"Well, you pretty much cook it like a bistecca," the secretary tells me, explaining about the chicken breast I am meant to cook for the children (hers and the boss') after I pick them up from school and walk them home.
I stare blankly into space for a moment, contemplating this.
"Well, the thing is... I've never cooked a steak before, either," I finally explain.
"Oh... well... um... so, you take a pan, right?" she makes a pan-shaped sort of gesture with her hands. "And then you put some olive oil in it. You know? Olive oil?"
I do know.
"And then you... cook it. You know?"
I suppose.
She hands me the package of what presumably contains chicken breast. It feels remarkably heavy for being meant for only three small-ish children. I shift it gingerly to my left hand and grab my keys.
"So, when it's done, the meat should be... white on the inside? Not pink?" I turn back to ask - just to double check, you know. The last thing I need to do is poison the boss' kid.
"That's right," she nods encouragingly, "pink if it were steak, but white for the chicken."
Grande.
The children recount the day's adventures to me on the way home (and then, Manu's mom brought their pet dog into our class!), and also sing a traditional African folk song that they have apparently just learned at the top of their lungs, earning us more than one puzzled stare as we walk up the Via Emilia.
When we get home, I turn on the stove (ha! I've got you all figured out, you silly stove, even though you caused me all kinds of grief when I first started having to use you: hold down the button for a while to make the gas stay lit). The children are occupied with torturing the boss' cat. I take a moment to hope it won't scratch them before turning to the package of chicken.
I open it. It is raw. I mean, obviously, but... ew. Raw. It's all slimey and gooey and stuff, but I bravely pick it up and plop it into a pan with some oil. Actually, a lot of oil, because, fact: oil and fried-ness generally makes everything taste delicious, so maybe the olive-y deliciousness will be able to cancel out whatever other horrible flavors I manage to create. (If you're thinking 'it's just chicken - what can possibly go wrong?', you don't know me very well.) The oil splatters. Never mind the children being scratched by the cat: probably the injury of the day is that I'm going to get hot oil in my eye and be blind. Sigh.
For the next five minutes, I alternate between staring intently at the clock on my phone and staring intently at the chicken in the pan. I time the five minutes very precisely. Flip. Another five minutes. Sizzle. Flip to check for doneness. Well, I can't see the meat on the inside, but it looks okay from here. I cut it open to check and it's white. Not much else I can do, right?
Two more pieces later, I am holding my breath as the children eye the chicken (I wonder if they know I am a horrible cook or if they are in the habit of staring down their food before they eat it because they are children or if they are wondering why it is cut in half down the middle - because I didn't want to poison you, kids, that's all!).
"So?" I ask the one who speaks English. I figure I can get one opinion before opening up the polls to the other two. She shrugs noncommittally. I chew nervously on my bottom lip. Okay, self, I think, as long as none of them actually gets sick, it's okay. I mean, I was hired to be a teacher, right? No one said anything about knowing how to cook. I am still pondering my defense in the event of cries of "ew, your chicken sucks" when the littlest one pokes me.
"C'e n'e' ancora?" she asks. (Is there any more?) This takes me a moment to process.
"Does anyone else... want more?" I ask cautiously.
Three little heads nod enthusiastically. I smile as I take their plates and head back to the stove and I don't even mind that raw chicken is icky.
Sunday, January 31
Wednesday, January 27
The blue car is back!
And now we are on to bigger and better things together, like finding the Top Secret Headquarters of the Uber-Fancy Local Fashion Thing and conquering the autostrada. Oh, yes. It is going about as well as can be expected, given our history: the former took us about three hours despite being only ten minutes away from our starting point, and the latter probably shaved about three years off the end of my life.
I should preface this by explaining that the Uber-Fancy Top Secret Local Fashion Headquarters is not actually top-secret. In fact, aside from the flag having been invented here, it's probably Reggio's one other claim to fame. I'm pretty sure a significant portion of Reggio's population is employed or somehow otherwise connected to this fashion group and its associated industries and whatever.
Anyway, that said, you'd think someone would know how to get to the headquarters. Or that the address would be available on the internet. Or that the UFLFT HR people who are organizing the English courses might have included it in part of their correspondance with our school. You'd think. And yet...
"Oh, yeah, it's... you know... over there," our receptionist assures us, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the window, from which you can see Ipercoop and the beginning of Reggio's charming industrial district. "You know."
But we don't. Twenty minutes later and a phone call to the aforementioned HR people later, we have the address. Via M--- G----. (Just maintaining the secrecy, you know. Even though anyone who lives in Reggio will probably know exactly what I am talking about. I think there is really only one Uber-Fancy fashion thing with its headquarters here.) We put the address into the GPS. We attach the GPS to the windshield.
