So, this is the thing about the supermarkets. They are not open on Sundays. It came to me in a vision (um. not really.) a few weeks ago. I'm sure you can guess on which day of the week I had the vision.
Because of the thing with the supermarkets, there is something that is not a good idea. You know what it is? Forgetting to go grocery shopping on Saturday. Particularly twice in a row.
Because you end up noticing, as you wipe up the crumbs from your last breakfast roll, that the combined contents of your fridge and cupboard are as follows: 1 can of green beans, half a jar of nutella, some dry pasta, butter, and 1 cup of (expired) strawberry yogurt. You vaguely wonder what you will eat for the rest of the day before wandering off to shower, read, fold the laundry you did last week, and try to convince yourself that washing the windows would be a good way to spend the morning (this last is likely to be an unsuccessful venture).
The problem comes up again towards lunchtime, when you get hungry. You host a mini-debate inside your head: stick your face back in the cupboard in the hopes that something appetizing will have materialized, or get dressed and go outside to find food. Option B will probably win out, in the end. You enjoy a pleasant walk down the stairs and up the street and smoothly negotiate the acquisition of a speck and brie piadina. This transaction even provides you with the opportunity to feel slick and superior as you order your sandwich and make all of the relevant decisions (warmed or cold; for here or wrapped to go) smoothly, without missing a beat, while next to you a tourist struggles to understand what "speck" is. (Speck, as it happens, is a bit of a mystery. It's some particular cut of ham, but which exact cut or why it's called speck is a topic that may merit a Google search.)
So you're set for the afternoon, apart from an unfortunate craving for chocolate towards four in the afternoon that's annoying but not quite strong enough for you to go all the way back downstairs and try to figure out how to procure some.
And then comes dinnertime. You still haven't procured any additional victuals, and that's how you come to be staring into your kitchen cabinets, pondering the compatibility of green beans and fusilli, which is probably something that would horrify your Italian roommates possibly into unconsciousness. Since you have no desire to shave years off the end of their lives, you are trying to convince yourself that you really do see the appeal of pasta with olive oil on it when your roommate returns from her weekend away, bearing mushrooms and offering to make risotto for the two of you.
And that's one of the reasons for which, sometimes, living in Italy is just delightful. Maybe things are more inconvenient sometimes (the washing machine that takes two and a half hours, the supermarkets whose hours only overlap with your free time once a week) but it all evens out in the end. If I lived in America, I'd have access to a faster washing machine, but I also probably wouldn't have so much free time during the weekends to begin with. And I could pick up and go to the supermarket at any time of day or night I pleased, but the likelihood of someone offering to make me mushroom risotto and engage my sorry B1 level Italian in conversation over it would be slim indeed.
Thursday, January 22
Sunday, January 18
The thing with the stoves
When I first began my packing list, kind of informally, in my head, I included some cookware. This was because, inspired by books and word of mouth and the bragging (and cooking samples) of previous Italian teachers, I had envisioned that I would learn to cook in Italy. The air would sort of magically seep into my pores and cooking savvy would osmose its way into my brain, thus bestowing upon me the ability to produce risotto and lasagna in bolognese sauce and things of that nature. (Come to think of it, does bolognese sauce even go on lasagna? I want to say no, for some reason...)
It turns out that those early thoughts were a bit ambitious, in more ways than one. To begin with, there was no room to bring a pot in my luggage. Ditto a set of sheets, towels, and even some winter clothes. It turns out that two suitcases and 50kg are not very much. Also, while it is very magic indeed, the air of Italy has yet to uncover what latent cooking skills I may possess in any perceivable way.
In the first apartment in which I stayed, I declined to make anything more culinarily adventurous than a mozzarella sandwich. And twice I ate a tomato. It was hot, and the cutlery wasn't mine, and it all felt very temporary. I figured I could live on take-out and no-cook items until I found a more permanent place to live.
In the kitchen of the second apartment, the ironing table and clothes-hanging thing (what is that called in English?) were propped up against the fridge so that they all clanged together every time you opened it. The cupboards contained a mismatched set of dubiously clean kitchen-related items. The olive oil I bought, so proud of having a "permanent" place to stay, was stored on the floor in a corner. The microwave rested on the washing machine, which smelled of mold, dishsoap was nowhere to be found (until I bought some). And this was the abode of the Man Obsessed with the Water, who actually seemed to take offense when we asked him his opinion on using hot water for the dishes. (His suggestion was that we boil some in the kettle if we really felt it was necessary.) The final piece of this puzzle (um. not that it's really a puzzle. but whatever) is that this was where I noticed the thing about the stoves.
The thing about the stoves in Italy is that there is fire. Now, I know that on some basic level, there is also fire in electric stoves. Or, at any rate, some similar form of heat-making stuff. But here, the fire is out in the open. And sometimes it smells of gas, which is slightly less than reassuring. I examined the stove one day when I was walking through the kitchen to fetch a tomato, and noticed that it has a decidedly '70s air about it. Also the tiny bit of counter space next to it was sporting one of those trigger lighter things. Not a good sign in the least. That was the end of any thoughts of cooking in that kitchen that I had previously entertained. (I hadn't entertained many anyway, what with the dirt and lack of soap with which to remedy it.)
