Random Thoughts on Italy

Wedding in Italy

2010-09-04T08:30:00.000-07:00

Wouldn't it be nice to get married in Italy? I mean, really, what normal woman wouldn't like to do that? Well, I am a normal woman (for the most part!) and I am getting married soon. I never actually thought about getting married in Italy though. Although in retrospect you would think it was the first thing I thought of seeing as how I am engaged to a man who is in fact from Italy. I guess my sensibilities jumped in and I thought more about cost containment than romance and tradition.

In steps my fiance's family and suggests that getting married in Italy would be a good idea. In fact I would go so far as to say it was insisted upon...in a good way. My fiance is from an area of Italy called Calabria. Calabria is not much of a tourist destination which is good...it keeps the area authentic and unspoiled by hoards of tourists. Calabria sits at the tip of that sexy Italian boot and I hear you can see Sicily from the coast.

Pictures show miles of pristine beaches lapping gently with warm water and happy, very happy Italians living their daily lives. Specifically, my fiance is from Reggio Calabria. Check out some pictures and resources below.

As for the wedding plans, well we'll have to see if we pull that off or not but at the very least we are due for a much needed visit.

Places to live

New Book Release about Italy

2010-05-06T17:29:00.000-07:00

I recently found out about a new book, called Barolo, where the author spent time in the Piemonte region of Italy. I am always a fan of supporting writers and of course, anything about Italy! With permission, I have posted an excerpt from the book for your reading pleasure along with a link to the website for the book should you decide you would like to purchase it. The link is at the bottom of the excerpt. Happy Reading!

From Barolo by Matthew Gavin Frank

This piece, excerpted from my memoir, BAROLO (The University of Nebraska Press, 2010, originally appeared, in slightly different form, in The Best Travel Writing 2009 anthology (Travelers’ Tales ‘ Solas House).

The Unfinished

The air is so crisp you can break it like a cracker. And as the crumbs fall to the truffle soup, they hit bottom and become mountains. The Alps break from the Piedmont haze and I open my arms to them. Adriana’s day-old apple cake still sits cross-wise on my teeth like a cement that refuses to dry. The vineyards are everywhere, pitching me over slopes less drastic, but more numerous than those on the way to La Morra, Italy. The occasional residence asserts itself, pushing its washed-out white stone, cracked orange roof, rusted black gate from between the rows, then, just as quickly, disappears like a lioness. I feel I am somehow being stalked by structure and, as always, barely escaping with my life.

Persimmon trees tower above the rows, but hang still today, keeping their secrets. Somewhere around a curve, behind a slew of vineyards, Sandrone is commanding his grape-picking crew, Ivo and company are loading the crates onto flatbeds, Ercole, local chef extraordinaire, is washing leeks for a stock, Raffaella, my host at the Il Gioco dell’Oca agriturismo, is smoothing sheets for the day’s guests, raw grissini is getting its cornmeal dust, wine is being sold, the Borgognos are harboring their quiet, cross-eyed animosity, and Adriana, Raffaella’s mother, is doing my laundry. But here, now, curving left around a profiled slope, the hamlet of Monforte pokes its rose-colored head from a distant hillside like a turtle testing for rain. Finding none, finding only clarity and windlessness, it remains, pushing shopfront after shopfront, terrace after terrace up from the dirt and into the air.

It is a vertical town, even more so than La Morra, stacked, switchbacked, and as the trail descends at my feet, Monforte disappears once again behind a swell of green earth. I stop. No sound. No wind. I drop my hands to my sides. The air, like an Egyptian plover, cleans my mouth of breakfast. But there is no wind.

If there is no wind, why do I hear the grapevines slushing on the downslope? To the right, the crops gather together as clouds. The vineyard is imploding in front of me, closing its leaves into a fist, a concentrated heart of green. I expect Nebbiolo grape juice to run like blood over my shoes. I expect it to open itself into a first beat. And when it does, leaves deafening as wings, the vineyard spreads its aorta wide open and belches, at my feet, not blood, not love, but two hunchbacked old men.

They are more wrinkled than wrinkled. They are over-wrinkled, über-wrinkled, sun-dried as tomato. The liquid was cooked from their skin long ago. Will the circus of Italy never end? What next? Will I look to the sky and see a helmeted brown bear riding a unicycle along a tightrope?

The men’s’ noses come at me first, riding parallel in the air as two brown bodies on a slab. They shake the vineyard leaves from their white hair, loose rooster necks shuddering. Their eyes find me, laser blue, and two steady smiles spread like jam across their faces.

“Ciao,” the man on the left sings in a surprising and pinched soprano.

His voice reaches like an unoiled hinge: rusted, stiff, but still functioning.

“Ciao, ciao,” I say.

He squints at me, studying the accent that laces my “Ciaos.”

“Americano?” he asks.

“Si,” I say, smiling, nodding.

“Mi chiamo Guiseppe,” he continues, fanning the hinge open, closed, open, closed, “Questo é mio fratello, Renato.”

Guiseppe holds a hand at his thick throat and covers his mouth, indicating that Renato can not speak.

Both men push their hands to me and I shake them—each one heavier than it looks, grittier than granite. Renato takes a step back toward the vineyard that, not two minutes ago, birthed him onto this trail. His hands reach for his hips, find them, and, staring at the snarl of grapes, the wrinkles run from his face. He is so placid, I’m not sure if he can’t talk, or if he just doesn’t need to. The pride in his newly smoothed face, the pride of a father whose child has just successfully pedaled a bicycle for the first time, tells me that this vineyard belongs to him, or to both of them. But I have to ask.

“Queste uve...” I say, struggling with my Italian this morning, “le tue?”

