lo sciopero (di nuovo)

As you might imagine, my initial enthusiasm for strikes has waned since my ill-fated attempt at the sciopero della pasta. That seems like such a long time ago; back when I still thought that the inconvenient aspects of Italian life were quaint. Since then I have had the experience of being stuck on a bus for 45 minutes at Piazza Venezia when all the taxi drivers in the city decided to park their taxis there to block the road and I have also had the pleasure of rescheduling a weekend trip to London due to an all transportation strike the day of my departure. We are now in the midst of a truck strike. There are huge delivery trucks, full of spoiling food, parked all over the highways. In preparation for the strike I had done my major grocery shopping yesterday so I only needed a few little things. I wanted to try out a recipe for mulled wine and pick up cat food (yes, we are now feeding the tigressa twice daily). I wasn't prepared for the total vacuum where the produce once was. Only cucumbers and grapefruits were left. The shelves normally containing fruit were now being used for Panetone, a traditional Christmas cake. Perhaps the employees had reasoned that the candied fruit and raisins in the cake were a decent substitute for grapes and oranges. I was contemplating the ramifications of substituting grapefruit zest for orange zest in the mulled wine when I noticed a bewildered woman wandering back and forth in front of the aisle where the wine is. As I looked closer I saw that the wine had been cordoned off with police tape. There were signs posted up with the seal of the comune of Rome saying that owing to the soccer match tonight between Lazio and Manchester United, there would be no liquor, wine, or beer sold from noon to midnight.

I made my way through the rest of the store to find the remaining items: cat food and drano. The bakery had only one type of bread--you have no idea how dire that is for the Italians who can normally choose from 30 or 40 different types. I saw two nuns filling their baskets with all the chocolate candies they could find. I imagined they were feeding the whole convent on sugar that evening. In the frozen food aisle two old ladies were arguing over the last of the frozen green beans. The aisle with the cleaning products was well stocked with Padre Pio votive candles, but that was it. No drano. I went in to crisis mode. I bought two bottles of shelf stable milk and a box of cereal to sustain us if necessary. As I was checking out the manager was screaming at some man who was insistent on buying beer. Italy has come along way since the days of conquering the world. Now it's a miracle to be able to take the bus to the grocery store and actually buy food there, all in the same day. I managed to get some cat food, but the cat hasn't appeared to eat it all day long. She's probably on strike too.

concistoro

A few weekends ago the pope named 23 new Cardinals. This only happens once every few years and much of the excitement surrounding the event occurs because the Apostolic Palace is open to the public for the Cardinals to greet people. It was only the promise of entering the Sala Regia that motivated me to withstand what would be ravenous crowds. There is nothing more viscious or fearsome than a crowd of catholics approaching the focus of their religious fervor. There are usually regular line cutters in the line to go to the Basilica (Chris has proposed that they are in a real hurry to get inside because they need to go to confession). I knew I had to do something to ease my entrance into the Papal apartments, so I attached myself to a group of seminarians wearing their cassocks. They in turn attached themselves to a Bishop. Certainly we got in easier than most people--in line to greet Cardinal DeNardo we heard stories of dresses being torn and elbows being thrown--but it was no picnic none the less. At first things seemed fine. We waited at one check point in front of a gate. A crowd began to form behind us and despite the protest of the guards that this was NOT the entrance, no one budged. As soon as the guard was relieved by someone else, he allowed the bishop to shepherd his group through. I began to breath a sigh of relief since I was near enough to see the Scala Regia which leads to the apartments. It wasn't over yet though. Suddenly the guard behind us let everyone through. People ran up all around us. There was no respect for the line that already existed. People climbed around columns and ran up around the sides to get as close as possible to the front. It was as if a dam had burst and people were flowing into every available space. It only got worse when they began to let a small number of people through to the staircase. The crowd pushed forward and people began streaming over the barrier that formed the left side of the line. We were all packed in like a sardines. One of the seminarians started saying, "This is how people get killed!" I remembered the nightclub fire several years ago where people were trampled to death. My father had warned me about going to nightclubs where such an event could happen. Little did he know the Basilica of San Pietro was far more dangerous. Luckily just as the thought of being trampled to death entered my mind, the Bishop managed to get through and pull us along with him. Safely on the other side of the line, I could breath. I was about to head up the Scala Regia when I looked around..where was my husband? I looked back at the mass of people and saw him a few feet back. He and one of the other seminarians had been left behind. I waved but they couldn't get to the front. The two policemen holding back the line simply with their imposing presence just shrugged their shoulders in the characteristicly Italian way which means, "What do you want me to do?" Just then a group of people led by a flag pushed forward. People in the line began screaming in protest. The police quickly stopped them but luckily this created enough space for Chris to reach the golf cart parked at the front of the line. He and the seminarian climbed over it and freed themselves. Inside most of the people made no pretense about greeting any of the Cardinals and whipped out their cameras to capture the frescoes. We made our way from room to room. We paused to gaze out of the window where the pope had appeared for the first time in public after his election to the papacy. It was enough to help us forget the insanity outside.

la chasse est arrivee!

We just arrived back from Geneva which is located in the francophone part of Switzerland. We left the sunny weather of Rome for a freezing cold wind blowing right off of a lake. The old city was charming but austere as you might imagine one of the centers of the Reformation would be. Our first stop was to a department store to buy a scarf for Chris. It was so warm inside that we didn't leave for several hours. This wasn't tragic, because there isn't all that much to do in Geneva. We made up for our sightseeing laziness the following day when we spent hours at the archeological site under the cathedral. Remarkably, there is evidence of heating in the remnants of Genevoise structures there all the way back to the 5th century. There is obviously a long history of coping with the cold and I have to think that the cuisine, which focuses heavily on meat and cheese, is clearly necessary to provide an insulating layer of fat.

We had fondue our first night. As much as I love cheese, I am not keen on meals which are made of only two ingredients. The next night I was looking for more variety. After a few months of Roman food I was anxious to have a juicy steak. Roman cuisine features the spare parts of the cow, the so-called "Quinto Quarto" which translates to offal (the similarity of this word to "awful" is no coincindence in my mind). When I told my father this he said, "What do they do with the good parts of the animal?"

