Three years and several months ago, my friend Ron in Williamsburg, Virginia saw a list of plays I had written to that point and became curious.
“Do you have one you’d like a staged reading of?” he wrote.
“Try Risotto,” I suggested.
He read it, thought it worthy. We agreed that our mutual friend Mary, who I first met at the Eureka Theatre in San Francisco forty years ago, would be perfect for the lead, and Ron had ideas for the other two roles. Then logistics and reality intervened and nothing came of it.
That summer I was in New York, and my friend Rosina, who had read the play and liked it, organized a public reading with herself in the lead. It was very helpful, and she read wonderfully. I also decided that I wanted nothing more to do with public readings of a script that was still raw.
I worked on the play during the following few months, then put it away until last November when I suddenly realized what was needed to take it over the top. I picked away at it from time to time until February, then the world stopped and so did I.
Then somehow, the project surfaced again in the Age of Zoom. Ron was interested, Mary was available, I had identified Kenny as well-suited for the male lead, and Ron knew of a good fit for the third role, a fellow Williamsburger named Ed. What’s more, our friend Travis knew Zoom, and opted to host.
I will sound like a fatuous old fool of a playwright, because that’s who I am, but I sat by the window in my bedroom in Orvieto and watched five friends, three in Virginia, one in New York, and one in St. Pete’s, and was amazed. Amazed by the fact it was happening at all, by the seamlessness of the program, by how connected and committed were the actors – by how well the play seems to work.
“It reads well,” said Ron.
“It reads better on stage than on the page,” said Travis. (That is often said about my scripts. After years of hearing it, I’ve decided to take it as a compliment.)
“That was fun,” said Mary.
It wasn’t until after we’d signed off that I became wistful. I miss the rehearsal room, the generosity of actors, friends in theatre.
“You asked what I see next for this play? To see it onstage with this cast, Ron directing, and Travis producing. There, I’ve said it,” I wrote in an email thanking them. I have a habit of seeing rep companies wherever I look, however impractical trying to make them happen may be.
That was yesterday. I’m still captivated, replaying the actors’ performances – and my emotional responses – in my mind. I have no right to be so satisfied. In rehearsal, the holes and lumps would reveal themselves, there is no doubt work to be done, but that’s okay. I want to do the work. But when will we meet again to dream together after house lights dim, even in Williamsburg? When can I travel? Who has money for such things?
This morning my physiotherapist, Katrin, came to my house to work on my foot. There are two small tears in the tendon. She explored, showed my neighbor Giancarlo how to apply hot compresses, called a few specialists she knows, described what is probably next.
This prompted a day-long discussion among several of my neighbors as to the best way of assuring that my foot would get the regular attention it needs. Much of the discussion arrived unannounced, thus me without my hearing aides. Making sense of what was being said, and why, was about as slow as my going down the stairs, but I eventually caught on, and a solution was proposed that I had been pondering on my own, as well. Elia, who cleans my yard and waters, who harvested the apricots and shared them with neighbors, who needs money and has no other obligations, Elia will be trained by Giancarlo in the mysteries of hot compresses. A schedule was set, and everyone went away satisfied.
This evening, Erika and Alba explored an apartment available – ground floor, balcony, centrally located, needs work – and minutes later I had a video, photos and commentary. Another option is always a good thing.
As he left, Giancarlo made doubly certain that I had milk enough for breakfast tomorrow, and food enough for the rest of the day. Because of his largess, I still have full helpings of pasta fredda and wheat berry salad, two helpings of lasagna, three or four of green beans, plus a bag of garden tomatoes and cucumbers, a half round of cheese, prosciutto cotto, and three kinds of bread. {And Emilio is shopping for me tomorrow afternoon.}
“This is great, Giancarlo, I may never want to heal if you keep this up.”
“Okay, but don’t let us catch you walking!”
Risotto was inspired by Annie Musso, our Italian neighbor when I was growing up in Sunnyvale, California. She kept a quarter of an acre of garden and from it supplied everyone on the block with gorgeous organic produce from May to November (and certain things, all year long). We thought of her as phenomenally generous. She thought of herself as normal. Now I understand why.