“Oh, si, si,” Guiseppe sings so much like Farinelli, I expect his gray hair to tie itself into two waist-length castrato braids.

Renato looks from the grapes to me. His wrinkles are back. He kisses his fingertips and holds his hands to the sky. The gesture is saturated in so much drama and summoning power that I expect the weather to change at once.

“Desidera Barolo?” Guiseppe enunciates slowly, chasing the clouds away.

I should be surprised, but I’m not. Am I becoming desensitized to charity and luck? I should be chastised for this, but instead, a sigh springs from my stomach to my throat. It is the sigh of the poolside lawn-chair, of sipping lemonade through a straw.

I shrug. I look toward Monforte. It remains in hiding behind the hillside. I wonder if it is still there. Barolo, Monforte, Barolo, Monforte? Barolo.

“Si,” I say.

Their cantina is tiny. If Sandrone’s cantina is the penthouse, theirs’ is the broom closet. It is more ancient than their faces; it must be the entity that spawned these two gentlemen—the Alessandria brothers, as indicated by a wooden hand-carved sign over the cantina’s doorway: Fratelli Alessandria. Indeed, the entire cantina seems constructed of wood and sawdust, a relic, a hold-over, an unsafe roller-coaster from three generations past. The cantina is rickety and dim. A single brown lightbulb shines as if from the bottom of a coffeepot. The whole place, including the brothers themselves, seems in the process of fermenting.

Medieval wheelbarrows line the walls and I expect to see them full of bodies, crushed by catapult and plague, ruined by arrows and hot tar. But instead, they offer, in both smell and sight, the organ meat tangle of flattened grapes, skins, branches. The brothers parade along the wheelbarrows as if soldiers guarding a drawbridge, and Renato holds his hand to the wall behind me. I turn and am stunned to see steel. In the muddy, reflected light, three tanks stand equipped not with scaffolding as in Sandrone’s cantina, but with makeshift ladders, crooked rungs, wooden to be sure.

Guiseppe begins to pull thin scarf-strings of Italian from his throat, telling me about their business, how wine-making has been in their family for centuries. Renato punctuates Guiseppe not with voice, but with gesture, oftentimes karate-chopping upward to either dispute or emphasize his brother’s statements. Only one is speaking, but these brothers interrupt each other like Abbott and Costello. They are choreographed.

Renato reaches for the ladder in the middle as if for an axe. I strain to hear any trace of a dungeon torture scream from inside the tank. But only: the gong of his ancient knees against the steel and the silk sloshing of three wine glasses being filled. Renato hands first to Guiseppe, then to me. In this light, the wine is black. Guiseppe offers his glass to the ceiling shadows. I hold mine to my nose and: hay, sawdust, slaughter; then: truffle, blackberry, pine; fruitcake baked in a coffin. Even here: even in the dungeons of Italy, elegance is fostered by four seventy-year-old hands. Guiseppe mutters a toast like a private prayer only Renato can understand.

“Bravo,” I say and clink glasses with the brothers.

I sip and am immediately struck on the tongue by a sense of the unfinished. This wine seems to be in the process of coalescing, each element intermingling for the first time. My mouth goes yeasty and robust, sticky almost with fat and marrow, oxtail and liver. Then, on the greasy swallow, the wine inexplicably sparkles like a champagne—an element I haven’t yet experienced with a Barolo—leaves the mouth cleaned and ready for another sip.

Another sip leads to another sip and then another, the dark privacy of the cantina now bright enough, the outdoors fading into a morning dream, disappearing like Monforte behind a hillside.

I sip the last of my third glass and Renato, obviously trained to balk at empty crystal, grabs it from my hand and fills it a fourth time. The more he drinks, the more comfortable he seems on the ladders. He hands me my glass and climbs down like a cat along a window-ledge. He’s becoming younger with each sip. I wonder if, after ten glasses, he will get his voice back. We toast again to Guiseppe’s mystery prayer. We talk of Il Gioco dell’Oca and Sandrone. In mid-sip, Guiseppe, dribbling wine from the corners of his mouth, invites me to stay at their house. He scowls at the idea of sleeping in a tent.

“No, no,” I laugh, “Va bene, va bene.”

Soon, this glass is vanquished like the others. The thought of the outdoors and Monforte returns. I buy a bottle of Barolo from the Alessandria’s; Renato drops it into a paper bag, and they walk me to the front of the cantina. Guiseppe lays a hand on my left shoulder, Renato on the right. They are pressing a story into me that won’t find its words until later. They say Ciao with their eyes.

The outside cool plays in my hair, rests on my head like a helmet. I turn back to the cantina and see the brothers’ faces poking like trolls from the doorway, which itself seems disguised in the pattern of a giant tree trunk. When the door closes, the world becomes relatively real again, the fable receding into the vineyards behind me. The air smells only of early-afternoon and, rolling my shoulders toward my ears, I am struck with the desire for words in any form.

Taking small steps toward Monforte, I pull the bottle of Barolo from the paper bag in the hope of simply reading the words Fratelli Alessandria. I am greeted instead with the final hammering of the brothers’ rustic operation. An unusual joy expands from my chest to my ribs. Monforte lifts itself once again from behind the hillside and reflects the sun from its windowpanes to the bottle in my hands which reclines in a lawn-chair of its own: dusty, purple, entirely unlabeled.

For more information check out the website.

2010-03-28T09:16:00.000-07:00

Fresh Pasta Time

2010-03-28T09:13:00.000-07:00

I promised some time ago that I would extole the virtues of making fresh pasta. So here we go.