When I saw that the menu at Cafe Papon, one of the oldest restaurants in Geneva, included filet, I was elated. Chris was a little concerned that his options might be limited since there was an extensive "Menu de Chasse" and he does not like venison. Apparently it is the season for hunting and the deer have arrived from Austria. Large signs at many of the restaurants in town announced "La chasse est arrivee!" Although he was tentative, Chris' fears vanished when we began our meal. For my first plate I ordered a salad with bacon, a warm cheese in a potato cup topped with rocket and little white things which resembled bean sprouts but tasted distinctly of onion. Chris also received a side of bacon with his pumpkin soup with truffle oil which was likewise excellent. We both ordered the filet, which arrived accompanied by two disks of sweet potato topped with roasted fall vegetables, a bowl of potatos au gratin and a little dense cake which resembled a biscotto topped with two mushrooms. It must have been the several glasses of Gamaret I had already consumed which gave me the courage to try the mystery "cake" inspite of the fact that I absolutely detest mushrooms. I was pleasantly surprised by the little white orbs which were dense and slightly gelatinous but melted in my mouth in a completely unfamiliar way. Given my inexperience with fungi it is probably understandable that I didn't realize at first that I wasn't eating mushrooms at all. My powers of reasoning were considerably slowed by the wine, but after the second bite I became a little suspicious of the strange food. I asked Chris what he thought it was and he swiftly replied, "Don't ask, just eat it." Needless to say, I didn't eat another bite and as soon as I saw that he had finished I called the waiter over and asked, "Que ce que c'est ca?"while gesturing to the remainder of the mystery food. The reply, in French, came through something like this owing to my poor understanding of the language: "Cow blah blah blah neck (waiter gestures to the base of the neck) blah blah blah spine blah blah blah" and then the final phrase which I understood perfectly, "If I had told you that before you wouldn't have eaten it."

I couldn't believe that after all of my efforts to avoid quinto quarto specialties in Rome, I had been tricked into eating some unidentifiable cow part (we are still not sure exactly what it was) in a perfectly innocent-looking Genevoise restuarant. I was happy when the plane touched down in Rome, where temperatures only reach freezing once every five years or so and you always know when you are eating the spare parts of an animal.

la nostalgia

If anyone was concerned about my last attack of hypochondria you will be glad to know that it seems as though I only have a common cold and perhaps a little tinge of homesickness. At the first sign of my symptoms I thought I should go out for provisions: Italian Vogue, tissues, and ingredients for a big pot of soup. Although we have been sticking mainly to an Italian diet here there is nothing like feeling ill to make you wish you were at home eating comfort food. I went to the grocery store armed with two recipes of American origin, knowing I might have difficulty finding the ingredients. Coconut curry shrimp soup was out the moment I checked out the fish counter; no raw shrimp. Just for fun I looked for coconut milk. The meager offerings in the Asian food section were soy sauce, low sodium soy sauce and rice noodles.


I was pinning all of my hopes on the chicken soup with cornmeal sage dumplings even though I knew that finding ingredients for dumplings would be difficult. The recipe called for cornmeal so I found the flour section and hunted around for anything with the word for corn (mais) on it. I found a little box that said 'Amido di Mais'. I had no idea what amido meant so I asked the guy stocking the shelves if it was a type of coarsely ground flour made from corn. He studied the box for awhile and then said yes. I should have known better. Most Italian men have only the vaguest understanding of where the kitchen is in their own house, let alone what goes on in there. Here it is completely common for men to live at home until they marry or in the case that they don't marry, forever. Not long ago I read an offbeat news column about an 80 year-old Sicilian mother who dragged her son, in his 60s, down to the police station for being disrespectful by coming home at all hours of the night. He protested that he had no respect for her because she rarely cleaned his room and her cooking was terrible. This is the long way of saying I had bought a box of corn starch.

I was already planning on substituting regular milk for buttermilk, which I knew did not exist in Italy, and although I didn't know it yet, regular flour for cornmeal. The most essential ingredients, baking powder and baking soda, for which there could be no substitutes, were no where to be found among the tiny selection of baking ingredients. I have often wondered why the pickings are so slim there, but I was told by an Italian that the bakeries here make such fantastic desserts no one bothers baking at home. I was about to give up on my soup when I remembered that I had seen baking soda in the aisle with the wine and liquor. I decided I would just double the baking soda if worse came to worst. When I arrived home and lamented the difficulty I had finding ingredients at the store, the porter suggested I try a store called Castroni. I decided to put off my recipes for another day until after I had visited this specialty food store.

I had a morning trip to Castroni all planned out when I woke up with half of a fat lip. By the evening the swelling had gone down and I was getting a bit stir crazy so I decided to give my red spotted face a heavy coat of concealer and run out. A foodie paradise, Castroni is packed from floor to ceiling with shelves full of every kind of ingredient imaginable. I went through the entire store carefully planning all the meals I could make now: falafel, chicken tikka masala, tempura. Maybe it was the sight of Heinz ketchup or maybe it was just the idea of being able to eat the kind of variety of meals we had in New York, but I started feeling a little homesick. It was then that I noticed the encyclopedic collection of liquor which included Southern Comfort. Chris and I usually begin the evening with a cocktail and our most recent craze before departing New York was for Old Fashioneds. When we were home to visit my parents shortly before our wedding, my father shared his secret recipe with Chris, an act which assured me my husband-to-be had been accepted in to the Watson "circle of trust." Southern Comfort goes even further back in my life than our premarital cocktails however. Although my parents never maintained an extensive liquor collection, there was always Southern Comfort on hand and I was introduced to it at a young age. I could swear, although I couldn't possibly remember this, that my parents rubbed it on our gums when we were teething. Without mouthwash on hand, my father used Southern Comfort to treat any minor mouth irritations we had. Despite his emphatic order to rinse and spit it out, I usually swallowed it. Southern Comfort was also the key ingredient in a tasty cough syrup my mother made according to a recipe given to her by my ancient pediatrician. I often feigned coughs so she would make it. With home remedies composed of Southern Comfort, is it any wonder I became a hypochondriac?

