in bocca al lupo

I never craved peanut butter before. I gave away an unopened jar when I moved out of my apartment, just weeks ago. I sent it away with friends with the dried beans and last summer’s blueberry jam; foods that I had planned on eating, but never got around to. Another casualty of the liquidation that comes with leaving.

I never thought of peanut butter as a specifically American food, until an American warned me that it would be difficult to find in Italy. When I arrived here, I couldn’t help but seek it out, feeling victorious when I bought a jar.

Now, to my surprise, I reach for it nearly every day. My craving for the salty-sweet richness of peanut butter- on toast at breakfast, in a sandwich at lunch, or in a sauce for noodles at dinner- tastes of the familiar, the same way Vegemite might to an Australian, or golden syrup to a Brit.

I already miss the astonishing variety of where I’m from. Tacos al pastor, Thai curries, my mother’s vinaigrette and my father’s bread. It took moving to Italy for me to make a habit of peanut butter, but what I’m really craving is home.