Do you think making your own pasta is only for those fancy Food Network chefs? Do you imagine a stocky Italian grandmother covered in flour slaving for hours in a hot kitchen? Well be calm and know that making your own pasta is not only easy; it’s economical, and quite relaxing. The sense of accomplishment you will feel upon completion could never be obtained from a store bought box. While there is nothing wrong with dry commercial pasta, and is in fact a more realistic option on busy weeknights, there is nothing that compares to the sumptuous mouth feel of fresh pasta. Save it for a cold Sunday afternoon, work out your stresses from the week, and impress your friends and family with your culinary skills. You will need a pasta machine if you don’t have one unless you really want to get a workout- trust me, you don’t. They aren’t very expensive so it’s worth having one.

3 cups all-purpose flour

4 large eggs

1 tablespoon kosher salt

1 tablespoon olive oil

Start with a clean working surface like a counter top or cutting board. Put the flour on the surface and make a well in the middle of the flour. Crack the eggs directly into the center of the flour mound and add the salt and oil. Using a fork, scramble the eggs in the center without mixing in any flour yet. Once the egg mixture is combined, use the fork to start blending in the flour. Go slowly so that the flour gets added without eggs spillage. Continue until mixing with a fork is challenging and continue mixing with your hands. Once you have a good ball of dough, flour the surface you are working on and continue to knead the dough for about 3-4 minutes, adding flour to reduce stickiness. Be careful in this section not to overwork the dough or add so much flour that the dough dries out. It should not be sticky to the touch or you will have some trouble getting it through the pasta machine. At this point, cover the dough with plastic wrap and let it rest for 30 minutes at room temperature. As excited as you are to get to the next step, the resting period is important and you can use the time to clean up from the dough making process. There, now you’ve made pasta dough.

What you do next depends on you and your pasta machine. You can make spaghetti, linguine, or ravioli, whatever you feel up to. Read the instructions that come with your machine. I suggest choosing a sauce you want, which will dictate the type of pasta you should make. If you need some suggestions for choosing sauce type, there is a great online resource at http://www.ilovepasta.org/shapes.html, but I am also a big fan of experimenting and finding what works for you.

Keep in mind that fresh pasta cooks considerably faster than dry pasta so by the time your pasta is prepared and boiled, your sauce should be ready. Most important is have fun, experiment with the process, and don't worry about making mistakes.

A short hiatus

2009-12-13T18:29:00.000-08:00

I'm still here and plan to continue from tales from my Italian trips. I'll be back in January with more stories. In the meantime, check out my foodie adventures on my page for Examiner. com. Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, and Happy 2010!
Ciao for now.
http://www.examiner.com/x-30145-Scottsdale-Italian-Foods-Examiner

More images

2009-11-07T09:20:00.001-08:00

Dante's Grave site in Ravenna

2009-11-07T09:18:00.000-08:00

Ravenna

2009-11-07T09:10:00.000-08:00

Ravenna is located in the Emilia Romagna region of Italy. Emiglia Romagna is most known for its capital city, Bologna. Ravenna, while a lesser know city perhaps to tourists, is worth a stop in your itinerary, particularly if you want to see some amazing mosaics. At first glance I must admit I wasn’t too excited about the site seeing prospects in this town. However, upon closer inspection I was wowed by the intricacies of the mosaic laden churches that dotted the landscape, particularly San Vitale.

But the most compelling history offered up by Ravenna is the story of Dante Alighieri, the famous renaissance poet. Due to all sorts of political unrest in Florence (drama in my opinion) Dante, who loved the city of Florence, was exiled based on his beliefs and refusal to comply with Florence’s current regime. He eventually ended up in Ravenna where he died in 1321. Throughout history, Dante’s writings became extremely valued and admired which awakened the city of Florence to the error of their ways so many years previously. Essentially they were missing out on a tourist goldmine! They lobbied with Ravenna to have the remains of Dante returned to Florence, however, Ravenna, being no fools themselves, decided to keep this particular tourist destination to their own. Dante’s remains are currently housed in an annexed building of the basilica of St. Francis and poor Florence, with their storied history, monuments, and architecture have had to make due with a statue in the poet’s honor at the Uffizi museum.

If this history is at all interesting to you, and it should be my dear reader, there is a wealth of information available on the internet of course. There are many books on the subjects of Ravenna, Florence, and of course, Dante himself. I got a little ambitious a few years ago and thought I would read Dante’s Inferno… the translated version of course. To be clear it’s not an easy read even in English. I did find a book on tape that I found enjoyable to read. Check out my list below of recommended reading.

Homemade Tomato Sauce- You can do it!

2009-10-31T08:22:00.000-07:00

So I had to take a little hiatus due to a whole bunch of stuff... life gets in the way of my creative pursuits from time to time. I will continue updating my adventures in Italy but first I simply must share about an event I attended last night. It was an Italian cooking class hosted by a group called Foodieslikeus. If you live in the Phoenix metro area you should check out their website, (foodieslikeus.com) and attend some events. The event last night was a cooking class where we actually made fresh pasta that we turned into spinach and ricotta agnolotti (a type of ravioli) with a homemade tomato sauce, tiramisu, and chicken Marsala. It was held at Classic Cooking in Scottsdale. Not only are the events affordable but they were really professional and a complete blast. The place was packed! This food-centric group has developed quite a following in recent months. I wish them the best of luck in continuing their mission of bringing food minded people together and plan to support them as often as I can.

So that brings me to my next topic- making homemade Italian food. If you haven't done much cooking this can sound like a daunting task. It may sound easier to go to the store and buy a box of dry pasta and a jar of spaghetti sauce. But alas my Italian-minded reader you would be mistaken. It is easier, tastier, and far more fulfilling to make your own. The even better news is you can make much of it in batches that can be frozen and used at will. We'll start with a simple tomato sauce. The recipe below will make a large batch. Put in smaller containers for smaller portions and freeze. Of course eat at least one bowl of it the day you make it.