Thus commenced a period of four weeks during which, when I didn't eat out (by which I mean partaking of aperitivo snacks and calling them dinner), I subsisted mainly on lettuce, tomatoes, vinaigrette, bread, and nutella. And chocolate. And little snack type things. But that's a story for another day.
At the end of the four weeks, I had moved into a new apartment, complete with roommates who were closer to my age and also non-creepy. Always a plus. The apartment was all newly redone and very nice and I was very happy.
"So, do you like cooking?" asked one of my roommates on one of our first evenings together. I glanced over at her, pausing to eye the stove suspiciously. Three different pots were bubbling contentedly as flames licked around their bottoms. I didn't understand it. There was FIRE in our KITCHEN. Why was everyone being so calm about this? Anyway, though.
"Well, unfortunately I'm not very good at it. I don't know how to make much," I ventured in shaky Italian. It was a bit of an understatement, really. On a good day, I can produce scrambled eggs with minimal disturbance to those around me.
"Ah. So what's your best dish?" she inquired politely.
Hm. Toast? Grilled cheese? Something told me that neither of these would be an acceptable answer. And it would have been difficult to explain anyway, given that toast is the word Italians use for grilled cheese.
"Ratatouille," I finally said, praying that I would never be called upon to demonstrate. (I do more or less know how to make this.) The conversation segued conveniently into languages from here and I began to sigh with relief, stopping abruptly when I caught sight of the stove again. What's up with this nonsense, anyway? I wondered to myself. Someone should inform Italy that this is no longer the middle ages. Or the fifties. We have other kinds of stoves now. Ones that don't involve gas and an open flame and the potential to blow up your entire apartment building.
The stove still reminds me far too much of a bunsen burner for me to feel completely at ease when using it, but at least I can now turn it on without flinching at the little clicky sounds it makes as it tries to light, and boil my spaghetti without cowering in fear. In fact, I've even begun to appreciate how quickly it makes the water boil - quite miraculous, really. I can almost, almost see why people would own this kind of stove on purpose, availability of other kinds of stoves notwithstanding. However, this does not solve all my problems with cooking. To be revealed presently: the thing with the supermarkets.
It turns out that those early thoughts were a bit ambitious, in more ways than one. To begin with, there was no room to bring a pot in my luggage. Ditto a set of sheets, towels, and even some winter clothes. It turns out that two suitcases and 50kg are not very much. Also, while it is very magic indeed, the air of Italy has yet to uncover what latent cooking skills I may possess in any perceivable way.
In the first apartment in which I stayed, I declined to make anything more culinarily adventurous than a mozzarella sandwich. And twice I ate a tomato. It was hot, and the cutlery wasn't mine, and it all felt very temporary. I figured I could live on take-out and no-cook items until I found a more permanent place to live.
In the kitchen of the second apartment, the ironing table and clothes-hanging thing (what is that called in English?) were propped up against the fridge so that they all clanged together every time you opened it. The cupboards contained a mismatched set of dubiously clean kitchen-related items. The olive oil I bought, so proud of having a "permanent" place to stay, was stored on the floor in a corner. The microwave rested on the washing machine, which smelled of mold, dishsoap was nowhere to be found (until I bought some). And this was the abode of the Man Obsessed with the Water, who actually seemed to take offense when we asked him his opinion on using hot water for the dishes. (His suggestion was that we boil some in the kettle if we really felt it was necessary.) The final piece of this puzzle (um. not that it's really a puzzle. but whatever) is that this was where I noticed the thing about the stoves.
The thing about the stoves in Italy is that there is fire. Now, I know that on some basic level, there is also fire in electric stoves. Or, at any rate, some similar form of heat-making stuff. But here, the fire is out in the open. And sometimes it smells of gas, which is slightly less than reassuring. I examined the stove one day when I was walking through the kitchen to fetch a tomato, and noticed that it has a decidedly '70s air about it. Also the tiny bit of counter space next to it was sporting one of those trigger lighter things. Not a good sign in the least. That was the end of any thoughts of cooking in that kitchen that I had previously entertained. (I hadn't entertained many anyway, what with the dirt and lack of soap with which to remedy it.)
Thus commenced a period of four weeks during which, when I didn't eat out (by which I mean partaking of aperitivo snacks and calling them dinner), I subsisted mainly on lettuce, tomatoes, vinaigrette, bread, and nutella. And chocolate. And little snack type things. But that's a story for another day.
At the end of the four weeks, I had moved into a new apartment, complete with roommates who were closer to my age and also non-creepy. Always a plus. The apartment was all newly redone and very nice and I was very happy.
"So, do you like cooking?" asked one of my roommates on one of our first evenings together. I glanced over at her, pausing to eye the stove suspiciously. Three different pots were bubbling contentedly as flames licked around their bottoms. I didn't understand it. There was FIRE in our KITCHEN. Why was everyone being so calm about this? Anyway, though.
