Excuse me whilst I go Italian for a minute. Yes, technically speaking I’m only 2% and still salty that 23 and Me did me over like that, but for the purposes of this blog I’m claiming it. My momma has been making homemade pasta my whole life. But one thing she has never tried to make was gnocchi because she never really cared for it. Clearly, this shows we are not of the same genes. Because I live for the stuff. So you can imagine how excited I was when I met a master crafter and learned how to make it for the first time. And no, I’m not talking about Giada de Larentis the Everyday Italian lady. We all know she’s an imposter. I mean really, who pronounces bruschetta that way? I’m talking a thoroughbred 100% pure (because 23 and Me hasn’t ruined her life yet) Italian Nonna (grandma). Enter Isabella Genezzi. I mean right? With a name like that she has to be authentic. I met her my first year in college. And let me tell you, this lady was as real as it got. She scorned at the jarred pasta sauce isle. She was constantly singing. And I don’t remember not seeing her in a dust cloud of flour. She loved her family and the way she showed it was through her cooking. So, when she took me on as her protege and adopted granddaughter I was through the moon.
Now, I don’t know how much you know about making gnocchi but on paper it’s relatively easy. You cook some potatoes, mash them up. Mix them with a little flour and salt and make a dough, then roll and cut it into gnocchi. Easy peasy right? WRONG! It’s really quite persnickety. Undercook your potatoes and you get chunks. Overcook and they become so starchy they crystalize and you can’t mix them with the flour. Too much flour you’ll never get dumplings. Too little and you’ll never get it off the kitchen counter. Knead the dough not enough you get a tough pasta. Knead too much and you might as well call it pizza. Who knew right? I mean, Trader Joe’s sells them they can’t be that hard to make.
I will never forget the very first day I helped her cook them. She threw flour on the mashed potatoes and told me they would make a dough. I thought, “There is no way this will work.” I think she could sense my doubts. She kept telling me “Fiducia nel processo. Trust the process”. Words easy enough to take to heart when you’re not the one kneading by hand. Ten minutes in, “Isabella are you sure?” “Fiducia nel processo.” Twenty minutes in, “I think I did something wrong.” “Fiducia nel processo.” Thirty minutes, “Isn’t it supposed to be dough yet? The food network people have dough by now.” “Fiducia nel processo.” “Isabella I’m not coming back here. My arms are killing me.” “Fiducia nel processo.” “Finally! We have a dough!” “Not done yet. Keep going. Fiducia nel processo.”
I was beginning to think she was just out to make fun of the poor Jewish/Irish girl who wanted a taste of culture when suddenly she came and poked my dough. I mean how rude. My beloved dough I had worked so hard to make. When it sprang back just a little she said, “There. All done” Great. Now we can make the pasta? “No. It must rest. One hour.” Honestly I thought this was just her excuse to sit down for an hour and drink a glass of wine, but I knew if I questioned her on it she would just tell me to “Fiducia nel processo.” I’ll say one thing, that is NOT what I wanted to do to the processo at this point.
Low and behold though we let the dough rest, formed the gnocchi, dusted them in semolina flour, and let them rest again while she indulged in another glass of wine. I’m beginning to see why the Italians are such a relaxed people. And low and behold another hour of work, some sauce, and we had gnocchi. Believe me when I tell you it was the best I’d ever had and no matter how many times I try to recreate it, it never turns out the same.
Now comes the fun part. That’s right, I am about to drop a spiritual application on some pasta. I learned a lot that day. We too, have a master crafter. And He is kneading us and forming us into who He wants us to be. Not who we pretend to be. Not who we try to make ourselves be. Not who our failures, past, and illnesses dictate we are. Not even who society thinks we are. Psalm 139:13 tells us that we were knit together in our mother’s womb. Psalm 119:73 says, “Your hands have made me and fashioned me; give me understanding to learn Your commandments.” We have a purpose. We have been made the way we were made for a reason. Sure, some of us are crystalized and beautiful. Some of us are potatoes. Some of us are a little too salty. Some of us are rather bland. But we all hold a purpose in the Master Crafter’s plan. Some of us are nearly dough. Most of us are still very much in the kneading process. And it’s painful at times. We are being stretched beyond what we think we can bear. The pressure as we are pressed over and over is too much. Or we rip completely. And we think it is never going to end. For six years I was too depressed to function. For six years I laid in bed at my parents house feeling like a total and complete failure. I’d watch every dream I’d ever had die. I had a useless degree, nobody would hire me, I’d had crappy job after crappy job, I’d put all the weight I’d lost back on, I’d tried to go back to school and couldn’t get into the classes, then I’d finally chosen a career path and realized there was no way I was ever going to be able to live by myself and support myself with it. I’d said goodbye to my favorite city on earth, the ocean which was my solace, and the best friends still living in it. I had lost all hope. I would lay there and think “This is it. This is the best my life is going to get.” Every step forward led to two steps back. And then one day it changed. I hit submit to three toddler teacher job applications in Franklin Tn. Within a week I had them all scheduled for a New Years Eve interview, a flight booked, a car booked, and a hotel to stay. By the end of the week I had been given three offers on the spot, but had no place to live. And then twenty minutes before I’m about to leave for the airport when I have exhausted all measures God swoops in and saves the day. So I move. I leave everything behind, pack what I could fit in the back of my little nissan versa and drive 2000 miles too start my new life, sleeping on the living room floor for two weeks because amazon prime was a little late to the bed delivery game. And it hasn’t been the easiest route here either. There’s been lots of ups and lots of downs. But here I am, nearly thirty, working in the billing department of a commercial truck tire warehouse. I have a core group of girlfriends I met working a crappy daycare job and I now have more “older brothers” and "crazy uncles" then I know what to do with. And I’m sitting here on the other side of it just saying keep going. Yes, sometimes you will be completely destroyed. It’s okay to mourn the death of who you were and your dreams. But believe me when I say it ends. Sometimes its sooner. Sometimes its six years. But it ends. This to shall pass. One day you will look back on those memories again as happy memories instead of wanting to forget them. Anything we can turn to on this earth for comfort only numbs temporarily. But our God is a Healer. He is a God of restoration. He brings life back into what was dead and makes it beautiful. Its not the same old pot. It’s a totally new, re-formed creation. We are constantly being made new. The Master keeps kneading. He never gives up. His arms never grow tired. And we never leave His hand. Even when we think we’re being a rebellious potato piece and try to jump ship. Even when we’re just a pile of flour and we say, “God, this will never be something good.” or “That will never happen.” He says, “Rachel, I am God. I know the finished product. Trust me. I AM FAITHFUL. Trust the Process.”
“This is the word that came to Jeremiah from the Lord: “Go down to the potter’s house, and there I will give you my message.” So I went down to the potter’s house, and I saw him working at the wheel. But the pot he was shaping from the clay was marred in his hands; so the potter formed it into another pot, shaping it as seemed best to him. Then the word of the Lord came to me. He said, “Can I not do with you, Israel, as this potter does?” declares the Lord. “Like clay in the hand of the potter, so are you in my hand, Israel.” -Jeremiah 18:1-6
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