Tomato Sauce aka marinara

Start with 3lbs of chopped tomatoes- if it's summer you can use fresh tomatoes, if it's winter I would recommend a good quality canned tomato such as San Marzano.

1 onion chopped

1 carrot finely chopped

1 celery stalk finely chopped

3 garlic cloves chopped

1 cup of chicken broth

Seasoning: basil, italian parsley, bay leaf, and thyme, salt and pepper to taste

In a large pot, use about a tablespoon of extra virgin olive oil on medium heat and add the onions, carrots, and celery, and garlic. Sweat the vegetables until softened and onions appear translucent. Keep heat low enough to prevent browning the vegetables and burning the garlic. Burned garlic is bad.

Add tomatoes and herbs and salt and pepper (the salt and pepper should be added to your liking). You can use a bouquet garni for the herbs to avoid breaking them up in the sauce as they cook. Bring the sauce to a simmer and add the chicken stock. The chicken stock will thin the mixture just enough and add a little extra flavor which is never bad.

Taste the sauce at some point and make sure it tastes how you want. If it doesn't, add something to it that makes it better- salt, pepper, red pepper flakes. If my tomatoes taste a little acidic I will throw in a tablespoon of sugar but don't do this until it finishes cooking- tomatoes sweeten as they cook.

Let sauce simmer for at least 45 minutes. While the sauce is cooking you can make your fresh pasta which I promise is easier than it sounds. I will post that in my next post with a fabulous video demonstration. I'll make the sauce today just for you dear reader and post some pretty pics a little later.

Once your sauce is cooked, remove the herbs and puree the mixture in a blender. If you are going to do this process when the sauce is still hot, be careful because the steam from the sauce will blow the lid off your blender and possibly burn you but certainly will cause a mess! Fill the blender only half full, place a kitchen towel over the lid as you blend. This will produce a finely textured light sauce you can use for anything you like. After you make this, you won't want to eat the overly sugared, terribly acidic versions you buy at the store. And if you do, well I can't help you with that.

Buon appetito and Happy Halloween!

Next: The soothing qualities of fresh pasta.

Where for art thou Romeo- Fair Verona

2009-08-29T09:56:00.000-07:00

I love Shakespeare. Like really love him. I recall being enraptured at a young age with MacBeth, Hamlet, and most of all Romeo and Juliet. So imagine my joy upon learning that Verona, the city the story of our star-crossed lovers is set in, was on the itinerary list! I had heard that the story was based on actual people, real feuding families that lived once upon a time in Verona, although I think it's fair to say that Mr. Shakespeare used creative license. That being said, there is a house in Verona said to belong to the female inspiration of the story; repleat with balcony overlooking garden. We arrived at this house only to find a mass of tourists pushing themselves in and around the garden. There is a statue of Juliet and it is supposed that rubbing her bronze breast is good luck. Needless to say, Juliet is getting alot of attention! This sort of thing always makes me sad... people doing things out of a tour book rather than stopping to truly enjoy the moment of something. Ah well. I found the house rather uneventful and my joy a bit dashed.

However, we continued to walk through Verona to the main piazza which had a lovely outside market. The piazza was filled with ancient clock towers and architecture from a time long ago. It's a darling little town really and despite the let down of Juliet's garden, I was happy I saw Fair Verona. In the pictures, you can see some of the town elements including my mother hanging out with some architecture.

La Serenissima- Venezia: Part Two

2009-08-16T14:47:00.000-07:00

After getting back on solid ground we headed off to find lunch away from the tourist laden Piazza di San Marco. We wondered around the island looking down alleys and following our instincts. I wouldn’t say Venice is an easily laid out city but it’s not like you can go too far. All roads seem to lead back to Piazza di San Marco. We found a little place called a Rosticceria. I would describe it as a type of cafeteria. The food is hot and lined up behind glass. You point to what you want and it is served al a carte. You can sit at the bar for no extra charge or you can choose a table for a small service fee. (This was in 2000, things may have changed slightly). All the signs for the food were written in Italian, or more specifically Venetian dialect and all the patrons were locals. Good sign. We pointed to several dishes and were served a small feast for an equally small price. A very good lunch. I’d tell you what we ate but I don’t actually know, nor did I then. I just ate because it tasted good. I recommend adopting that philosophy when you travel…don’t hold back or hold on to your American sensibilities. Just jump in- it’s more enjoyable and barring any major food allergies it won’t kill you.

After lunch we went roaming around the neighborhoods and happened upon some lovely shops selling jewelry made of the famous Murano glass. See below for a very funny interaction between the shop clerk and my mother. As the day ended in Venice and we were scheduled back at the piazza to meet the others, we stumbled upon a snack shop called, American Bar. It caught our attention because of the name and the line of people crowding to get inside. Snack shops are very popular throughout Italy and are often called bars but not in the American sense. A bar is a social place but it is frequented all day and is not at all like a club or sports bar where alcoholic beverages are the main event. An Italian bar serves food, coffee, and other drinks during the day and is a place where Italians stop by to quickly grab a snack, chat for a bit, and then head off on the rest of their day. Anyway, back to the American Bar. Once inside we saw a case full of various fried treats. The Italians do like their fried food and are quite creative. My eyes focused in on a platter of round balls that looked like small oranges. I knew right away that these were my beloved Arancini… little fried balls of stuffed rice. I had yet to eat these in Italy; I had found a recipe in a cookbook and had made them at home but never had the authentic version. Arancini means little oranges but they don’t have anything to do with the fruit. Depending on where you are in Italy, will determine what is inside. In Venice they were stuffed simply with mozzarella cheese. So imagine if you will… a little ball of hot fried rice. The outside crunches when you bite but inside is creamy risotto flavored with saffron and butter with an ooey gooey center of melted cheese. How could that not be good? My new official goal from that point was to try and eat Arancini in every town I could find them. And I found plenty.

