I also want to go to an Italian island and do cuisine properly

Host: The afternoon sun spilled like honey across the terrace of a small trattoria perched above the Mediterranean. The sea shimmered in slow, lazy waves, the kind that seemed to hum softly against the rhythm of the day. The air carried the smell of rosemary, garlic, and warm bread—the fragrance of something simple, alive, and ancient.

At a wooden table draped with a faded red cloth, Jack and Jeeny sat beneath a vine-covered awning, their wine glasses catching the sun. A radio played somewhere inside, the tune of a Neapolitan song drifting like a memory through the open air.

Host: The island breeze moved gently between them, tugging at Jeeny’s hair and scattering small petals from the flowers that hung above.

Jeeny: “Elizabeth Olsen once said, ‘I also want to go to an Italian island and do cuisine properly with some famous Italian chef and, like, his mother.’”

She smiled faintly, her eyes reflecting the sea. “Don’t you find that beautiful, Jack? The idea of cooking—not for fame, but for truth? For the connection that lives inside the recipe itself?”

Jack: “You mean for the aesthetic of it.”

Jeeny: “Aesthetic?”

Jack: “Yeah. The fantasy of rustic authenticity. Everyone wants to escape their life, find some old Italian nonna stirring sauce and tell themselves they’ve rediscovered the meaning of existence. It’s marketing for the soul.”

Host: His voice carried a quiet edge, the tone of a man allergic to pretense. He twisted his wine glass slowly, watching the light bend in the liquid.

Jeeny: “You’re missing it again, Jack. It’s not about escape—it’s about return. A return to what’s real, what’s handmade, what’s shared.”

Jack: “Shared? You mean filmed. Posted. Romanticized. Come on, Jeeny. Do you think anyone really wants to smell like garlic and olive oil every day? They want the Instagram version. The fantasy of simplicity—without the labor that comes with it.”

Host: The waiter, an old man with a wrinkled smile, set down a plate of spaghetti alle vongole between them. The steam rose, carrying with it the ocean’s salt and the faint bite of lemon.

Jeeny lifted her fork delicately, twirling the pasta, her eyes thoughtful.

Jeeny: “You think cynicism makes you wise, Jack, but it only makes you hungry for what you keep denying. You talk about fantasy, but what’s wrong with wanting to feel the world again? To touch the earth, to eat something that was made with hands and love, not machines?”

Jack: “Because wanting it and living it are two different things. You think you’ll find meaning in olive groves and wood-fired ovens? Try doing it every day. The romance turns to routine. The pasta burns. The chef yells. And suddenly the dream tastes like exhaustion.”

Host: The breeze shifted, carrying the distant sound of church bells and the laughter of children playing near the harbor. Jeeny watched the sea, her expression softening.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who once dreamed of something and got burned by it.”

Jack: “Maybe I did. Or maybe I just realized that the world sells dreams to those who can afford them. Italian islands aren’t cheap, Jeeny. You think the poor man cooking in Naples has time to ‘rediscover himself’ with a celebrity chef?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But maybe he doesn’t need to. Maybe he’s already living what the rest of us are chasing.”

Host: Her words hung between them, suspended in the slow dance of the afternoon. Jack took a long sip of wine, his eyes narrowing as though looking at something far away.

Jack: “You really believe that happiness is hidden in tradition? That if we just learn how to make sauce like someone’s grandmother, the world will heal?”

Jeeny: “Not the world, Jack. But maybe the heart. Maybe cooking is just a metaphor for attention—for caring again. For slowing down.”

Jack: “You sound like one of those slow-food documentaries.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like someone who’s forgotten what food is supposed to be.”

Host: A soft pause settled. The light shifted as a thin cloud passed over the sun, draping their table in muted gold. The old waiter hummed quietly to himself as he refilled their glasses.

Jeeny: “Do you remember that story about Massimo Bottura, the chef from Modena?”

Jack: “The one who cooked for the homeless during the Milan Expo?”

Jeeny: “Yes. He took all the wasted food from the event—thousands of pounds—and turned it into gourmet meals for people who had nothing. He said cooking was never about ingredients, but about intention. That’s what Olsen meant, I think. Not fame. Not escape. But to cook ‘properly’—with intention, with love, with the wisdom of someone’s mother beside you.”

Jack: “So love can turn leftovers into salvation, huh?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes, yes. You’d be surprised what love can make edible.”

Host: A faint laugh escaped Jack, the kind that broke through his usual cynicism. It was small, quiet, but real.

Jack: “You really think if I go to some Italian island, learn how to make gnocchi with a 70-year-old woman named Lucia, I’ll suddenly understand life?”

Jeeny: “Not understand it. Feel it. There’s a difference.”

Host: The sunlight returned, catching the waves in golden ribbons. Jack leaned back in his chair, his expression softening.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my mother used to make lasagna on Sundays. Not fancy. Just layers of whatever we had left in the fridge. We’d all sit around the table and argue about everything—money, politics, the future. But when we ate, it was quiet. Peaceful. Maybe you’re right. Maybe that was the closest thing to truth I ever tasted.”

Jeeny: “There it is,” she said gently. “You just described the Italian island you’ve been denying.”

Host: A gentle silence followed. The ocean whispered against the rocks, and a flock of white birds took flight, scattering across the sky.

Jack: “You always have to win, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, smiling. “I just have to remind you that not everything beautiful is fake.”

Host: The light began to fade, turning the sky into a painting of orange and violet. The waiter brought out two small plates of tiramisu, the cocoa dusting catching the dying light.

Jeeny took a bite and sighed. “See? Some truths melt in your mouth.”

Jack chuckled, shaking his head. “You and your poetry.”

Jeeny: “And you with your realism. But tell me, Jack—if someone offered you that island, that kitchen, that old Italian mother teaching you how to knead dough properly… would you go?”

Host: Jack looked at the sea, at the fishermen hauling their nets, at the faint sound of a mother calling her children in Italian. He hesitated, then smiled faintly.

Jack: “Maybe I would. If she promised not to let me leave until I got the sauce right.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the point. Some lessons take a lifetime. But at least it would be a beautiful one.”

Host: The camera lingered on them—the table, the food, the fading sun—before slowly pulling back to reveal the small village below, the sea breathing against its edge like a heart at peace.

The world, for a moment, seemed full of flavor again—simple, imperfect, and utterly human.

And somewhere, perhaps in another kitchen, an Italian mother stirred her sauce, humming softly—passing down the recipe of a life well-lived.