What’s that saying? When life gives you lemons, make lemonade? Well, life gave me ground meat and buns, so I made hamburgers — which wasn’t what I expected to be eating in Italy.

I was in Rome on a mission to become fluent in Italian. I’d studied the grammar, read the classics, and participated in too many conversation groups. The time had come to speak.

Each day in Rome I awoke to the sounds of the daily mercato setting up outside my door.

Carts loaded with eggplant, artichokes, and peppers creaked by at dawn. Greetings between vendors as they readied their displays echoed down the street. After my first month in my adopted home, I’d honed my vegetable shopping skills and was ready to brave the far end of the market — the butchers.

My confidence in ordering animal parts had been shattered when I’d handed in an assignment to my Italian teacher. After she stopped laughing and wiped away her tears, she explained that my description of cooking chicken—an assignment clarifying pronouns — was more appropriate for a Victoria’s Secret catalog than a recipe book.

With that in mind, I made a reconnaissance trip past the butchers’ stalls to assess my vocabulary dangers. On the third pass, I chose a stall with recognizable parts and a hand-written sign, bovino adulto. I’d seen that on packages at the grocery store.

I asked for due etti (about a half pound) of the adult cow. The butcher put a piece of paper on the scale and loaded on a slice of meat.

He tilted the bright, red steak toward me. Perfetto.

I must have looked away because when I looked back, the butcher was holding my adult cow over the meat grinder. Sì? meaning, of course, you’re getting this ground up, like you’d never order this stuff unless you were grinding it, or giving it to your dog. And I, of course, said, “Sì, sì,” like who’d think of doing anything else.

I took my package from the butcher but I was vanquished. What was I going to do with hamburger? I’d figure that out later because I had an idea for lunch and I marched on.

At the bakery, I pointed to unfamiliar small loaves and asked for two. Then I asked their name. “Rosetta,” the baker said. The round loaves did look like roses. Pretty, I thought. And I was pretty happy with my purchase.

I took my ground meat and bread home along with tomatoes, onions, and basil, and stuffed the meat in back of the refrigerator. At lunchtime, salivating about making bruschetta with the bread and tomatoes, I sliced open the roll and then broke into tears. The rosetta was empty; it was a big empty rose entirely unsuited for bruschetta.

But wait, I said to myself. I’ve got hamburger buns. I’m making burgers tonight.

I abandoned the idea of a homemade lunch and picked up pizza on the way to language school. On my way home on the bus after dark, I could see into the warmly lit hotels along Via Nazionale with doormen, spotless lobbies, and, undoubtedly, restaurants with English menus. For a tiny moment, I wanted to abandon my fluency campaign and check-in.

Instead I continued home, changed into my yoga pants, cranked up my iTunes, and made myself an adult cow burger on a rosetta bun.

Nothing is ever as I expect it to be on this trip. Thankfully. And please pass the lemonade.

About the Author:Bonnie Smetts first fell in love with Italian when she decided to take a few classes before visiting a friend who’d moved to Umbria. Five years later, she’s studied all the grammar, read stack of classics, and participated in myriad conversation groups. The time has come for her to be fluent in Italian.