To be honest, Venice is not my favorite city in Italy. We’ll get there later. I have a slightly claustrophobic feeling while I am there- the feeling of being surrounded by water is a little unpleasant for me. I will say though that Venice is a must-see destination and after two trips, I believe it can best be appreciated after a few days in a very large city like Rome or Naples. There are no cars in Venice which makes for a very serene walking experience. Unlike the other cities…but more on that later.

As we gathered in the piazza and waited for everyone to get there I sat and stared out at the Grand Canal. It is a captivating sight… gondoliers awaiting their next customers, nuns in traditional habits strolling together, pigeons hunting for tourists. And then right out of a movie, a man drops down on his knee in front of his astonished girlfriend. There in the piazza he proposes with a scenic backdrop and hundreds of witnesses. She says yes of course and the piazza erupts with applause. It’s a romantic end to an amazing day in a very surreal place.

Exchange between jewelry clerk and my mother:

“They are very sturdy but they ARE glass”. –Clerk (alarmed) to my mother as she banged the ring on the counter.

“Madam, let me touch for you”. – Clerk to my mother as she walked through the store and repeatedly kept knocking things over.

La Serenissima (The Most Serene) - Venezia

2009-08-16T14:19:00.000-07:00

It’s still early on in my adventures in Italy. We arrive in Venice and I am anxious with anticipation to see this floating city in real life. I’ve seen it many times in movies and read about it in books and wondered what it would be like. When I think back to Venice in my mind it seems sort of surreal and dream-like. Venice doesn’t seem like a real place in my mind… but it is very real. There are people who live and work there, grow up and raise families there. But from an American, city dwelling, and very land-locked perspective- it’s a strangely odd and mystical place.

We arrived in the main piazza- Piazza di San Marco. It is exactly what you’ve seen in movies and magazines. St. Mark’s Basilica (Basilica di San Marco) is majestic, commanding, and immediately demands your attention. We walked around the piazza stopping to watch the tourists feed the pigeons. To say there were a lot of pigeons doesn’t begin to do describe what we saw. You can barely see the ground with all the pigeons. The birds have learned that those tourists have food so they flock and land all over you if you let them. Which I wouldn’t. I stood firmly on the outside of the main event to avoid being covered in pigeons. A very good photo op however.

We stood in line to enter the basilica. Venice has an interesting history. There was a time when Venice was nothing more than some uninhabited swamp land. The people that decided to live there did so to get away from barbarians. But in order to make Venice a place of pilgrimage which was a big deal at the time, Venice needed a religious relic. But nothing of religious important happened in Venice. Word on the street is that some brave souls decided to obtain (um, steal) a religious relic, namely the bones of Saint Mark himself and build a basilica around him. Which is exactly what happened- allegedly. I would love to describe to you in detail the inside of the church but I am unable to. Here’s what I remember- it was dark inside. Very dark. You are not allowed to take pictures or loiter for too long in one place. You have to keep moving because you are in a line and there are people behind you. I do recall standing briefly in front of the alter and looking at the very Gothic crucifix. If I were a child I might have been frightened by the church. But please don’t get me wrong- it was not a negative experience. Just a brief one.

Back out in the light of the piazza, we roamed around a bit more. We were told by the tour guide that we had a couple of hours of free time to do as we pleased. Many of the people on the trip headed off to do the biggest tourist trap ever created… the gondola ride. The price of a gondola ride is high. I can’t say if the experience is worth it because I chose to travel the way the locals do and head to a vaporetto- a type of floating bus if you will. For a very low price, the equivalent of $1.50 at the time, I was able to travel the entire city in relative comfort. Sure it wasn’t an intimate experience and no one sang to me but I was with my mother, not the love of my life! If you’d like to know more about the history of Venice and St. Marks, I have conveniently provided the links to the official sites and a link to a videoI found from You Tube that has some nice images.
http://www.comune.venezia.it/
http://www.basilicasanmarco.it/

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jgEhoVtEtI8

Diary of an Italian Food Snob- Part Two

2009-08-13T18:56:00.000-07:00

I have so much to say about Italian Food. It's hard to know where to start. It's almost an untruth to say "Italian" food as it doesn't exist in the homogenized sense that we use. It varies greatly depending on which part of Italy you are standing. I recall, with delight, at how varied a simple tomato marinara sauce can be. I tried it 13 different times on my first trip. I wanted to taste it every city I visited. It was different in color, consistency, taste, each time. You wouldn't think it was possible but it was. I remember a little place I popped into in Assisi. I asked for a bowl of spaghetti con sugo di pomodoro and sat down to steaming bowl of twisted pasta. I breathed in the deep scent of basil, parmegiano reggiano, and tomatoes. It was a light orangeish-red color and very thin, but it coated every noodle perfectly. I took my first bite and it was... delightful. Light and aromatic, slightly tangy and a little sweet. It was made with fresh summer tomatoes, olive oil, some seasoning and that's it. I felt like it was the first time I ever tasted tomatoes in my life and I believe it was.

Diary of an Italian Food Snob

2009-08-09T16:07:00.000-07:00

Here are some common things I have come across while learning all about the Italian culture. Now that I know the truth I feel compelled to enlighten my fellow Americans. But I’m not judging you… I only know these things by digging into the culture of Italy and by visiting. Prior to that I didn’t know any better either. And I think it is completely fair for you to think I am an Italian food snob… in fact I admit it freely (see blog title). So here are three things to know. I’ll add more as time goes on. There are so many things to know about Italian food, one could write a book. In fact, many have.