I was taken over by feelings of nostalgia and began filling my basket haphazardly with American products. I finally came back to my senses and put somethings back. I returned home with everything I needed for an American meal, including the Angostura Bitters for the Old Fashioneds and Baking Powder for the dumplings in my soup. After a cocktail and a bowl of soup I was feeling better. I was almost delighted at the onset of my cough the next day; the perfect excuse to whip up a batch of cough syrup! I stopped short of gargling with it when my throat got sore -- it's far to expensive here to use as mouthwash.

ipochondriaca

Anyone who knows me well is aware that I am a hypochondriac. When I was young I was certain I had any ailment I heard about. My condition has only been exacerbated by the information available on the internet. I am constantly googling my symptoms and I am immediately drawn to the worst possible disease indicated by them.

Two years ago I had a simple but persistent cyst which developed on my wrist. My father suggested smacking it with a book. I went online and was convinced I had rheumatoid arthritis. Just before my wedding in June I had a bad stomach infection. I was certain it was e. coli after doing a little internet research and recalling that I had eaten a medium rare hamburger a few days earlier. It turned out it was a very common bacterial infection.


Yesterday I woke up with a slightly scratchy throat and a few red spots around one eye. I decided to wait to see what else would happen before running a google search since I've found you have more success with three symptoms than two. The third and most unusual manifestation of the disease presented itself this morning when I woke up with half of my upper lip swollen. One whole swollen lip might look nice and pouty but instead I look like I had a collagen injection gone wrong. My husband backed away fearfully when I tried to kiss him goodbye this morning. I have some lip gloss that is supposed to make your lips plump up a bit so I applied it to the unswollen side but they didn't plump quite enough to make me look presentable for the outside world.

A day at home will give me plenty of time for my internet diagnosis. With this combination of symptoms I have turned up a number of frightening possibilities already. It is possible that this is an allergic reaction to a new blanket of ambiguous fiber content on the bed (horsehair?), but I'm betting it is caused by something more serious, like Granulomatous Cheilitis or a nasal septal abscess.

La parruchiere

One of the saddest moments I had leaving New York was my last cut and color at Antonio Prieto. I felt as though I had finally ended a five year quest for the perfect stylist and colorist only months earlier. Brian was able to give me the perfect sweep of bangs that looked great either curly or straight. He even taught me how to make the cowlick in the front of my head work to my advantage. Michael got my hair the perfect rich dark brown shade on the first try. I had no idea how I could find a Roman replacement. Many people suggested asking people who have great hair where they get it cut. This sounds like a good idea, but in practice I didn't feel like chasing any people down on the street. Rome is a bit like New York were the number of people trying to ask you for money far outnumbers the people who have legitimate questions so people are unlikely to stop. Besides, what do you do about finding a colorist? You can't really approach someone and say, "Who covers your grey so well?" Instead I have been walking by salons and scoping out the clientel while they are in the chair.

Although my husband's parting with his stylist, Faith at John Allan's, was probably less emotional, it was still a great loss for him and his needs to find a replacement were more urgent than mine. The bar had been set high by John Allan's, the man's answer to the salon. With a yearly membership fee and a "no girls allowed" policy it is more of a club than a barbershop. The standard 'treatment' there begins with a beer. Along with a shampoo comes a scalp massage and a hot towel. During the haircut a manicurist files and buffs your nails. You finish up with a shoe shine and if you want, a round of pool. This is what I hear from my husband--I, of course, have never seen the marvels for myself. He went there every two weeks, though I'm not sure he really needed his haircut that often.



Not long after we arrived here, we wandered past a place called "Contesta Rockhair." My shaggy haired husband was in a pretty desperate state and he actually suggested going inside. We approached the desk, which like everything else in the place, was covered with graffiti. We asked the guy behind it, who was sporting a hairstyle straight out of the film Pretty in Pink, if we could get a cut anytime soon. He simply said, "No" and then gestured in the general direction of both the couch and the door. We didn't know what to do but we sat on the couch watching the stylists work with no idea how long we would be there. The music was so loud we had to shout at each other. We felt the urge to get up and leave, but out of desperation, we waited. Finally someone came and took Chris away to shampoo him. I didn't witness the shampoo but I'm sure there was no scalp massage or hot towel. The guy who cut Chris's hair suggested that his former stylist had left his hair too long because she was afraid of all the cowlicks he had. Cowlicks? I'd never seen any cowlicks... He proceeded to crop the hair closely using a comb that he would sometimes smack with the scissors in rhythm to the music sending little pieces of hair flying. He took a break now and then to kiss and fawn over various women who paraded through the salon, only sometimes removing the scissors from my husband's head during the sundry embraces. In the end it was a little short, but not bad considering what could have happened while he was distracted during the make out sessions.



The next day when we were making breakfast I noticed my husband, after a night of sleep, now had wings at either side of his head where the hair stuck straight out. Apparently the hitherto invisible cowlicks had been unleashed by the 'rock' haircut he had received. (I'm sorry there is no accompanying photo for this blog entry but my husband grew suspicious when I broke out the camera at 7 am and focused it on his head). I am still scoping out alternatives for us but just like the grocery stores, you probably have to try a few to find a good one. I just hope no more cowlicks pop up in the meantime.

la giacca miracolosa

I experienced one of the most embarrassing fashion faux-pas of my life with a purchase I made in New York, just prior to coming here. I was feeling like I had nothing to wear so I went to H&M to get some things that would be really "of the moment." I was with my husband, which is just as good, if not worse, than having no one else to help you. Without exception, he suggests that I buy whatever I try on because that gets us to the cash register and out of the store as fast as possible. Anything else could mean waiting in the store while I agonize over a purchase or worse yet, try something else on. I picked out a few things that looked really trendy. One was a cute little grey checked blouse with elbow length sleeves that ended in adorable bell-shaped cuffs. The collar was formed with an attached scarf that tied at the side into a bow. The trendiness of it was in the retro a-line cut. I think part of the reason I was drawn to it in the first place was that it reminded me of a shirt my mom once had. I wore it to work soon after that and the first person I saw in the coffee room stared at me with wide eyes. I started to feel a little self-conscious about my new purchase. I suddenly realized that the similar shirt my mother had was one she had worn while pregnant with my younger brother. After exchanging a few pleasantries I said, "I look pregnant in this shirt, don't I?" and my colleague said, without a second of hesitation, "Yes." She told me to look on the bright side, I could probably get a seat on the bus. I retreated to my desk and sent out an email to two of my girlfriends at work with "Help! Come quickly!" in the subject line. Caitlin was first on the scene with Joanna close behind. Drawing on our experiences trying on wedding gowns at Vera Wang we worked out a plan. We got some of those black binder clips from the supply closet and reigned in the voluminous fabric around my midriff. I felt a little silly walking around with binder clips all down my back, but I figured it was better than starting some rumors.

