work—for the bills and for the plane tickets that allow me to swing between Portugal and the Dolomites, taking advantage of all the seasons.

But surely, I would prefer to be writing full time, and I am learning to automate menial tasks as much as possible to gain additional free time.

One day, I tell myself. One day.

Medium Term Plans

One of the many reasons I left the previous job, besides being office-and-countrs-based, is that they only allow part-time work for parents. I plan to reduce my current “business” working hours, for lack of better terms, and increase the number of hours I spend on other activities, writing included.

I plan to continue living between the Dolomites and Portugal, following the seasons: in summer and winter, I will take advantage of the high mountains in Italy, and in the mellow seasons, I can enjoy Portugal and its mild climate. The initial plan foresaw a sort of “slow life” or “van life”, and the moves between these two countries would have become month-long journeys across Spain and France, with stops in pleasant places.

However, this is impossible now, so I have resorted to flying - without a decent train connection, one that could bring me, the cats and the car across Europe, I have to compromise.

But such is life: an endless balance of compromises.