1.Pizza: In Italy, pizza is not made with a crust stuffed with mozzarella. Nor do pizzas with excessive toppings called Monster Meat (or something of that nature) even exist. Pizzas do not come in big cast iron skillets oozing with cheese ala Chicago style. All of these are American inventions. And I’m not saying they aren’t good…they just aren’t authentic. Authentic Italian pizza has a very thin crust, with a light tomato sauce, light sprinkling of cheese, or chunks of fresh mozzarella, and fresh, flavorful toppings minimally covering the pizza. It is cooked quickly in a very hot wood fired oven. There are restaurants that make pizza like this in the U.S. and they are as close as you can get to the real thing- New York style is a good bet. Pizza Hut is not. The first time I had pizza in Italy, honestly I thought I had died and gone to food heaven. I can only describe it as a perfect balance of crust, sauce, and toppings. The crust was so chewy and tasty on its own that I ate every bite of it. It was one of those food experiences I've had when I couldn’t even stop eating long enough to talk… and clearly I can talk. Funny story- A long time ago an acquaintance was going on a trip to Italy and asked me if I could teach her a few common Italian words. Of course I could. So she asked me the Italian word for pizza. I said, “Pizza”. That’s it folks. But more on language lessons later.

2. Pasta: Italians rarely eat pasta for dinner as an entrée; it is served in a much smaller portion (about a cup) in a course before dinner. When they do eat pasta as the main meal, it is not served in a bowl that would be considered a serving platter. It just simply isn’t done. I recall a night out in Rome where I had the pleasure of dining with locals. I wanted to be very proper and do all the right things. I was perusing the menu and said aloud, “Oh this pasta dish sounds good.” One of my dining companions very politely stated that we would not be eating pasta for dinner. He pointed to the section of the menu I should focus on and added; “Only poor or badly mannered people eat pasta for dinner”. Yea he said that, without even a hint of arrogance or discrimination. It is just simply the rule. I ordered shrimp. And just so you know, pasta is never, ever, twirled in spoon to eat it.

3. Meals: Italians eat in courses- usually four. Antipasto, primo, secondo, dolce. Salad as part of the meal is unusual. A bread basket sitting on the table is even more unusual. Everyone commonly thinks of Italian food as chicken parmesan or spaghetti and meatballs as a main event. I’ve been to Olive Garden. I know. We expect bread, we expect a salad. We expect a great deal of pasta and meat on a plate. Italians just don’t eat that way in real life. Italians will start the meal with an appetizer of some sort (antipasto). This could be a tray of fresh meats like prosciutto or salami. I promise you will never see fried cheese sticks as an option. Then the second course is a pasta course, but again, the portion will be about a cup. Then we move on to the main course, which is comprised of a meat, vegetable, and starch. By starch it could be potatoes, polenta, or even rice. The meat and the style it is cooked in will largely depend on where you are in Italy. In fact, the entire meal will depend heavily on the region you are in.
Most of the Italian-American food we eat in the U.S. is inspired by, but still not exactly like, Southern Italian cuisine. Why? They were the largest Italian population to immigrate to the U.S. Then over time, those smart Italians augmented their food to suit American tastes and a new cuisine was born. This was after the soldiers returned home from WWII. Ask any Italian, or Italian- American where their family came from and you will most likely hear Naples, Sicily, or somewhere else down the lower part of that boot. There are a whole bunch of reasons for that but we won't cover those today.

We'll talk more about other meals like lunch and breakfast, snacks, and dessert.

This concludes today’s lesson. There will be plenty more. If anything my hope of sharing this information with you is not that you become a snob like me (trust me- it only makes life more difficult!) but that it inspires you to try something new, step away from chain Italian restaurants and search for the real deal. Or even better, get a cookbook and experiment at home.

Good luck and buon appetito!

Milan Day Two- What's up with the pastry pushing in this town?

2009-08-04T19:26:00.000-07:00

So I said before I had some discoveries of day one in Italy due to my extreme jet lag. Picture me, a tired, weary soul surviving on minimal sleep wondering aimlessly around a big, foreign city. I perked up a bit after the pastries but as the day wore on my fatigue continued to increase. The tour I was on had preplanned all the group dinners and I was thankful not to have to make another decision.

We sat down in the hotel and the wait staff began serving our meal. We were given a small serving of a stew that was very tasty. I had no idea what was in it, it was just good. Our second course involved a thinly sliced pan fried piece of meat (to be determined later), french fries- called patate fritte in Italian and resemble what you think of our version, and a sautéed vegetable of some sort… I think it was spinach. It was so good that my companions and I gobbled it up. Several of the attendees asked me if I knew what the meat was we had been served since it didn’t seem familiar… not chicken, not beef, maybe pork or turkey. Hmm… not sure. I didn’t even remotely care at the time. I was eating on auto pilot and knew that my hotel bed was awaiting me upon the end of dinner. So I happily retired to bed and slept peacefully.

The next morning over breakfast I decided to ask our bus driver, Michele (pronounced Mikaylay) if he knew what our dinner was comprised of the previous evening. He smiled and offered “Vitello.” I looked frantically in my English-Italian dictionary and discovered the word… veal. Much to my dismay - I don’t eat veal, well at least I didn’t prior to that evening and I announced to the group what we had been served. Several others also did not eat veal although we all agreed that is was mighty good. I also learned from my bus driver, who shall be known from this point forward as Fearless Driver, that the wonderful stew we were served was stufato d’agnello- lamb stew. I don’t eat lamb either. Dang it. I spent the next several hours learning the words for animals and food products so that I would not make an uneducated mistake again.