I knew I couldn't wear the shirt again, but I didn't have the heart to pitch it even though it was dirt cheap. I hate to waste things, and just like I always carry an umbrella to avoid being rained on, I secretly though the quickest way to pregnancy might be to throw it out. I harbored hope that I might be able to wear it with a sweater that had the right bateau neckline to show off the collar and bow, but flatten the paunchy part in the front until I needed it. I brought it with me to Italy where just like at home it has hung in the closet.

On my first excursion to pick out some Italian clothes I came upon a brand called "Comptoir des Cotonniers" in Rinascente, the big department store here. I tried on a black jacket and although it was the most expensive thing I've bought in years, I decided immediately I should make the investment. It has a bit of a swingy shape that is very current, but nothing about it is trendy. The cut is so perfect that although it isn't tight, it is incredibly flattering. It is that rare combination of unique and classic. It is made of some special cotton which the label warns you "should never come in contact with water." I guess it is no good in a rain shower but that is fine with me, I'll carry an umbrella whenever I wear it. The other day when I was preparing to go out in this jacket, I couldn't find the shirt I wanted to wear under it until I looked in the dirty laundry. I went through my closet twice looking for something else until I finally thought about the maternity shirt. I tried it on. I looked pregnant, but then I put on the jacket. The bow peaked out perfectly from the collar but the rest was hidden by the ultra flattering cut. It was nothing short of a miracle. When I called my husband to tell him I was running out and that I had finally found a way to wear the shirt that makes me look pregnant he replied, as any smart husband would, "I don't know which shirt you are talking about."

la vita della casalinga: parte terza

From the outset I knew there wouldn't be many who would take on the challenge to make ribollita with me and now I fear I may have lost my only participant, my brother. After reading my second post yesterday he expressed some doubts about eating "mushy" bread and even questioned the authenticity of my photographs! No, I did not download those pictures from the internet, I took them myself, in my own kitchen of the food that I made! Apparently he was expecting a really complicated and interesting variation on the second night. If this were complicated, then how would I have time to do everything else? Perhaps he was cranky since it took him so long to make the soup the first night he didn't eat until midnight. Or maybe he didn't have a very tasty product to begin with since he couldn't find any fennel at Safeway.

If any of you are still listening and have some ribollita left, then take the baked bread concoction and throw it back into the soup pot with the little soup that is left and heat it on the stove. Stir it up well to break up the slices of bread, serve it with a little olive oil and you have a ribollita. Bravo! By the way, this is the food of peasants, so if you haven't done so already, spend the money you saved on eating the same meal three nights in a row and get yourself some red wine to go with it.

With all the free time (and money) I saved making ribolitta, I did go shopping this afternoon. Since some people are suspicious of the photographs posted on this blog, I chose not to include a picture of tonight's meal (which looks very similar to last night's meal). Instead I am showing you the fruits of my labor today: purchases from Benetton, Rinascente and Zara.

P.S. If you haven't read the comments then you probably missed Heather's cautionary tale about going overboard with the parmesan rind. I, too, have felt the urge to just chop up a whole block of parmesan cheese and throw it in there, but you have to excercise restraint. When cooking the rind you will see the soup gets flecked with tiny spots of white cheese. Bigger is not better in this case since large bits will not integrate into the soup. To use her words, the ribollita was spiked with gooey "morsels" of parmesan. For the worm-a-phobic, those slimy bits in the soup could be quite disconcerting, and easily mistaken for something else, particularily if cabbage were also involved.

la vita della casalinga: parte seconda

Yesterday I posted the ribollita recipe thinking that the poor Newyorkesi would be suffering even more in the cold than we were here in Rome. I was very upset to hear my friends are wandering around in their shirt sleeves in 70 degree weather while we are freezing over here with our citrus trees next to the Mediterranean Sea!

If any of you were sweating in your kitchen over a pot of hot soup last night rather than grilling, you can now begin to truly reap the rewards. Like most things, soup tastes so much better after a day in the fridge. For tonight, this is all you need:

bread (hopefully bought and sliced up yesterday and now a bit stale)

some very thinly sliced red onion

a pot of left over minestrone

Provided you have a bread knife, this won't take too much time and will leave you free for other housewifely pursuits, like museums visits, spa appointments and shopping. Unfortunately, like everything else, cutting up bread is a labor intensive process here since we don't have an actual bread knife. Our apartment came equipped with a huge knife with a blade of equal dullness to the safety scissors you used in kindergarten which simply creased, rather than cut, your paper. It squashed everything we tried to cut: bread, tomatos, even pancetta. They say dull knives are more dangerous than sharp ones. I can see why since the knife slipped off a carrot yesterday striking my finger. The blade, if you can call it that, pinched my fingertip against the cutting board resulting in more of a bruise than anything else. My knife is now so dull it has surpassed the dullness of danger it seems. The easiest solution to this problem seemed to buy a new knife. I wouldn't have even known where to go to get a knife sharpened in New York after living there six years. Little did I know that I was often passing by just such a place on a regular basis. I had been wondering what an excercise bike was doing in the street, but yesterday as I passed by I saw someone come out of one of the shops and mount the bike. I even stopped to see this guy begin his "work out." It turns out it was a grindstone powered by the pedals.