"You have to put the car in neutral for it to start," I offer, sharing the wisdom I garnered last year with the new girl. I am helping her to practice driving in Italy. You should take a moment to reflect upon how ludicrous it is to have me helping anyone to practice anything. Particularly driving the blue car. Anyway, we make it out of the parking lot and after a brief panic on the roundabout ("which way do I go? Left or right? Quick!" Me: "um... right. Like the little arrow. Always right. Because here we drive on the right, remember?" "Oh, that's right." Oh, dear. I check my seatbelt.)
The GPS is exceedingly bossy and we follow its directions, checking them against the Google Maps thing we printed out. They agree. Things are going well.
We miss a turn, but it is no big deal, except for the fact that the GPS is not very sympathetic: "turn around as soon as possible. Turn around as soon as possible," she orders crisply. Couldn't it be just a little more tactful? Like "that's okay, dear - it's hard to see the signs in this light. I'm sure you'll get it on the second try."
As it happens, we turn around and promptly miss the turn again. It is a tiny side street with no lighting and little ditches on either side. On the fourth or fifth try, we get it. Huzzah. We begin to inch along the miniscule dirt road, and the ditches on either side widen until they are huge and we have about six inches on either side of the car. We roll along silently for a few minutes. We appear to be deep in the middle of a farm, surrounded on either side by some sort of field and a faint smell of pigs. The GPS has no advice for us. We are so focused on not falling into the ditches that it takes a few minutes before one of us says, "wait... but would the headquarters of the Uber-Fancy Local Fashion Thing really be here in the middle of a field?" "Good point," agrees the other. "Surely they wouldn't want to work in a place that kind of smells like pigs?"
An even smaller side road branches off ahead, barely visible in the fog. It is clearly a sign. We execute a graceful 3 point turn that only takes us the better part of half an hour (as we are not so confident about our abilites to not end up in the ditch) and inch carefully back to the main road. Splendid.
We slink back to the school. What with having made a side trip to the village of Massenzatico (twice), our adventure has taken a little over an hour.
We acquire a third member for our search party and a new set of google directions.
We end up on Via M--- G---, which turns out to be located in a quiet residential area made up cute little apartment buildings. I roll down my window to ask for help from an elderly lady hobbling down the sidewalk.
"Scusi, ma do you know if the Top Secret Headquarters of the UFLFT is located near here?" I ask.
"The what? The fashion thing? Noooo, signorina, not even close." After indulging in a brief cackle of amusement, she gives us lengthy directions mainly in dialect.
"Grazie mille!" I call cheerfully, rolling up the window. I turn back to my cohorts. Their faces are as blank as mine probably is. Right, then.
"You know," ventures one of them, "one of my students works for the local fashion thing and I have her mobile number. I could... call her." It is eight-thirty on a Friday night, but this seems to be our best bet. She dials.
"Hello? Hi, this is [your English teacher]. Um... we're trying to find the Top Secret Headquarters. You know, where you work. Can you help us?"
Pause.
"Well, we're not quite sure... um... we've been looking for Via M--- G---, but we got a little lost and now we're in the middle of nowhere, at a petrol station. Because also we ran out of benzina."
Pause.
"Wait, really? Via M--- F---, not M--- G---?"
Pause.
"Oh. Yeah. I guess that *would* make a difference. Wait, let me see if the GPS can find it."
We type it into the GPS. It does not recognize it as a real place. (See, I told you it was top secret.)
"Wait, Via M--- F---? You're sure? Because the GPS says it doesn't exist."
Pause, during which the student gives detailed and precise directions for ending up on the so-secret-GPS-doesn't-know-about-it Via M--- F---. It turns out to be located practically under the Ponti di Calatrava (google it, they're pretty cool-looking). Also, we can see them from the window of the school. They are literally less than ten minutes away.
We find them. The student calls to check up on us. (We love our students.) The Top Secret Headquarters is huge, eerily covered in fog, and gated shut. We turn around and head home. We go and get a pizza.
I wonder if there will ever be a time when I will just drive the blue car somewhere and it will be simple and not require emergency phone calls and three sets of a directions.
I should preface this by explaining that the Uber-Fancy Top Secret Local Fashion Headquarters is not actually top-secret. In fact, aside from the flag having been invented here, it's probably Reggio's one other claim to fame. I'm pretty sure a significant portion of Reggio's population is employed or somehow otherwise connected to this fashion group and its associated industries and whatever.
Anyway, that said, you'd think someone would know how to get to the headquarters. Or that the address would be available on the internet. Or that the UFLFT HR people who are organizing the English courses might have included it in part of their correspondance with our school. You'd think. And yet...
