Supermercato

At the end of last year I added yet another store to my list of "I-will-never-shop-there-again." It is a long story, but suffice it to say that in Italy, you often end up begging to be allowed to spend your money in certain stores. Although this can be charming or quaint in some shops, it is not an attitude I was prepared to deal with on a daily basis in the grocery store. Luckily, just as I added the GS on Via dei Fornaci to my ever growing list, we received our Vatican "tessera" which allows us to use the Vatican Commissary.  

This was a real boon for many reasons - and not just because I cut our grocery shopping options in half when I shouted, "I will never shop in this supermarket again!" as we stormed out of GS. The commissary is much closer to our house than the old store for one thing. Also, items that are heavily taxed in Italy are much cheaper there (i.e. wine and liquor) and for some reason-perhaps it is the proximity to the Pope-everyone in there is much nicer than in the outside world. I wouldn't say that a line actually forms at the deli counter, but people do tend to be somewhat attentive to who is ahead of them. The checkout clerk even bags my groceries - in FREE plastic bags no less! As you can imagine, paying and bagging your groceries at the same time is nearly  impossible so you either end up holding up the line, or more often, sorting your items out of a pile of the next person's purchases. I'm content now to not confront that anxiety everyday.

Before my first visit to the commissary I heard that they were well known for having the best selection of meat in Rome. I immediately began craving a nice seared filet - a rare find here. I thought for a minute that I was in paradise as I approached the butcher's vast case full of animal parts of all types but when I asked for filet, they said they were out of it. There were enough other options that I wasn't that disappointed but when they didn't have filets the next time I was there, I started to wonder...I thought Romans would be more likely to order tripe than steak? On my third attempt, the butcher, by now recognizing me, suggested I come earlier in the day. I was shopping towards closing time, and I had noticed by the late afternoon things did look a bit picked over. One day all the bakery had left was baguette since they had sold out of the other 24 kinds of bread they stock. There was also the time that the fish section had only one sad fish left. I could only imagine there was a reason the discerning Italian casalingas had passed it up. There had even been days when they were out of fresh milk! I decided to come at 2 pm the next time and shop from what I only assumed would be a more abundant selection. I did notice that the store didn't seem quite so ravaged at that hour, but the early birds had still gotten my filet! Apparently goodies like beef filets, langoustines, fresh milk and a choice of the kind of bread you eat are special treats reserved for retired people and the lucky few who don't have to work.

Almost as a rhetorical question I said, "What is a working girl to do?" I didn't really expect a response other than perhaps the typical, "Che ci posso fare?" meaning, "What can I do about it?" I was surprised when the butcher gave me the number of the butcher department and suggested that I call in the morning when I wanted some filets. I did mention that people are exceptionally kind in this grocery store but I was surprised even by this. The Vatican is truly another country.

Scaricare TV

If you have read my earlier posts, you know that the television in Italy leaves much to be desired. At first we watched with a morbid curiosity but a year into our adventure here, the novelty has worn off. 

When we gave up watching the two RAI stations which run dubbed reruns of "Murder She Wrote" during the day and cheesy game shows at night, we put the three English channels into rotation: CNN international, CNBC and BBC international. The programing on each is essentially repeating the same news show every hour. Once we had seen the show enough that we were able to quote the anchor, we would change to the next station. The rest of the 100 or so stations available on our satellite are in German, including the one channel which gets sports coverage. We watched the Olympics entirely in German, an experience we credit with our ability to say "Divingboard" and "Track and Field" in German. 

For a while after the Olympics ended, I was getting some excitement from watching the live currency exchange rates scroll across the bottom of the BBC. This made for a fun game of our own type of "currency trading." When the euro got down to around $1.21 or so I would run to the ATM as fast as I could. Unfortunately in reviewing my bank statements I realized that the bank averages the rate for the day. So much for that form of entertainment - time to try something else.

We returned home this summer with the goal of purchasing a new computer with which to download TV shows. I could hardly contain myself as I found NBCs website offering full episodes of The Office, a show whose loss I have mourned daily since our move to Italy. I should have known it was too good to be true - as soon as I clicked "download" a message popped up telling me that the video could not be downloaded "from your area". Apparently there is some rule that prevents you from downloading American television unless you actually live in America, where Tivo and OnDemand are ubiquitous (at least as ubiquitous as computers and high speed internet connections). 

After our disappointment with network websites, we were enthused to discover the entertainment buffet on offer at iTunes (even though NBC shows weren't available). The choices are not as vast as Netflix, but for those who follow the ebb and flow of the dollar for fun, iTunes is a goldmine. We picked a movie to rent and clicked. We watched wide-eyed as it showed up in our downloading queue with tiny subscript beneath the progress bar: "2 hours to download." 2 hours...I began calculating how many more rounds of CNN's news broadcast we would have to watch as we waited. Unfortunately, many, many rounds of the same news; I noticed the time had begun slowly creeping upwards. It didn't stop until it reached 24 hours. We suddenly realized that we had failed to factor in the limited bandwidth in Italy which makes the internet connection match the pace of the government offices here. 