Anyway, before I had been enlightened to the bicycle method of knife sharpening, I made a purchase from the 99 cents store (which in actuality, I reminded myself, is more like a buck fifty store with the exchange rate as it is) that ranks right up there with the caffettiera I bought at "Top Sound." I found a knife that had the word "tomato" cut out of the blade. For some reason, the obviousness of the knife's purpose escaped me. I thought it would work a bit better on bread because it is serrated, but as you might imagine, the cut-outs in no way add to the strength of the steel which merely wobbles back and forth like a plastic knife on the crust and really, on almost anything BUT a tomato. My husband has started tearing a chunk off of the bread when he wants some which leaves me with a loaf that looks like it has been gnawed on. This means at least one more cut is necessary to even out the surface before you even begin slicing! Even with these hurddles to surmount, I still had plenty of time to go shopping today and have dinner on the table in time.

Layer your thinly sliced bread on the bottom of the pan and drizzle with olive oil. Add a few of the onions and then pour some of the soup over top of it. Continue layering up the bread, olive oil, onions and soup. (I only got two layers which seemed to be plenty) Top it off with a little more soup. Make sure there is some room at the top because it expands as it cooks. It is good to leave a little soup in the pot for tomorrow, by the way. Put your casserole, covered, in the oven at 350 degrees or so for about 20 minutes. Uncover the casserole and let it brown up a little on the top - about another 30 minutes. Serve drizzled with olive oil and if you like, a little parmesan. Buon Ap!

la vita della casalinga

I once knew a woman who had spent several years doing whatever she wanted after her husband sold his business. I asked her what she did all day. "Mostly shopped," she replied. This was probably a poor model for what the life of a housewife is like but it did make an impression on me. When I found out we were moving here I thought of her and pictured my life being sort of the same with a few museum visits and salon appointments thrown in to the mix (just for variety). People asked me what I was planning on doing when we arrived here and I would say with pride, "I'm going to be a housewife, aren't you jealous?" The reactions were rarely what I had predicted. To me, being a housewife meant my life, as it was in New York, without the work or the school. It was a brutal realization that your house actually gets dirty if you have the free time to clean it. Far more discouraging is the fact that simple tasks take twice as long to accomplish here. Doing laundry used to mean taking two loads down to the laundry room once a week. Now, with our petite little washer and no dryer, laundry is a constant occupation between the two hour cycle and hanging everything up to dry. Thanks to FreshDirect, grocery shopping was strictly an internet affair for me in New York. I planned a week's worth of meals, placed the order and tipped a delivery man who showed up with boxes full of food. Now that I have to carry everything to the top of the hill and am now buying all of the water we drink (Roman tap water is so full of calcium we live in fear of kidney stones) I make several trips per week.


The one redeeming aspect of being a housewife in Italy is having all of the ingredients for great Italian recipes at your fingertips (or in my case, at the bottom of your hill). Today I am making my favorite Tuscan recipe, Ribollita. Ribollita means, "reboiled." To make a true ribolitta is a three day affair and I have only ever gotten as far as two days. I decided that I am going for the real deal this time and I hope some of you will join me. I know I have been bad about blogging, but I promise you three continuous days of posts if you make ribollita with me. I can also promise you a rewarding food experience. The great thing about ribollita is that although it takes a bit of effort the first day, you can eat the finished product for three days with a little variation so there is a nice pay off. The first day you make a minestrone. This takes the most work but don't get discouraged, it's going to get easier. First you'll need to pick up a few things. Don't worry, this can all be carried by one person in one trip:




3 Red Onions



1 bunch of Leeks



3 medium Carrots



3 medium Potatos



1 bulb of Fennel



2 ribs Celery



3 cloves Garlic



1 bunch of Parsley



Thyme (fresh (6 sprigs) or dried (1 and 1/2 teaspoons))



2 cans Cannellini Beans



Low Sodium Chicken or Vegetable stock (2 small cans) or the equivalent in bouillon cubes



One can 28 oz can of diced or crushed plum tomatos



Dry white wine



One Ciabatta or loaf of crusty bread



Parmesan (ungrated, with the rind)


The Ribollita purists are now saying, but what about the cabbage? It is true that cabbage is an essential ingredient in a Ribollita. The first time I tried to make it here I went to the store and marveled at the cabbages and finally asked a woman which one was used for Ribolitta. It's called Verze. You can look it up in the dictionary if you decide, after reading the rest of this blog, that you still want to get some. So I picked out a head of the verze admiring the lovely lacey leaves. After peeling off a few outer leaves I found the cause of the pretty perforations, a little green worm inside still munching away. Sadly, I had just recovered from another traumatic worm incident. At the tender age of eight I was eating a picnic lunch in the great outdoors, our front porch in Warren, when an inch worm descended into my lunch box. It took years before I could eat outside again. Not wanting to risk another set back I have decided not to purchase cabbage in Italy where they seem to be concerned about pesticides. To me, the psychological trauma is far worse than ingesting some chemicals. But anyway, if you decide you want to be authentic and have no fear of vermin and/or live in an area liberal with pesticides, add some savoy cabbage to the list. To be ultra authentic you should use black leaf kale, but you will probably have trouble finding that in a grocery store, especially in the states.

Now the purists are saying, "Fennel? Wine? There is no fennel or wine in Ribollita!" That's true but they make it taste good, and both are generally vermin free.

Drain your Cannellini beans. Mash up one can of the beans in the food processor or with a fork and put them aside. Chop up your vegetables beginning with your onions (use two and put one aside for tomorrow), leeks, celery and garlic. Sweat these in the bottom of the pan in a few tablespoons of olive oil. Salt them and cook them over low heat - this is a sweat, not a saute - you aren't trying to sear the taste into the veggies, you want to draw it out. Once your veggies have softened, add the other chopped veggies (except the parsley), the diced tomatos and their juice, the thyme and 2 cups of dry white wine and some stock - generally two small cans of stock plus one or two more cans of water. Add the Cannellini beans - smashed and whole. Don't worry if it looks a little thin. You also want to add the rind, and just the rind, of the parmesan. If you have planned ahead and have saved the rind from your last wedge then add that. If not, just chop it off your new piece and throw it in. This is where the brave will throw in 1/4 of a head of shredded cabbage. Cook this for an hour and twenty minutes. Taste it and adjust the seasoning and just before taking it off the heat, add the chopped parsley.