"Oh, yeah, it's... you know... over there," our receptionist assures us, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the window, from which you can see Ipercoop and the beginning of Reggio's charming industrial district. "You know."
But we don't. Twenty minutes later and a phone call to the aforementioned HR people later, we have the address. Via M--- G----. (Just maintaining the secrecy, you know. Even though anyone who lives in Reggio will probably know exactly what I am talking about. I think there is really only one Uber-Fancy fashion thing with its headquarters here.) We put the address into the GPS. We attach the GPS to the windshield.
"You have to put the car in neutral for it to start," I offer, sharing the wisdom I garnered last year with the new girl. I am helping her to practice driving in Italy. You should take a moment to reflect upon how ludicrous it is to have me helping anyone to practice anything. Particularly driving the blue car. Anyway, we make it out of the parking lot and after a brief panic on the roundabout ("which way do I go? Left or right? Quick!" Me: "um... right. Like the little arrow. Always right. Because here we drive on the right, remember?" "Oh, that's right." Oh, dear. I check my seatbelt.)
The GPS is exceedingly bossy and we follow its directions, checking them against the Google Maps thing we printed out. They agree. Things are going well.
We miss a turn, but it is no big deal, except for the fact that the GPS is not very sympathetic: "turn around as soon as possible. Turn around as soon as possible," she orders crisply. Couldn't it be just a little more tactful? Like "that's okay, dear - it's hard to see the signs in this light. I'm sure you'll get it on the second try."
As it happens, we turn around and promptly miss the turn again. It is a tiny side street with no lighting and little ditches on either side. On the fourth or fifth try, we get it. Huzzah. We begin to inch along the miniscule dirt road, and the ditches on either side widen until they are huge and we have about six inches on either side of the car. We roll along silently for a few minutes. We appear to be deep in the middle of a farm, surrounded on either side by some sort of field and a faint smell of pigs. The GPS has no advice for us. We are so focused on not falling into the ditches that it takes a few minutes before one of us says, "wait... but would the headquarters of the Uber-Fancy Local Fashion Thing really be here in the middle of a field?" "Good point," agrees the other. "Surely they wouldn't want to work in a place that kind of smells like pigs?"
An even smaller side road branches off ahead, barely visible in the fog. It is clearly a sign. We execute a graceful 3 point turn that only takes us the better part of half an hour (as we are not so confident about our abilites to not end up in the ditch) and inch carefully back to the main road. Splendid.
We slink back to the school. What with having made a side trip to the village of Massenzatico (twice), our adventure has taken a little over an hour.
We acquire a third member for our search party and a new set of google directions.
We end up on Via M--- G---, which turns out to be located in a quiet residential area made up cute little apartment buildings. I roll down my window to ask for help from an elderly lady hobbling down the sidewalk.
"Scusi, ma do you know if the Top Secret Headquarters of the UFLFT is located near here?" I ask.
"The what? The fashion thing? Noooo, signorina, not even close." After indulging in a brief cackle of amusement, she gives us lengthy directions mainly in dialect.
"Grazie mille!" I call cheerfully, rolling up the window. I turn back to my cohorts. Their faces are as blank as mine probably is. Right, then.
"You know," ventures one of them, "one of my students works for the local fashion thing and I have her mobile number. I could... call her." It is eight-thirty on a Friday night, but this seems to be our best bet. She dials.
"Hello? Hi, this is [your English teacher]. Um... we're trying to find the Top Secret Headquarters. You know, where you work. Can you help us?"
Pause.
"Well, we're not quite sure... um... we've been looking for Via M--- G---, but we got a little lost and now we're in the middle of nowhere, at a petrol station. Because also we ran out of benzina."
Pause.
"Wait, really? Via M--- F---, not M--- G---?"
Pause.
"Oh. Yeah. I guess that *would* make a difference. Wait, let me see if the GPS can find it."
We type it into the GPS. It does not recognize it as a real place. (See, I told you it was top secret.)
"Wait, Via M--- F---? You're sure? Because the GPS says it doesn't exist."
Pause, during which the student gives detailed and precise directions for ending up on the so-secret-GPS-doesn't-know-about-it Via M--- F---. It turns out to be located practically under the Ponti di Calatrava (google it, they're pretty cool-looking). Also, we can see them from the window of the school. They are literally less than ten minutes away.
We find them. The student calls to check up on us. (We love our students.) The Top Secret Headquarters is huge, eerily covered in fog, and gated shut. We turn around and head home. We go and get a pizza.
I wonder if there will ever be a time when I will just drive the blue car somewhere and it will be simple and not require emergency phone calls and three sets of a directions.
