Elena Marchetti

The market was alive with noise, a jumble of shouts and laughter mingling with the earthy smell of fresh produce. I adjusted the woven bag on my shoulder, scanning the stalls piled high with tomatoes, zucchini, and gleaming eggplants. This was one of my favorite rituals in Milan, the city I’ve called home for all of my 25 years.

“Buongiorno, Elena!” called Marco, the vendor I always bought from, his voice warm and familiar. “Fresh artichokes today. Perfect for a risotto!”

“Grazie, Marco,” I replied, picking one up and turning it over in my hand. “But I’m thinking of a lentil stew tonight. Something hearty.”

Marco chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah, your lentils. Always lentils! One day, I’ll convince you to add pancetta.”

I smiled but didn’t reply. We had danced this dance before, his teasing as much a part of my routine as the market itself. Five years of being vegan hadn’t dulled my love for these conversations—they were small chances to bridge a gap, even if Marco only pretended to listen.

As I paid, a voice behind me interrupted. “Vegan?” It was a woman, perhaps a few years older than me, with a skeptical tilt to her head.

“Yes,” I said, keeping my tone light.

She looked at the artichokes in my hand, then back at me. “Don’t you ever feel... disconnected? From your roots, I mean. Food here is tradition. Family.”

I thought for a moment, the hum of the market fading around us. “But food is also care,” I said. “For the earth, for animals, for ourselves. Isn’t that a deeper kind of connection?”

Her gaze softened, though her expression remained guarded. “It’s hard to imagine giving it all up.”

“I didn’t give up food,” I said. “I just found a way to love it differently. It’s still rich, still joyful. Just… kinder.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Maybe I’ll try it sometime.”

As I walked away, the weight of her words lingered. They were small, tentative, but they carried a possibility. And possibilities, I thought, were how real change began.