Although planning our TV viewing 24 hours in advance has put a slight damper on things, we are excited every day to see the new offering on iTunes. Yesterday I noticed The Office was now available! With the downloads going 24 hours a day and the computer left on all night, we might be able to get season 4 downloaded before season 5 is over! 

Scorpione

On Sunday Chris and I were introduced to another form of Italian "wildlife." I was still snoozing in bed when Chris yelled from the bathroom, "There is some kind of crustacean in here." I heard "incrustation" since incrustation is a familiar thing in our bathroom as the water is so hard here that you can litterally see calcium floating in it. In fact the #1 cleaning product in the grocery store is called "Disincrostante."  

"Where is it?" I asked. 

"Between the toilet and the sink," Chris replied. 

"Well, that could be almost anything," I said. 

"NO, I mean a CRUSTACEAN" 

"What? Like a crab?" Now I was wide awake. By the time I got to the bathroom Chris had stunned the "crustacean" with a shoe. Although I had never seen one in real life, I knew it was a scorpion. Three graduate degrees between us and all we know about scorpiones comes from an Indiana Jones movie where Indy says that when it comes to scorpions, bigger is actually better (i.e. less poisonous). We both stared at the tiny scorpion. Chris wacked it again with the shoe.

Once I had my shoes on I went to the computer for internet research, where I found that large and small doesn't necessarily mean anything when it comes to scorpions. Apparently the types found in Italy - large or small - are generally not too poisonous. In fact, when I told one of my coworkers we found a scorpion in the house, he said the frightening creatures signify good luck. I would believe that, but Italians have a way of saying anything bad that happens to you means you are lucky including being pooped on by a bird, spilling champagne, or getting soaked by rain on your wedding day.

The moral of the story is, you can't trust all the information that you find in an Indiana Jones movie. I'm starting to wonder now about the aliens teaching the Mayan Indians farming...

Ufficio

My days as a housewife are over since I now have a part-time job and get to partake in the joys of the Italian office environment. Foremost among these is the coffee break which begins promptly at 10:30 am. It is clear that the coffee break and espresso machine have been much abused (i.e. used all day long) because there are signs on the breakroom door specifying the machine must be off from 7:00 am - 10:30 am and from 10:45 am -5 pm.

The first order of business (after coffee) was to settle in and get to work so I went in search of supplies. It seems that similar to most offices, one person is in charge of the distribution of supplies, however, I've rarely seen such a highly guarded stash of Post-Its, paper clips and pens. Unfortunately when I found the desk belonging to the keeper of the Post-Its the chair was empty and the computer off. I asked around and was told he was on vacation -- with the key to the file cabinet apparently. Surely someone else has a key? I was told I should try again on Monday to get supplies. This was on a Wednesday afternoon.

Unfortunately upon returning to my desk I realized that the printer I had inherited was running out of ink. No surprise, I had to wait until Monday to get toner. Now unable to write, or to print, I had some time to kill. One of my colleagues was kind enough to point me in the direction of the rack of forms so I could find the proper paperwork to fill out in order to expedite my acquisition of pens when the supply-security-guard returned. Naturally, I was struck by the irony of needing a pen to fill out a form so that I could get some pens. Luckily, nearby was one of those pens they have at the bank that is chained down to the desk, obviously to prevent other desperate workers from absconding with it. Having turned in my forms and acquired the proper stamp, I went back to my empty desk to twiddle my thumbs until the next time we could turn on the espresso machine.

I eventually got my Post-Its, 2 pens and a box of paperclips. I didn't bother filling out the paperwork for a ream of paper, I figured I would just remove a bit from the copier now and then. Of course, that was before I knew that the copier too was under lock and key.

In order to avoid the endless paperwork I have become a great conserver of office supplies. I believe it is good not to be wasteful, but I fear I may be becoming compulsive in my hoarding of rubber bands and paper clips. I now seriously consider the gravity of errors before applying liquid paper and I highlight with restraint.

buon natale

The highlight of Christmas was spending it with my surrogate family. Alison (surrogate sister) showed up early to do all manner of Christmasy activities. Sadly, the first day she was here her wallet and passport were stolen on the bus while we were laden down with packages. Now we know why Romans don't go in for the Christmas shopping like we do - it's simply too difficult to defend your wallet with all of those holiday gifts in hand. We immediately headed home to cancel the credit cards and then went to the police office. Although there was someone there to answer the door we were told we were too late to file a police report. As Alison said, "Sorry you lost your identity, you'll have to come back tomorrow!" It makes you hope nothing grave happens to you after 5 pm here. We came back the next day to fill out the "Denucia" which we were told was the very official police report which would assist us in recovering identification and filling claims. We dictated the story to a police officer who filled in our answers by hand on a photocopy of a form. He then photocopied it once again and we marvelled at how much trouble it took to get something very unofficial looking which we could have easily made ourselves at any hour of the day.