Monday, January 18
School
I love school. Really, I do. Apparently when I was four I declared to my mother that the time had come for me to go to school and that I didn't want to stay with the babysitter and my infant compatriots anymore. I think it was because I'd somehow got wind that preschools had markers and I really wanted to try those things out. Now that I'm grown up, I still love school (lack of Crayola products notwithstanding) and I think I figured out why.
It's all about the ego-boost. I suck at the real world. I couldn't cook you a decent meal to save your life (or mine), and yesterday it took me three hours to find a place that ended up being ten minutes away. (Although, admittedly, I had the wrong address during the first two hours... more on that another day, though.) Oh, and today I could not for the life of me figure out how to operate the coffee-machine at work. (You have to push the button with the cup of coffee depicted on it. Go figure.)
School, though. I'm good at that. Give me a chapter of (preferrably interesting, but I can cope if not) stuff to learn and I will highlight and take notes and rearrange and then spit it back out at you in the form of multiple choice answers or true/false decisions or essay answers. If I'm really doing well, I can just read and remember. I love that. Either way.
At school, I can look at an essay prompt and bang out 1000 words of decently written prose with correct grammar and a few semi-colons thrown in just to show off and feel good about myself. "You write well," the teacher/professor/thesis advisor says. Ten points out of ten. Oh, the affirmation. It's so good.
I think I figured out how it all evens out in the end, though. People who struggled in school, do you remember when there were spelling tests and you worked so hard to sort out the vowels in ridiculous words like 'neighborhood' and 'facetious' (aside: really, English, what were they thinking when they designed you?)? And those little straight-A brats like me were sitting there blithely throwing in words like 'conscientious' and 'liaison' for extra credit? Well, guess what? Now you are out there having successful lives and even if you can't spell 'mischievous', no one will ever know, because yay, spellcheck! Meanwhile, I have to go around a roundabout three or four times before I figure out which way is west, and being able to read a quiche recipe in French doesn't help me with the fact that for some reason the filling of mine always leaks into the crust and makes the crust disgustingly soggy. I can't even reliably turn the stove on, and let's not even get started on telling one's right from one's left under pressure.
I wish I could send a message back in time to say "Little fourth-grade Self and fellow-nerd friends, enjoy this while you're ahead. It won't last long. And the rest of you... don't begrudge us our grade-school glory. You'll have the rest of your lives to make fun of us for everything else."
This post brought to you by the fact that I decided to take a few online courses this semester and so I'm back at school, in a manner of speaking, and... I love it.
It's all about the ego-boost. I suck at the real world. I couldn't cook you a decent meal to save your life (or mine), and yesterday it took me three hours to find a place that ended up being ten minutes away. (Although, admittedly, I had the wrong address during the first two hours... more on that another day, though.) Oh, and today I could not for the life of me figure out how to operate the coffee-machine at work. (You have to push the button with the cup of coffee depicted on it. Go figure.)
School, though. I'm good at that. Give me a chapter of (preferrably interesting, but I can cope if not) stuff to learn and I will highlight and take notes and rearrange and then spit it back out at you in the form of multiple choice answers or true/false decisions or essay answers. If I'm really doing well, I can just read and remember. I love that. Either way.
At school, I can look at an essay prompt and bang out 1000 words of decently written prose with correct grammar and a few semi-colons thrown in just to show off and feel good about myself. "You write well," the teacher/professor/thesis advisor says. Ten points out of ten. Oh, the affirmation. It's so good.
I think I figured out how it all evens out in the end, though. People who struggled in school, do you remember when there were spelling tests and you worked so hard to sort out the vowels in ridiculous words like 'neighborhood' and 'facetious' (aside: really, English, what were they thinking when they designed you?)? And those little straight-A brats like me were sitting there blithely throwing in words like 'conscientious' and 'liaison' for extra credit? Well, guess what? Now you are out there having successful lives and even if you can't spell 'mischievous', no one will ever know, because yay, spellcheck! Meanwhile, I have to go around a roundabout three or four times before I figure out which way is west, and being able to read a quiche recipe in French doesn't help me with the fact that for some reason the filling of mine always leaks into the crust and makes the crust disgustingly soggy. I can't even reliably turn the stove on, and let's not even get started on telling one's right from one's left under pressure.
I wish I could send a message back in time to say "Little fourth-grade Self and fellow-nerd friends, enjoy this while you're ahead. It won't last long. And the rest of you... don't begrudge us our grade-school glory. You'll have the rest of your lives to make fun of us for everything else."
This post brought to you by the fact that I decided to take a few online courses this semester and so I'm back at school, in a manner of speaking, and... I love it.
