The First Cut Is the Sweetest

If you can believe it, my boyfriend has never carved a pumpkin--that is, not until this Halloween. Halloween has only recently become popular here, but in a decorative sort of way, not in the sense that kids dress up and trick or treat at neighbor's houses (though we did get one knock that we were entirely unprepared for--I gave them some expensive chocolates we happened to have in the house).

It's strange to be with someone with no memories of putting on costumes and wandering around the neighborhood part terrified, part thrilled, and completely jacked up on candy; someone without memories of plunging his hand into a wet pumpkin cave, and pulling out a fist full of slippery seeds and stringy goo; someone who has never had pumpkin pie or almost peed himself at a haunted house when a zombie grabbed his shoulder and laughed ghoulishly.

The Roma Problem in Italy--What's the Solution?

My first introduction to Italy's Roma community--
known by many as gypsies--happened late at night on the train, traveling from Lake Como back to our home. Guido and I had just settled into our seats, when a drunken man shoved a woman and child onto the train. The woman held a small violin and wore a long green skirt that swished over her feet as she walked. The dark-haired boy held an accordion that stuck out awkwardly from his skinny arms.

The man began yelling at the conductor, then crying, as the woman hurriedly ushered her son into a seat. The train conductor remained calm--I would have hated to see the result if this had happened in the fiery south of Italy--and finally let the man on the train, I'm assuming the family hadn't paid at all. The man staggered between the rows of chairs, the scent of alcohol on his breath assaulting us as he walked past. I asked my boyfriend what was happening.

"They're gypsies," he said. "Roma. It's quite common for the man to force his wife and child to perform and beg while he does nothing but get drunk--like this guy."

I felt nervous the whole way home, but since the conductor sat a few seats in front of us, I didn't say anything. I just listened to the man grumble and shout as his wife and child intermittently and breathed a sigh of relief when they got off the train a few stops later.

Cooking Lessons in Varenna--Best Deal in Italy

My love affair with Chef Moreno's cooking classes began in April of this year, and I haven't stopped thinking about it since. I had barely squeezed into Italy after a canceled flight due to the Iceland volcano, and so the whole trip had a slightly "I am one of the chosen ones" miraculous feel anyway.

But something seemed unbelievably miraculous about this cooking class, which I found online. First of all, I learned how to make three different dishes and their sauces: asparagus risotto, handmade tagliatelle with a tomato zucchini sauce, and gnocchi drenched in Gorgonzola cream. Then I got to eat them all. I also ate parmigiano and salami during the break (see photo on right), and had an unlimited amount of wine. Plus he gave us all the recipes in our own measurement system (!), AND he gave us free pick-up and drop-off at the nearest train station. By the end of the day I'd spent five hours learning about Italian cuisine and anecdotes about the region, I was full on incredible homemade pasta, and--I admit it--I was slightly tipsy.

All for 35 Euros.

So it's not hard to imagine why I wanted to take one of my best friends, Marsha, to a lesson when she came for a visit from Romania. The magic of my post-volcano trip somehow carried over to this one--we barely, unbelievably really, made all our train connections and ended up at the restaurant early, drinking cappucinos and soaking up the warmth of the quaint and cavernous room.

A Year in Review

I was looking for the photo I wanted to use to change my header for this blog, and I suddenly found myself perusing all my photographs from the last year. It stuns me to think about where I've been since August 2009: I visited Costa Rica for two weeks, moved to Turkey and lived there for ten months, visited Egypt for ten days, moved to Italy in June 2010, then went back home to visit the United States in August. What a ride!

I feel so enormously blessed for all the incredible things I've had a chance to see, and find myself wishing that I'd been even more grateful for and curious about the places I stayed while I was there, instead of in retrospect. Yesterday I had a great conversation with my godfather, Bert. When I told him about my life in Italy and my thoughts on relocating here, he said I sounded like I was in a pretty good space with my life, that I had a healthy perspective on the situation. I answered: "Right this minute I do, anyway," remembering my near-breakdown earlier this week. And he replied, "Well, that's all we ever have anyway, right? This minute!"

The Marocchino--An Orgasm in a Cup

There are two kinds of people in the world, coffee drinkers and tea drinkers. I am definitely in the tea drinking camp. If you asked me to describe one of my favorite pleasures, I would say: Drinking a cup of tea--black with milk and honey in the morning and mint or rooibos in the afternoon and evening. Add a rainy day, a fantastic novel, snuggling on the couch, or chatting with friends, and I'm as happy as a Milanese woman with a new Furla purse.