Enjoy a bowl of the soup for dinner tonight with a little parmesan grated on top. Don't go crazy though because you need some for tomorrow. I plan to keep you in suspense as to the next incarnation of your leftovers, but I will tell you that you will need some stale bread. Slice up at least 1/2 of your loaf of bread thinly and let it sit out over night if necessary. There won't be much work to do tomorrow, especially if you have your bread sliced up tonight, so go ahead and go shopping.

la moda italiana

We have started to know our way around but we do not fit in here. I am still motivated by a teenage sort of desire to fit in, at least with people who I admire. Although I have been mistaken for an Italian once or twice, it was only while bogged down with groceries and since carrying grocery bags around constantly is not an option, it is neccessary to take some other measures to assimilate.

Italian women are always dressed well. Inspite of the fact that the entire city is paved with roughly hewn basalt squares which are set one against the next leaving gaps every few inches and a bumpy surface, the italian women seem to glide effortlessly across the piazzas in spike heels. They also ride scooters and pedal bikes in heels. One night before we ventured out for dinner relatively nearby, I bravely doned my most comfortable of heels which are wide enough at the bottom that there was no risk of sinking into a gap. I navigated a course which had sidewalks most of the way, and I made Chris walk at my side the whole time holding my hand. Eventually he ask if I could take his arm because I was squeezing his fingers too tightly. I only almost fell over once, but Chris said there were at least three near disasters. It is obvious that Italian women walk in heels balancing on their toes. I once read that Paris Hilton practices walking on her toes around the house so she can walk in heels. This is obviously why Italian women have beautiful legs.


The shoes are hard to adjust to, but the clothing I think will be easier. I visited the triumverate: Benetton, Sisley and Stefanel which are, respectively, the Old Navy, Gap and Banana Republic of Italy to pick out a few things. The stores have one thing in common: vertigo inducing interiors with lucite cantilevered staircases and all glass floors. I am not prone to vertigo but I hate walking around and being able to see straight through the floor. I hadn't planned for shopping over the heads of others and therefore was inappropriately attired in an a-line dress. While trying to see if any of the shoppers below me were getting a glimpse up my skirt, I nearly walked into a mirrored wall. While the stores were a dizzying experience I did find somethings I really liked. Similar brands in America produce basic, classic staples, but there is no shortage of innovation and daring in fashion design, even among mid-range stores here. Tulip hems on skirts and jackets with cute sixties inspired necklines. I tried on a few things while the sales girl was chatting me up. Also an art history major and exactly the same age as me, we had a lot in common and she wanted to know all about New York. I think think I got carried away trying to keep up my end of the conversation because of all the things I could have purchased, I bought a dress with a drapped neck that plunges to the navel. The fit is sort of a reverse triangle, with batwing sleeves, that narrows to a formfitting part around the rear. The salesgirl told me most people wear it with a camisole under it and leggings. I was glad to hear that...I wasn't going to be buying double sided tape to avoid "wardrobe malfunctions." I have yet to complete the ensemble with the requisite leggings and camisole, but I am feeling more Italian already.

Bialetti, Branzino e la Bombola

Today was the first day that felt a little bit like fall. The humidity was gone and the air was crisp. It was appropriate to feel the weather change as we are feeling too that things are different. This foreign country is starting to feel less foreign. We finally know where to get all of our food, we understand why the weatherman is a colonel (meteorology is strictly a military pursuit here) and we are having more success with our culinary pursuits as well.

We received excellent instructions from our friends Susan and Jay on how to make coffee in the cafetiera. I have a feeling we went wrong primarily in how we filled the basket with coffee, that is to say that is where we went wrong after we bought a cafetiera in "Top Sound." Kitchen items are a specialty of Italy and I found a hardware store (still a bit strange for us, but there is no crate and barrel here) that sells "Bialetti" cafetiere. We figure with the best cafetiera money can buy and step by step instructions from our friends, we should be able to make coffee with out any explosions.

We also successfully cooked our whole fish. Tara responded to our post about the Branzino with a recipe. With her suggestions in hand I was brave enough to defrost the fish. You might be surprised to know that Branzino is actually sea bass. We stuffed it with lemon and rosemary as instructed and roasted it in the oven with a little white wine. It was delicious. We skipped out on eating the skin--we are taking this one step at a time.

It seems we exhausted the stove with the roasting of the Branzino, because the next day we noticed the bonfires we have for a stove top were looking pretty anemic. I was barely able to make the sauce I needed to make the meal I was planning: cannelloni filled with ricotta. Stupidly, we didn't realize what was going on. I had a pan full of stuffed pasta ready for the oven when it completely stopped working. We finally realized we had run out of gas but identifying the problem was really only the beginning. Not only did we not know where to find a gas canister but we didn't even know the word for gas in Italian. I know that the gas put into cars is called "la benzina" here, but I had a feeling that wasn't what we needed. With gestures and explanations in a combination of Italian and English, we explained the symptoms of the stove problem to the porter. A look of clarity came over his face, and he said we needed "una bombola." The very word had us in hysterics. We were certain that whatever a "bombola" was it wasn't going to help. The next day some guys came over to look at the stove. They tried to light it and said with a very dry sense of Italian humor, "It's hard to get the stove to work without gas." They returned soon after with the "bombola" a canister full of "gas." Yes, the word for "gas" in Italian is "gas!"

i nostri gatti

It was hard to part from our little Ella and this week has been rather lonely without her. While Chris has been at work I have been sad that I no longer have a little cat trailing behind me when I am at home. Ella has been staying with her grandparents, who are first time cat caretakers and while they are doing exceptionally well, they are prone to some novice mistakes. The other day my mother told me that Ella wasn't eating her dry food. Ella eats one homemade meal per day, usually chicken and butternut squash mixed with special vitamins, and for the other meal she gets dry food. Just like a child, Ella prefers the "McDonalds" food to the homemade, lovingly prepared meals I (and now my mother) slave over. Naturally, I was shocked to hear she wasn't eatting her dry food especially since I had told my mother which brand of food to buy. When my mother suggested that perhaps it was too big for her mouth, I knew exactly what had happened. I asked her to check the bag and sure enough, she was feeding the cat dog food. To make up for it she gave Ella a little orange roughy for dinner to soothe her palate, but the whole sad story made me miss our little cat even more. We still haven't received our webcam but we can see my parents on theirs and they have begun to bribe Ella to come near the computer where we can see her.