Sunday, January 17
Contenta
I love that I can hear the bells from this room. In a year (and now another week) of living here, I've never been sure if they were the bells from San Prospero or the Duomo, but either way, I love them. It makes the whole thing so much more European.
I love the view from my room, especially if you stand to the side a bit and look out slightly on an angle. The reddish of the Palazzo Vescovile turns purpleish-grayish and then maroon as dusk falls, and the sky turns such a jewel-like blue sometimes. (Incidentally, the view from my room is what is featured in that little picture on the side of the page. Or, at least, I can see a little picture. My internet prowess is not so great - read: nonexistant - so the likelihood that anyone else can see the little picture is also not so great. But anyway.)
It was nice moving back in here. It feels slightly surreal in a way: wasn't I *just* lugging these suitcases *down* the stairs in the fierce August heat just, like, five minutes ago? And now here I am dragging them back up and I have gloves and a coat on...
Good to be back, though. Like last year, when I first moved in. Such a relief, after creepy man from the Apartment of No Hot Water. I remember lovingly scrubbing the hardwood floor with hardwood-floor-scrubbing stuff and being so delighted when the dust wiped away and it started to shine. Yesterday I did that again, and cleaned the walls a bit (bizarre... I never clean the walls at home... but here they're starkly white and apparently benefit from an occasional spot of dusting). I even sforzata'd myself and took down the spiderwebs from the corners of the ceiling. Well, most of them. There's one left, and that's because there's a spider in it. He is just innocuous-looking enough that I don't mind leaving him there, partially because he is very high up and I don't particularly fancy having him land on my head if I try to get him with the broom.
Anyway, now everything is shiny and clean and I went to Esselunga and got some vegetables which I shall attempt to work up the courage to cook and it feels like this is my home again. It's very soothing.
It's nice sitting here at my newly-built desk with the bells going and the sounds of the market drifting up and over from the piazze. The swivel chair, by the way, is holding up nicely and has been supporting my full weight for at least twenty minutes despite the fact that I left out two screws and another metal-y hexagon thing when I built it yesterday morning.
I think I will go make a sandwich with some fresh mozzarella. I missed fresh mozzarella. It's good to be back.
I love the view from my room, especially if you stand to the side a bit and look out slightly on an angle. The reddish of the Palazzo Vescovile turns purpleish-grayish and then maroon as dusk falls, and the sky turns such a jewel-like blue sometimes. (Incidentally, the view from my room is what is featured in that little picture on the side of the page. Or, at least, I can see a little picture. My internet prowess is not so great - read: nonexistant - so the likelihood that anyone else can see the little picture is also not so great. But anyway.)
It was nice moving back in here. It feels slightly surreal in a way: wasn't I *just* lugging these suitcases *down* the stairs in the fierce August heat just, like, five minutes ago? And now here I am dragging them back up and I have gloves and a coat on...
Good to be back, though. Like last year, when I first moved in. Such a relief, after creepy man from the Apartment of No Hot Water. I remember lovingly scrubbing the hardwood floor with hardwood-floor-scrubbing stuff and being so delighted when the dust wiped away and it started to shine. Yesterday I did that again, and cleaned the walls a bit (bizarre... I never clean the walls at home... but here they're starkly white and apparently benefit from an occasional spot of dusting). I even sforzata'd myself and took down the spiderwebs from the corners of the ceiling. Well, most of them. There's one left, and that's because there's a spider in it. He is just innocuous-looking enough that I don't mind leaving him there, partially because he is very high up and I don't particularly fancy having him land on my head if I try to get him with the broom.
Anyway, now everything is shiny and clean and I went to Esselunga and got some vegetables which I shall attempt to work up the courage to cook and it feels like this is my home again. It's very soothing.
It's nice sitting here at my newly-built desk with the bells going and the sounds of the market drifting up and over from the piazze. The swivel chair, by the way, is holding up nicely and has been supporting my full weight for at least twenty minutes despite the fact that I left out two screws and another metal-y hexagon thing when I built it yesterday morning.
I think I will go make a sandwich with some fresh mozzarella. I missed fresh mozzarella. It's good to be back.
Saturday, January 16
Ikea
Ikea is awesome. You can go in there looking for a screwdriver, or a little table, or what-have-you, spend three hours walking through their ridiculously huge display area, fantasizing about how to furnish a Swedish/Spartan-themed mansion, and come out with a pile of random (but useful!) stuff all on a handy little cart that they will sell you for 10euro. You may or may not end up with the screwdriver you were originally looking for.