The problem is, no one really drinks tea in Italy. This is the land of espresso. But it's not like I pictured it would be: people sitting around in cafes, chatting as they savored their cappuccinos and lattes. Oh no. That's France. In Italy, people drink coffee like they drive--friggin' fast. A typical Italian walks into a bar during her morning break, orders an espresso, then stands at the counter and kicks the coffee back like a shot of whiskey. She'll chat with her work friends for a few moments, finish off her brioche (croissant) then head back to work. There is no lingering.

Soup-Inspired Longing for Home

I miss my dad. This time of year my dad and I both really love cooking and planning our big family gatherings like Christmas and Thanksgiving. Now that I'm in Italy, we'll have to plan our separate menus over the phone. Living in Italy is really wonderful, but I can't lie--being away from my family during the holidays hurts.

One dish my dad and I love to prepare this time of year is squash soup. It was a tough decision in the past, because he and I were the only ones who really enjoyed it. Growing up, my brothers were so much younger (by six and nine years) that the flavor didn't appeal to them. My mom wasn't crazy about eating a sweet soup either. In her mind, soup should be savory--like the gumbo she grew up with in the south--and squash soup was a strange anomaly that rebelled against her philosophy and taste. Squash soup was right up there with tapioca, or fish eyes and glue, as she used to call it.

From the Inferno to Paradiso--or Dances with Prosciutto

Yesterday Guido and I went to the questura, which is the Italian word for "hell" (okay, it's what they call the local police station). I'm in the process of finishing the fabulously labyrinthine process for my permesso di soggiorno, which is sort of like my green card/identity card for my next year in Italy. Anyway, we had an appointment slip for 8:16am and thought that we'd walk right up to the window at the ever so exact time printed on the paper. I mean, why else would they say 8:16am, unless that time slot was specifically for us?

Italian Granita

Guido and I went to Rome recently, and while reacquainting myself with the city I saw so many years ago as a teenager, he decided to take me to the famous Piazza Navona, sight of the Tre Fontane (The Three Fountains). I went to Piazza Novana sixteen years ago on a tour in high school, and vaguely remembered savoring a delicious gelato while sitting next to one of the Tre Fontane at night.

Well, it wasn't night this time; it was the hottest part of the day. Guido and I were wilting in the heat, so much so that we stuck our feet in one of the fountains (like everyone else, in our defense) and ended up getting yelled at by the carabinieri (the police).

We finally managed to drag our sweaty selves to Tre Scalini, a famous gelateria, to salivate over their tasty gelati. I don't know why, but we decided to skip their most famous dessert: divino tartufo, a heavenly chocolate concoction (wait, why did we skip it again?). Instead, we dipped our plastic spoons into an over-priced but mouth-puckeringly delicious lemon granita. Our moods improved immediately.

Slow Food Festival

a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AouzfrheOig/TCerdxBzfKI/AAAAAAAAF2g/SonP-wNHqKY/s1600/Fruits+from+Caglio.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}">Today Guido and I went to Caglio, a small town super close to the Swiss border (which explains why I had "The Sound of Music" in my head). A friend of Guido's told him about a Slow Food festival in this little mountain village, and Guido, being the amazing boyfriend that he is, knew that we had to go.

Tucked into the foothills of the Italian alps about ninety minutes north of Milan, Caglio was the perfect location to display locally handcrafted foods from the province. (You can see a fun blog about Caglio here--but the photos are taken in winter.)

There were so many sweet things to see. First we had buckwheat polenta (recipe for that later), followed by the most amazing gelato I've ever had (it was some of the best Guido has ever had too, and since he's Italian, that's saying something). The three flavors we tried: mandorle di Noto, almonds from Noto, a Sicilian city famous for its almonds; riccota and amaretti (a type of cookie); and zucchini (!). They were all amazing, but I have to say that the ricotta and amaretti gelato was totally orgasmico.

Last Days in Turkey

Here are some pictures from my last few weeks in Turkey. So much happened and I saw so many people, that it's difficult to capture it all. But hopefully this gives you a sense of the end of my time there, as well as the very beginning of my new life in Italy.

This will be my last post on Turkey on this blog.

Ciao!