As anyone who has seen the ubiquitous "Cats of the Colloseum" calendar in souvenier shops here knows, Rome is full of stray cats. Outside our apartment is no exception, particularily because we are close to the garbage dumpsters. Probably the only advantage to being close to the trash is the opportunity to see many little cats when coming in and out of our house. There are about four regular visitors to the garbage area, two of which Chris and I have decided are our outdoor cats. This means little more than giving them names, since I am a little afraid of what would happen if we started to feed them. We call the one with black and white splotches resembling cow hide mucchina (which in Italian means little cow). Mucchina (pictured above) is the most adventurous because she actually comes up near our apartment. There is also a tiny black cat, Nero, that likes to rest in the bushes in front of our house. Unfortunately, Chris has told me that I shouldn't pet the cats because I could get ringworm from them. I'm sure this is unlikely to be a problem since these cats are not at all interested in coming near us. To them we are pesky intruders who like to pass by their favorite resting spots disturbing their cat naps. But in the event that they should come near me, I'm not sure I could resist.

lo sciopero

When I came to Italy years ago as an au pair, I had a wonderful book called "Teach Yourself Italian" which I used to do just that. The book is very practical so it begins with things you will surely need right away in Italy such as: how to ask what things cost, how to get directions, and how to ask for help when your mode of transportation is shut down due to a strike.

Striking is sort of an Italian way of life, so when prices on Pasta and Bread, things that everyone needs, were set to rise 20% the Italians called for a "Sciopero della Pasta" on September 13th. This was a "symbolic strike" because it was set to last only one day. As serious as Italians can be about their strikes when it means not working, they are less strong willed when it means forgoing gastronomic pleasures and even those planning the strike knew many could not hold out any longer than that. I was very enthusiastic to be able to participate on the striking end of the sciopero! I made Chris promise not to eat pasta for lunch and resolved also not to buy pasta.

I was planning on cooking Ragu alla Bolognese for dinner but I figured that was probably okay since I had already bought the pasta, right? At the last minute I decided I wanted to make some Bruschetta for dinner so I had to run to the store for tomatoes. Since I have already explained that such a trip is really an odyssey, I wanted to make it worth my while so I picked up some other things as well. As I was passing by the fish counter I saw a woman buy some fish and ask the guy to clean them. I am intimidated by the fish counter because the fish are almost all whole and there is a giant real swordfish head sticking out of the display, but if someone else cleans them for you, well, I thought, that must make it much easier. So after I got everything else I went back to the counter. The only name I understood on the signs was Branzino, which I saw on a restaurant menu once. I asked for one Branzino to be cleaned. As the guy weighed it I realized I had forgotten to do all the things that Alton Brown suggests when buying fish, ie. looking at the eye to see if it is clear and smelling it (hopefully with no success). Oh well, I'm a whole fish novice. Then the guy asked how I was planning on cooking it because apparently that makes a difference as to how you clean it. I realized I had no idea how I was going to cook it and how ridiculous it would sound to say so, so I pretended I didn't understand what he was asking. (This technique is only effective for those with obvious accents) He used gestures to indicate "covered" or "uncovered" so I said uncovered. I think this was the wrong choice. He took the fish over to this blood covered board and scraped the scales off. He then plunged a knife into the belly and drew it towards the mouth gutting the fish. He gave it to me in a plastic bag and then, shockingly enough, he complimented my Italian! I was slightly traumatized and dazed by this experience so when on my way to the checkout I saw a box of Parpardelle all'uova I snatched it up without thinking. It was only when I came home and got done examining my fish (which really, looks as intimidating as it did before it was cleaned) did I realize that I had bought pasta. I had missed my chance to participate in the strike in solidarity with the Italians. I am still deciding what to do with the Branzino which is in my freezer for now. Any suggestions? Comment with recipes (but only those in which the fish is cooked uncovered!)

TV (pronounced: tee-voo)

We have a special satellite connection which gives us almost solely English and German stations. We have only one Italian station, RAI UNO, but we prefer to watch it so we can improve our Italian. This morning I found a show which resembled Regis and Kathy Lee; light news with some fun demonstration segments and chatty talk. It is somewhat of a joke in Italy that the news personalities are often sexy women. This one was no exception and throughout an interview on the upcoming pasta strike (more on this later) the camera often zeroed in on her while she turned away from the conversation to smile and strike a pose. These interviews were interspersed with practical segments, one in which a woman demonstrated how to decorate drinking straws with fish cut out of Styrofoam and coral cut from a pink plastic laundry bottle. The point seemed to be to identify your straw somehow so you wouldn't accidentally drink from the wrong glass. The weather, at regular intervals, was reported by a weatherman dressed in a full military costume. The show ended with a dance performance where the hostess wore a pucci-esque unitard (sans one arm and one leg).

The television in the middle of the day and early evening is far more subdued. "Murder She Wrote" is huge here. In the Italian series priests and nuns figure heavily. Chris and I have begun to watch "Don Matteo 5" a show where the main character is a priest who seems to assist women with their romantic problems. We're not sure what the five after the name means.

The commercials here are no less humorous. There is one where a woman gives her daughter a chocolate bar in the morning while explaining, "It's hard to make breakfast." The AXE commercials are famous here. The guy usually puts on the cologne and the woman, upon smelling it says male fantasy line like, "Let's watch football all day today!" Last night I saw a Martini and Rossi commercial where a guy gets a drink from the bar but there isn't any ice left. As he looks across the room he sees a bull made out of ice and a woman dressed as a matador, complete with a sword. I can't write what happens next, because this is a PG-13 blog. Suffice it to say, I don't think that would have passed the FCC in America.

PS. I've added an photograph I took of this morning's dance routine. This time our hostess was wearing a pokka-dotted leotard.

il caffe

Coffee is an essential part of Roman life. Along with the sock stores, you can find a bar almost every few feet where you can drink a quick coffee in piedi (standing at the counter). Unfortunately we seem to live in an area devoid of either grocery stores or bars so we must make our coffee at home. When we arrived there was an american-style coffee maker in our apartment but Chris and I wanted to get a little cafetiera to make espresso. We thought this made the most sense since all of the coffee here is fine ground for the espresso machines. I did see something labeled "american coffee" in the supermarket but the layer of dust on the box scared me away.