I've gotten to be a pro at Ikea shopping, though, having used it to furnish my entire life (by which I mean one single small-ish bedroom) last year. I didn't even have the use of a car last year, which made it all the more exciting. The Bologna Ikea advertises a convenient "navetta elettrica" to take you from the train station straight to Ikea and back for 5euro. The trick is that nowhere does it mention exactly in what part of the station you should wait for this bus. My strategy last time was to stand near that big clock right in the center of the train station piazza, from where I monitored to comings and goings of all buses and still missed it. This is because (it turns out) the Ikea bus is just a regular bus, but with a little placard in the front window that says Ikea. Yeah, good luck spotting that from across the street.
Anyway, plan B: I got on a train to Casalecchio, as suggested by the charming Trenitalia people, ended up in what was presumably Casalecchio (whose train station is out in the middle of nowhere) and, after five minutes spent feeling sure that I had been abandoned by the side of the road in a train station where no trains would ever come again, I picked myself up and decided to walk along the side of the road towards some signs that looked promising. Forty five minutes later, I marched my sweaty (this was last September) and dusty self into Ikea. Lesson learned: the level of safety of strolling along the side of the tangenziale is probably fairly minimal. I do not recommend it.
The other problem if you have no car is that you have to carry your purchases yourself, so last year I struggled home holding a bookshelf and a small table with a lamp and some cups stuffed into my purse. So classy. Oh, so classy. This engendered more than one "hey, I'll help you carry that" type comment from the helpful characters that hang around the train station, but I made it home in one (sweaty) piece. Note: do not respond to the characters who hang around the train station, whatever they may say.
In any case, a year and a half later, I am proud to say that the shelf is still standing, the lightbulb in the lamp has yet to go out (!) and it is sitting comfortably on the little table.
This year, I was all 'I've been living here for a year now, and it would be fun to have a desk and a chair upon which to rest my laptop and myself, respectively'. So these were purchased (in a largely similar way, except now I know where the navetta stops: if you are at the train station, turn around so that you are facing away from it, cross the street, walk towards viale Indipendenza, past the hotel Mercure, and almost to the corner, and stop under the McDonald's sign, which may or may not have a clock attached to it, if memory serves me correctly).
Building Ikea furniture is half the fun. It's all so satisfying, you know? Especially for a girl, because I never get to build stuff from scratch because... hammers and saws and stuff... they are tricky. So here comes this furniture with the pieces all tidily cut out (good, because I particularly don't feel confident about saws) and smelling like wood (or fake wood with varnish on it, but whatever) and a pile of little screws and stuff.
It kind of falls into two categories, though: the kind that has everything you need in the box (e.g. the Lack table, where you just twist the legs on and the whole process takes approximately three minutes) and the kind where you need outside help from screwdrivers and stuff. With the latter kind, I like to play a fun game, which is called "how many parts can I eliminate and still have the thing not fall over when I'm done?" Yes. It is a good game.
For example, this desk (amusingly called Flarke - I kind of wish I spoke Swedish, because isn't flarke a great word? I wish I knew what it meant and google translate is silent on this issue). It is the simplest desk Ikea has available, and yet it involves about eight nails, four screw-type things that you do with the Ikea twisty piece screwdriver thing (yeah, technical term), and a whole pile of other screws with which to attach the keyboard tray.
Yes, well, I have no keyboard and no screwdriver, so never mind about the keyboard tray. Poof! A whole pile of screws rendered unecessary. The nails are apparently to attach some bits of rubbery plastic to the bottom so that it won't scratch your floor, but I have no hammer, so I will simply build the thing on a rug and then not move it around too much and then it won't scratch my floor. Poof! We're down eight nails and a pesky hammer issue. Next: I attach the two sides to one another by means of a piece of wood that stretches across the back of the desk, using the Ikea twisty piece screwdriver thing and the four screw-type things.
It is tricky building furniture by oneself, but I manage by propping things on the bed and using all four extremities to grip things, monkey-style. (Again, so classy.) Anyway, thus connected, the two sides are now able to stand. Huzzah! All that is missing is the top. Four of the screws need to be screwed into the underside of the top so that they can drop into slots on the side parts so that it won't move around. I do not have a screwdriver, but I improvise using one blade of a set of kiddie scissors (NB: if you ever decide to try this, do not let yourself be tempted to grip the scissors by the blade - it will probably not end well). This is, as you can imagine, not as efficient as using an actual screwdriver, so I only do two of them. As far as I can tell, using knowledge garnered from a year of college physics (which I barely passed, but let's not get picky), as long as you put two of them in (any two, I think), it's probably not going anywhere. And there we go. That's how to build a desk using four pieces of (fake) wood and six screws.
Today I'm going to build a swivel chair. We'll see how that goes.