"Well, unfortunately I'm not very good at it. I don't know how to make much," I ventured in shaky Italian. It was a bit of an understatement, really. On a good day, I can produce scrambled eggs with minimal disturbance to those around me.
"Ah. So what's your best dish?" she inquired politely.
Hm. Toast? Grilled cheese? Something told me that neither of these would be an acceptable answer. And it would have been difficult to explain anyway, given that toast is the word Italians use for grilled cheese.
"Ratatouille," I finally said, praying that I would never be called upon to demonstrate. (I do more or less know how to make this.) The conversation segued conveniently into languages from here and I began to sigh with relief, stopping abruptly when I caught sight of the stove again. What's up with this nonsense, anyway? I wondered to myself. Someone should inform Italy that this is no longer the middle ages. Or the fifties. We have other kinds of stoves now. Ones that don't involve gas and an open flame and the potential to blow up your entire apartment building.
The stove still reminds me far too much of a bunsen burner for me to feel completely at ease when using it, but at least I can now turn it on without flinching at the little clicky sounds it makes as it tries to light, and boil my spaghetti without cowering in fear. In fact, I've even begun to appreciate how quickly it makes the water boil - quite miraculous, really. I can almost, almost see why people would own this kind of stove on purpose, availability of other kinds of stoves notwithstanding. However, this does not solve all my problems with cooking. To be revealed presently: the thing with the supermarkets.
Wednesday, January 14
Che bello
"Ciao, ragazze!" A man calling out from under an awning to, presumably, two or more girls that I can't see, distracts me from my contemplation of the imminent threat of drizzle (will I make it to the school before it starts to rain in earnest? will my hair be completely flattened regardless? why did I not bring my umbrella?) and reminds me where I am.
"Ciao, mio caro!" the owner of the cafe around the corner from my apartment shouts at a young-ish man across the street. His exuberance is infectious and I smile.
I walk through a small crowd gathered outside of the library and the language washes around me in waves and spikes of lively sound. An acquaintance waves at me from his bike. I don't really see him until the last minute, but I'm still smiling to myself. Lucky, that.
"Ciao!" another teacher calls out from her bike, and another smile overlaps with the first when I see her son strapped to a seat in back of her. I love that. I know people in this city. I love that, too.
"Ciao, bellissima!" someone shouts to the woman walking in front of me. She is indeed far better dressed than I am, and her hair falls in careful blond waves that bounce across her shoulders. The thought does nothing to change my quietly gleeful mood, though.
"Ciao, mio caro!" the owner of the cafe around the corner from my apartment shouts at a young-ish man across the street. His exuberance is infectious and I smile.
I walk through a small crowd gathered outside of the library and the language washes around me in waves and spikes of lively sound. An acquaintance waves at me from his bike. I don't really see him until the last minute, but I'm still smiling to myself. Lucky, that.
"Ciao!" another teacher calls out from her bike, and another smile overlaps with the first when I see her son strapped to a seat in back of her. I love that. I know people in this city. I love that, too.
"Ciao, bellissima!" someone shouts to the woman walking in front of me. She is indeed far better dressed than I am, and her hair falls in careful blond waves that bounce across her shoulders. The thought does nothing to change my quietly gleeful mood, though.
History by exposure
"They really had no imaginations," a French teacher of mine once remarked, on the subject of street names in America. "I mean, 'first lake', 'second lake', 'third lake'... and the same in New York!" Her charming accent and dubious grammatical accuracy more or less absorbed any sting the comment might have had... and she kind of had a point, anyway.
Here in Italy, it's like in Paris (her original point of reference, if I recall correctly). Every day I walk past any number of streets, and they all have name plaques on them that go like this: "Angelo Secchi, 1818-1878, Naturalista". It's no wonder people here are so much more cultured than in America - you can get a full history lesson just by walking through town. Or perhaps they were cultured to begin with and that's why they take the time to name their streets after historical figures. I'm kind of sleepy and not really up to getting into a chicken-or-egg debate with myself right now, though, so I'll leave you with that rather less than earth-shattering observation.
All I know is that I'm waiting for someone to mention Angelo Secchi in conversation, so that I can just rifle through my mental snapshots of on-the-way-to-work and respond with, "oh, yes, the ninteenth century naturalist."
Here in Italy, it's like in Paris (her original point of reference, if I recall correctly). Every day I walk past any number of streets, and they all have name plaques on them that go like this: "Angelo Secchi, 1818-1878, Naturalista". It's no wonder people here are so much more cultured than in America - you can get a full history lesson just by walking through town. Or perhaps they were cultured to begin with and that's why they take the time to name their streets after historical figures. I'm kind of sleepy and not really up to getting into a chicken-or-egg debate with myself right now, though, so I'll leave you with that rather less than earth-shattering observation.
All I know is that I'm waiting for someone to mention Angelo Secchi in conversation, so that I can just rifle through my mental snapshots of on-the-way-to-work and respond with, "oh, yes, the ninteenth century naturalist."
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