So let me tell you about Stresa. It’s a wonderful little town in the northern part of Italy. You may have heard of Lake Como where the rich and famous buy houses (George Clooney). This is like that only quaint and unspoiled by fame. We stayed our first night there versus Milan which was a welcome delight. It was quiet and cleaner and decidedly more Italian in feel than the big city. All in all an uneventful evening except for dinner (see above!)

The next morning we had some time to walk around before catching the bus for the next town. My mother and I, already addicted to Italy’s fabulous pastries, strolled into a little shop to make some purchases. No one I encountered in this town spoke English. The pastry we wanted was topped with blackberries. I didn’t know the word for blackberries and did not have my dictionary with me so I used the universal language and pointed. The clerk smiled at me very pleasantly and replied, “la fragola” which I knew meant strawberry. I looked in the case and saw some lovely strawberry topped tarts but I didn’t want those. I wanted the blackberry ones. So I pointed again to the blackberry tart and stated “this one” in Italian. She calmly shook her head no, smiled, and led me back to the strawberry tarts. I gave in and took two of the strawberry tarts. She seemed very pleased with my decision and again, wrapped them in a lovely package- not quite as elaborate as the Milan version but at least this time I knew it was coming. I must say the tarts were exquisite. The tart pastry was flaky and just the right thickness, the custard filling was sweet and creamy but subtle, the fruit was fresh, ripe, and juicy. It was in a word, perfect. I will never know why the clerk did not want me to have the blackberry… she might have been saving them for someone special, or she might have known the strawberry was better. I have chosen to believe that she wanted me to have the best experience possible and thus led me to the best choice… strawberry. Whatever the reason – I’ll take it.

Milan- food and fatigue

2009-08-03T18:41:00.000-07:00

I went on my first trip to Italy in the year 2000. That is not when I fell in love however. I don’t recall when or how or why it hit me….this Italian fascination. The closest thing I can think of is my exposure to the Italian community back East in Massachusetts. Even though all my friends were born in the U.S. – as were their parents, many of their grandparents had come to the U.S. back in the day and continued their many traditions. I went to homes where no one spoke English and hands flew wildly while speaking. Everyone always sounded mad to me but I learned in time that they were just speaking… that was normal. Over time, this Italianess must have sunk into my subconscious and I began to behave and think decidedly from an Italian perspective. Then after high school I moved to Colorado, a far cry from my New England Italian haunts and it was then that I realized something was missing.

I went hunting for Italian culture and discovered I would not be able to find it in Denver…at least not really. So I started reading history books and listening to Italian language cd’s. I rented foreign films in Italian and did my best to surround myself in that culture. But I was far removed from it and my most Italian restaurant choice was Macaroni Grill. Until I learned a local community college was sponsoring a trip to Italy that was open to the community. It was being offered at a reasonable rate and I could not think of anything I would rather do. I read over the itinerary- thirteen cities would be visited in eight days! Whew- it would be a whirlwind trip but every major city and spectacle would be covered. I signed up right away. That trip would actually change the trajectory of my life. Sound dramatic? It is but so am I!

The trip would consist of 29 Americans of differing ages and backgrounds. Some of the people in attendance were professors at the college and their spouses, some were students, some like me, were just along for the adventure. My mother came with me and we were both free agents (no academic requirements). The itinerary was pretty packed but there were moments of free time which I planned to utilize to the fullest. You see I was not interested in the tourist version of Italy, although there were plenty of tourist things I wanted to see and do. I was more intrigued by what Italy was really like, under the surface, under the myths and the tourist perspective. I wanted to get under her skin. I knew enough at the time to know that Italy is highly romanticized by American and British tourists in books and movies. I also knew that many American’s ideals of Italians were mafia related thanks to the prevalence of that movie genre. I knew there were many stereotypes and I wanted to dig deeper to weed through to the truth. What do Italians really eat? How do they live? Do they really take naps every day? Does the mafia exist? Is it as romantic as it looks on television? Are Italian men as flirty as they are depicted? Do all the women look like Sophia Loren? And are there Italian grandmas (nonne italiane) slaving away making homemade pasta in every kitchen? I was lucky enough to find out the answers to all of these questions plus many, many more.

We arrived in Milan’s Malpensa Airport. The pre-story to this arrival though is fairly amusing-in retrospect. I have a terrible time sleeping on planes, no matter the distance. Knowing this I brought Tylenol PM with me and had a “sleep plan” I would use in the event that it did not come naturally. I had Andrea Bocelli cd’s in the disc player (hey- these were pre- iPod days!), books, and planned to drink plenty of vino. The plane left Denver early in the morning and would arrive early the next morning in Milan due to the time change so sleep was going to be an integral part of the trip.

Knowing that sleep was needed must have been the trigger that prevented it in me. For hours I was wide awake while the rest of the plane slept. The window covers were closed, lights in the cabin dimmed, sleep masks and pillows provided. And I was WIDE AWAKE. I drank plenty of wine listening to calming music and… nothing. So five hours before we were expected to land I decided to bust out the Tylenol PM. My mother warned against it because of the “peak effect” of the medication and she was afraid it would kick in too late. Nonsense I said completely desperate for sleep. I took the pills, slammed another glass of red wine and tried to drift to sleep. I sat, alert, watching the plane monitor show us flying over France. I thought in my head, “Well at least we will be in Italy in 45 minutes.” Apparently “in 45 minutes” were the words that convinced the medicine to take effect and I immediately fell into a deep sleep.