I've gotten to be a pro at Ikea shopping, though, having used it to furnish my entire life (by which I mean one single small-ish bedroom) last year. I didn't even have the use of a car last year, which made it all the more exciting. The Bologna Ikea advertises a convenient "navetta elettrica" to take you from the train station straight to Ikea and back for 5euro. The trick is that nowhere does it mention exactly in what part of the station you should wait for this bus. My strategy last time was to stand near that big clock right in the center of the train station piazza, from where I monitored to comings and goings of all buses and still missed it. This is because (it turns out) the Ikea bus is just a regular bus, but with a little placard in the front window that says Ikea. Yeah, good luck spotting that from across the street.
Anyway, plan B: I got on a train to Casalecchio, as suggested by the charming Trenitalia people, ended up in what was presumably Casalecchio (whose train station is out in the middle of nowhere) and, after five minutes spent feeling sure that I had been abandoned by the side of the road in a train station where no trains would ever come again, I picked myself up and decided to walk along the side of the road towards some signs that looked promising. Forty five minutes later, I marched my sweaty (this was last September) and dusty self into Ikea. Lesson learned: the level of safety of strolling along the side of the tangenziale is probably fairly minimal. I do not recommend it.
The other problem if you have no car is that you have to carry your purchases yourself, so last year I struggled home holding a bookshelf and a small table with a lamp and some cups stuffed into my purse. So classy. Oh, so classy. This engendered more than one "hey, I'll help you carry that" type comment from the helpful characters that hang around the train station, but I made it home in one (sweaty) piece. Note: do not respond to the characters who hang around the train station, whatever they may say.
In any case, a year and a half later, I am proud to say that the shelf is still standing, the lightbulb in the lamp has yet to go out (!) and it is sitting comfortably on the little table.
This year, I was all 'I've been living here for a year now, and it would be fun to have a desk and a chair upon which to rest my laptop and myself, respectively'. So these were purchased (in a largely similar way, except now I know where the navetta stops: if you are at the train station, turn around so that you are facing away from it, cross the street, walk towards viale Indipendenza, past the hotel Mercure, and almost to the corner, and stop under the McDonald's sign, which may or may not have a clock attached to it, if memory serves me correctly).
Building Ikea furniture is half the fun. It's all so satisfying, you know? Especially for a girl, because I never get to build stuff from scratch because... hammers and saws and stuff... they are tricky. So here comes this furniture with the pieces all tidily cut out (good, because I particularly don't feel confident about saws) and smelling like wood (or fake wood with varnish on it, but whatever) and a pile of little screws and stuff.
It kind of falls into two categories, though: the kind that has everything you need in the box (e.g. the Lack table, where you just twist the legs on and the whole process takes approximately three minutes) and the kind where you need outside help from screwdrivers and stuff. With the latter kind, I like to play a fun game, which is called "how many parts can I eliminate and still have the thing not fall over when I'm done?" Yes. It is a good game.
For example, this desk (amusingly called Flarke - I kind of wish I spoke Swedish, because isn't flarke a great word? I wish I knew what it meant and google translate is silent on this issue). It is the simplest desk Ikea has available, and yet it involves about eight nails, four screw-type things that you do with the Ikea twisty piece screwdriver thing (yeah, technical term), and a whole pile of other screws with which to attach the keyboard tray.
Yes, well, I have no keyboard and no screwdriver, so never mind about the keyboard tray. Poof! A whole pile of screws rendered unecessary. The nails are apparently to attach some bits of rubbery plastic to the bottom so that it won't scratch your floor, but I have no hammer, so I will simply build the thing on a rug and then not move it around too much and then it won't scratch my floor. Poof! We're down eight nails and a pesky hammer issue. Next: I attach the two sides to one another by means of a piece of wood that stretches across the back of the desk, using the Ikea twisty piece screwdriver thing and the four screw-type things.
It is tricky building furniture by oneself, but I manage by propping things on the bed and using all four extremities to grip things, monkey-style. (Again, so classy.) Anyway, thus connected, the two sides are now able to stand. Huzzah! All that is missing is the top. Four of the screws need to be screwed into the underside of the top so that they can drop into slots on the side parts so that it won't move around. I do not have a screwdriver, but I improvise using one blade of a set of kiddie scissors (NB: if you ever decide to try this, do not let yourself be tempted to grip the scissors by the blade - it will probably not end well). This is, as you can imagine, not as efficient as using an actual screwdriver, so I only do two of them. As far as I can tell, using knowledge garnered from a year of college physics (which I barely passed, but let's not get picky), as long as you put two of them in (any two, I think), it's probably not going anywhere. And there we go. That's how to build a desk using four pieces of (fake) wood and six screws.