We had a cafetiera in New York, but we hadn't brought it with us so I bought one. Perhaps it was a mistake to buy it at a store called "Top Sound" which sold mostly electronics but how wrong can you go with a cafetiera? Aparently disastorously wrong. Chris made the coffee while I was sleeping so I didn't witness what happened, but he described an "explosion." He cleaned up rather well though so I thought he was probably exagerating a bit. You might be thinking, "How stupid to buy a cafetiera in an electronics store!" Well, our stupidity goes beyond that. We thought perhaps we had done something wrong, so we tried it again. This time Chris thought perhaps the flame underneath had been too low. So in an effort to make the coffee quickly he tried it on high. At first everything seemed fine and then, without any warning (or even the faintest gurgle of coffee) there was an explosion which spewed coffee and espresso grounds all over the stove, walls, sink, cabinet, fridge and the drying rack full of clean dishes; everything within a six foot radius. The clean up took two days. I hope that someone has some advice on how to fix this. I think that perhaps the flames on our stove are too high or the cafetiera is simply faulty, but with results like this we can't afford to experiment.

faciamo come i turisti!

After my usual morning shopping excursion, which this time required a bus trip, Chris and I did a few touristy things. We made a short pilgrimage via the parking garage to San Pietro. We visited Pope Pius X and Gregory the Great, from whom Gregorian Chant takes its name and said a little prayer of thanks for being in Rome.



Having conquered the bus system in my earlier shopping trip, we decided to take the bus to the Aventine, my favorite hill in Rome. We scaled the hill via the Clivio di Rocca Savella and reached the Parco Savello which offers a beautiful view over the city below. I remembered from my trip to Rome a few years ago that there was an old man selling olives at the entrance. The charming man with his bowl of olives has since expanded his offerings to include beer, a range of soft drinks and potato chips. We stuck with the olives.

Further down the road is the keyhole of the Cavalieri di Malta. Through the hole in the door you see a garden which perfectly frames the distant dome of St. Peter's Basilica. (This is Chris taking a look before being pushed aside by some tourists who wanted to videotape the view.) Directly across the little piazza is the Monestary of Sant Anselmo. A shop attached to the church sells products produced by Monks from all over Europe. Last time I was in Rome I bought Casamari Sambuca and some pure licorice candy there and have been dying to buy more ever since. Lest you think we made the trip solely for the Sambuca, we attempted to enter the chapel but there was a wedding taking place.


After our shopping and resting in the park, we headed down the hill and across the Tiber via the Isola Tiberina, home of a hospital and the Chiesa di San Bartolomeo. In Trastevere we stopped for a pizza at Dar Poeta, the cheap--but some say best--pizzeria in Rome to enjoy our first meal out in the eternal city.

Fare la spesa

Most important to me in feeling settled is knowing where to buy groceries. On our first full day in Rome I attempted to go to the grocery store. For some reason it is very easy to find a store that sells socks in Rome but difficult to find a place to buy the most basic of housewares. After a long search I finally found a supermarket. The first thing on my list: laundry detergent. The dish washing liquid, dishwasher powder and laundry soap were all intermingling on the shelf and since there were no recognizable brands I was forced to read almost every label for fear of washing my clothes in dishwashing liquid. I settled on "bio presto" which I chose based on label's claim that research at the university of ferrara had proved it was sensitive to the skin. (so that's what they study at the universities here...) I did see the snuggle bear on a bottle of fabric softener which is called "coccolino" here but I didn't buy it because I have yet to figure out where the fabric softener goes in our washing machine. The rest of the shopping trip was unremarkable except that I noticed there was a large section of liquor but no fruits or vegetables and you must pay for any bags in which to place your groceries. We live on a hill (I guess you are either on a hill or in a valley in Rome) so carrying anything on your way home is exhausting. Climbing the hill with large bottles of olive oil and laundry detergent would normally be a challenge but the task was made more difficult because of my poor choice to purchase only one bag for my groceries. I felt the need to support the bottom of the bag for fear that it would give out so with the "bio presto" in one hand I had to balance the other bag on my forearm and walk tilting slightly backwards.

Today I found a parking garage with an elevator and escalator which takes you down to the bottom of the hill and deposits you just outside the colonnade of San Pietro. I was emboldened by this discovery to try shopping again, this time at the market on Via Andrea Doria which is a little past the Vatican Museums. I did one pass through what must have been about an eighth of the total market just checking everything out. It is clear why there are so few grocery stores when you see the variety and the prices at the markets (and the bags there are free too). There was one stall devoted to yarn which was exciting to see (if only my knitting needles would arrive). In another stall they were slicing prosciutto di parma paper thin by hand. There were exotic fruits, moscato grapes and itty bitty wild strawberries. It was a bit overwhelming particularly because I am completely unfamiliar with the size of an "etto" or "kilo" and was never sure just how much I was ordering. On my second round through I purchased some basics for a salad: mozzarella di buffala, cherry tomatoes, baby arugula and a little basket of lettuce. The tomatoes are not to be believed. Red, plump and flavorful.

On the way back I was stopped by several tourists asking for directions. Clearly, the quickest way to look like a local is to carry a bunch of shopping bags!

Siamo Arrivati!

We are here! Though we haven't actually gone far to explore, there is a lot to say about the apartment and the people. We were picked up at the airport and arrived to a two bedroom apartment with a well-stocked kitchen and a hot meal awaiting us. The desire to eat was the only thing that overcame our urge to go to sleep immediately. The two bedroom apartment seems palatial compared to our studio in New York and there is a patio outside which is surrounded by lemon trees. As you can see in the picture, the unrippened ones look like limes which makes me wonder if limes are really just green lemons... I picked a yellow one this morning, but I think by the time they turn yellow on the tree they are really too ripe and soft. Since I was born and raised in a colder climate, I hope someone can comment on this perplexing citrus problem.