By deep, I mean, heavy drugged sleep. As the plane landed in Milan, (I am told) my mother and others on the trip tried to wake me but I would only stir briefly and fall back into my seat. The plane pulled into the gate and I was out cold. We all stood to get our things and I slumped heavily over the seat in front of me. I understand that a burly man asked if I needed to be carried out (sweet eh?) But my mother declined and was sure she could get me alert again once I got off the plane to fresh air. Keep in my mind this is my dream destination and I was completely and utterly asleep. My mom shuffles me off the plane to customs and baggage claim, all the while I am leaning against her trying earnestly to open my eyes. I am semi aware at this point of what is happening- my mind is racing but my body won’t respond. I recall being propped up against a column waiting for the tour guide and our suitcases to drop. Others from the group approached me offering water, coffee, or a slap on the face to no avail. I could barely speak. The tour guide, Latizia, arrived to meet us and tell us that we would be heading out for the day in a few moments. I remember vaguely walking past guards holding machine guns and German Shepards and Latizia assuring us this was normal activity in International Airports. I remember leaving the airport and being hit in the face with a warm, slightly humid breeze and then boarding a private bus. Then, I am told again, that I was back in la-la land- sound asleep for the 45 minute drive into Milan.

Here’s what I remember about Milan. I remember one member of the tour group passing out in a diabetic fit because she neglected to take her medicine during the 14 hour plane trip. I remember that Milan felt like New York to me, large groups of people hurriedly going from place to place, talking loudly or on cell phones. The difference was the presence of Vespas (scooters) and almost everyone dressed in Versace or Gucci and looking like runway models. There was a McDonald’s in the main square. I sat on the steps of the Duomo trying to come out of my Tylenol haze- trying to absorb something about the place I was in.

They gave us free time so my mother and I wandered off to find an authentic place to eat. We walked into a small pizzeria tucked off of a street. We surprised the patrons and wait staff with our American presence. I surprised them even more and myself when I ordered correctly in Italian. I had just officially earned my Italian street cred. I recall enjoying my pizza but at that point I was still pretty checked out. I assumed the Italian came from my subconscious since I was still incapable of controlling my own actions.

After the pizzeria we found a pastry shop we really wanted to eat at. The Italian way of ordering pastries is quite different than our way. There, you walk in, tell the person behind the counter what you want, then they give you a receipt that you go to a separate section to pay. At first we chose four pastries, two for each of us. But learned quickly that wasn’t going to work. Here’s how the conversation went. I will translate.
Me: I would like (and I point to four pastries).
Clerk: No, dieci. No, ten. (dee-AY-chee)
Me: (in my head) Ten what? Out loud- “We only want four.” Mind you I am speaking Italian so I know she understands me.
Clerk: Dieci.
Me: (again, in my head- wow really?) out loud- “Ok. Ten.” Then we choose ten, thankfully small, pastries and she smiles. She hands me the receipt and we go pay. And fortunately ten pastries were quite affordable.
So after we pay we are waiting to receive the pastries. The clerk’s back is turned to us and she seems to be taking a long time to put some fancy dough in a bag. We become slightly impatient (the American stereotype rearing its head) and begin to attempt to look over the counter to see what she is doing. After several minutes she turns around and presents the most beautiful, elaborate, wrapped package. She smiles proudly and she presents the box to us. We smile back gratefully and I somehow understand that I should praise her efforts. She humbly thanks us. We take the package outside and sit on the sidewalk. For a moment we stare at the beautifully wrapped package and feel slightly sad about ripping it open to eat the contents. That is until we remember the contents. That box was ripped to shreds in minutes. I must have been coming out of my funk by that point or maybe I was helped by the creamy sweet goodness of perfectly prepared pastries filled with cream or chocolate and covered with the freshest berries I’ve still ever had in my life. Don’t know but at that point I know I was very clear on what was happening around me.

I left Milan not really liking the city and being slightly disappointed and worried that Italy would not live up to my fantasies. It was too cold, too modern, and too Western. And except for two food experiences, it was mostly uneventful. To this day I am not sure if it was Milan or the drugged haze that affected my feelings that day. That afternoon we traveled to a small lake town called Stresa, near the famous Lake Como (of George Clooney fame) but it is smaller and quaint.

That night, around 10pm Italy time, I finally went to bed. I had been awake for approximately 36 hours straight, give or take 45 minutes. In the morning I learned some interesting things about the events of the previous day that I had been too tired to ask. Let’s just say I wouldn’t make that mistake again. Learn what happened in my next post.

Next Time: Come si dice: How do you say? (COH-may see DEE-chay). I learn some critical words in Italian and more pastry pushing.

Italy Rocks!

2009-08-02T15:48:00.000-07:00

I love Italy! If you know me, you know that is an understatement. If you don't know me and you continue to read this you will find out just how deep my obsession runs. I decided to try and write all my knowledge about Italy because it's so different than the romanticized Tuscan versions well played in books and movies. My Italy is completely different... my knowledge comes from a desire to understand the language, culture, and people. I have been on a couple of trips, I have studied the language for several years, in short... I get Italy. I grew up in Massachusetts with Italian-Americans and prior to 2000 most of my Italian knowledge came from there and Godfather movies. Needless to say I was limited in my point of view. Over the years I have come to know the difference between Italian cuisine and Italian-American cuisine (Olive Garden anyone?), I have cleared up many myths about Italians and confirmed plenty in the process, and mostly I have gained an understanding and appreciation for the real Italy- not the mythic, tourist version. And it's a cool place- warts and all. So I am going to document my random musings and experiences and I hope you find them interesting and even amusing. I am going to try to organize my thoughts in to something that sort of makes sense but I did call this "random" quite intentionally. My first entry (after this one) will be some of my favorite travel experiences. Then probably food. possibly I'll throw in some language lessons. Maybe recommended reading/movies. Something random for sure.

"Open my heart and you will see, graved inside of it- Italy"~ Robert Browning