We then went straight to the Embassy with our photocopy. I was steeling myself for hours of waiting in line when I saw a few people at the entrance, but after showing the guard our photocopy we were whisked inside and directed to the second floor. At the entrance we were greeted with a number machine. 6 months in Italy has left me cynical about all attempts at orderly systems but we took one anyway. We had barely sat down when we were called to a window and given the proper forms to fill out. We were pleasantly surprised also to find that they had a photo machine in the embassy, right there were hundreds of people a day are actually in need of passport photos - a work of American ingeniuity to be sure. I recall getting my photo for a permesso di sogiorno from such a photo machine conveniently placed on a cement divider in the middle of a main thoroughfare in Torino. It was nowhere near the office where you had to make the application, by the way. I'm certain the Italians probably hoped to reduce their rate of applicants by having them killed trying to get the necessary photos. As we went down to get Alison's photo from the machine on the first floor we passed by a chaotic room full of people clamoring to get to the windows. This was obviously where they dealt with Italian citizens. I was never so glad to be an American.

With Alison's identity back we went back to our Christmas preparations and back to Italy, the land of inconvenience. We had some cookies planned but as I have already told you, baking supplies are scarce here so this was a challenge. Peanut Butter Blossoms were out since we couldn't find hershey kisses and peanut butter can be bought only at a premium. We weighed the possibilities of breaking up chocolate bars into chunks to use in place of the kisses, but to me it was an abomination to make my favorite cookie with such unasthetically pleasing squares of chocolate. We settled on sugar cookie cut-outs and gingerbread men based on the availability of ingredients. Ali brought the cookie cutters from London since as far as I know, such things don't exist here. We were hampered again when it came to frosting supplies. In the grocery store we could only find the tiniest packet of powdered sugar. We would have needed 100 of them to make one batch of icing. Apparently here "zucchero a velo" is only used for a light dusting on top of cakes. Luckily we were able to get a half kilo bag of it and food coloring at Castroni. If it weren't for Castroni we would have never lasted this long in Rome.

ben tornata e buon natale

Since I have been a bad blogger, I have to fill you in on some of the past few months which were full of interesting Roman experiences. I think it was around the holidays that I began to slack off so I have to recount the story of Christmas in Rome. I am nuts about Christmas and I was very excited to celebrate Roman style. Christmas is far less commercial in Italy and while that sounds like it would be a good thing, it began to wear on me when I was unable to find suitable gift bags and had to resort to wrapping presents with double sided tape since I had no idea where to find "scotch" which is what they call scotch tape. If only they had drug stores here that sold more than drugs!

The lack of commercialism also frustrated my desire to shop for and buy the perfect presents and Christmas trappings. I was thrilled when I heard that, miracle of miracles, there would be a Christmas market in Piazza Navona. I envisioned the equivalent of the Union Square Christmas market where you can find truly unique things from up and coming designers and handmade goodies. Chris and I began our search for our tree there two weeks before Christmas. Unfortunately we discovered that the main attractions at the Navona market were Ciambelloni (giant donuts) and moss-covered manger scenes reminiscent of the 70s. There was not a tree or wreath to be found, not to mention any interesting gifts unless you are interested in plastic gladiator costumes. We looked around the center of Rome for hours in desperation. I once got excited thinking I saw a bunch of trees for sale at the far end of a piazza but when I got there I was disappointed to see that it was only a restaurant entrance covered in fake evergreen boughs. We finally found two trees at the florist in Campo de' Fiori, one of which was sold and one of which was the epitome of a Charlie Brown tree but with a wopping price tag. We went home dejected. There is nothing more sad to me than Christmas without a tree. I take after my mother in my emotional attachment to seasonal evergreens. Together we would lobby for a large tree against my father's practical arguments for a smaller one. We had to plead with my dad to leave the tree up until New Year's Day, a compromise since I would have left it up all year round. I resigned myself to the worst case scenario: Christmas with a faux tree from Ikea.

When I ran out to get groceries later that night I thought I saw some Christmas trees as I passed by the combination florist and gas station. I was cautious because of my experience with the Christmas tree mirage earlier but when I got closer I realized it wasn't a vision - there were real trees there! I didn't have enough cash to buy one on the spot (nor did I have the means to transport it) but I was relieved to see we would have a real evergreen for Christmas. The actual purchase waited until my best friend Ali arrived because tree stands do not exist here. They actually pot the tree. We needed someone to assist in carrying not only the tree but the pot and the dirt! And we thought pine needles were messy--no wonder Romans don't buy live trees!

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!)