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.