Today I'm going to build a swivel chair. We'll see how that goes.
Friday, January 15
Tornata
Eccomi tornata a Reggio. The fountain, apparently not frozen, greets us with its energetic splashes of water. The Via Emilia bustles with people on their passeggiata, and the crepe guy with the erratic schedule is in Piazza del Monte. Oviesse still closes on Thursday afternoons, and Conad on Tuesday afternoons. Pan' comune is still oddly dry and crusty on the outside but fluffy on the inside, and in the cute restaurant on Via Roma with all the old-ish guys who seem to know each other, they offer us Lambrusco and I am happy to see it again. (Not because I'm obsessed with swilling Lambrusco or something, but just because it's so emblematic of this place.)
The cobblestones still snatch at my heels and they still empty the recycling bin of vetro at five in the morning with the street cleaners following close behind. Market day clogs the piazze with stalls and people. The nebbia blankets the countryside around us, though I'm proud to report that I still remember how to get to Nearby Village all on my own, nebbia and darkness notwithstanding. The blue car with its pseudo-automatic transmission still has trouble switching gears.
Speaking of which, in Nearby Village, my students have all grown about a foot each, and are fairly jumping up and down with excitment to show me their new hamster and update me on their class gossip (they're eleven).
"Allontanarsi dalla linea gialla," is still my favorite thing to hear at the train station, though I'll admit to not being able to name all the stops on the Ancona regionale anymore.
My little babysitting charge nearly leaps off the stairs at me when I pick her up from school.
"Just normal cheese," she responds when I ask her what kind she wants on her gnocchi, "grana." Obviously, says her good-natured roll of the eyes. I smile.
"Aspetta un attimo, che I need to give la Cri a hug!" the secretary interrupts her phone conversation when I walk into the school, "oh, ma questa volta non ti lasciamo piu' andare."
"Ma sei tornata?" a group of old students exclaim.
Si, son' tornata. Is there a smiley-face icon here somewhere?
The cobblestones still snatch at my heels and they still empty the recycling bin of vetro at five in the morning with the street cleaners following close behind. Market day clogs the piazze with stalls and people. The nebbia blankets the countryside around us, though I'm proud to report that I still remember how to get to Nearby Village all on my own, nebbia and darkness notwithstanding. The blue car with its pseudo-automatic transmission still has trouble switching gears.
Speaking of which, in Nearby Village, my students have all grown about a foot each, and are fairly jumping up and down with excitment to show me their new hamster and update me on their class gossip (they're eleven).
"Allontanarsi dalla linea gialla," is still my favorite thing to hear at the train station, though I'll admit to not being able to name all the stops on the Ancona regionale anymore.
My little babysitting charge nearly leaps off the stairs at me when I pick her up from school.
"Just normal cheese," she responds when I ask her what kind she wants on her gnocchi, "grana." Obviously, says her good-natured roll of the eyes. I smile.
"Aspetta un attimo, che I need to give la Cri a hug!" the secretary interrupts her phone conversation when I walk into the school, "oh, ma questa volta non ti lasciamo piu' andare."
"Ma sei tornata?" a group of old students exclaim.
Si, son' tornata. Is there a smiley-face icon here somewhere?
Monday, January 4
Only in France
"No, don't get me wrong - fish is great, and healthy, too!" insists an uncle of some sort midway through the main course of one of our many must-see-as-much-of-the-French-family-as-possible-while-we-are-here dinners. "But you have to try some of the specialties while you're here, too."
It is unfortunate. My brother and I have done well this time, arriving at the restaurant a bit early to allow ourselves time to peruse and decipher the menu beforehand in order to smoothly order our (admittedly somewhat conservative) velouté de carotte followed by grilled fish, thus avoiding having to ask our mother awkward questions. (For example: 'what's tartare, again?' 'raw meat' 'oh... right.') Somehow, though, we are still getting the 'you silly Americans, with your egregiously limited palate' lecture. Sigh.
"You've had moules (mussels), haven't you?"
Luckily, we have (before we were old enough to really know what was going on).
"And huitres (oysters)?"
I do not share the fact that I was sick for a week after the one and only time I tried an oyster (it was probably just unfortunately-timed, but I still like to blame the oyster).
"How about snails?"
Neither of us have ever tried snails. We protest that they just look so slimey and not particularly edible.
"But if you've tried oysters, snails are completely innocuous by comparison!" he informs us. "And if you think they look slimey when they're alive, you should see them when they're being prepared!"
An informative two or three minutes ensues, during which we learn that before you eat them, you have to make them "baver" (literal translation: drool) by packing them in salt. This gets all of the unwanted... um... stuff... out of them. He and my mother (who apparently witnessed this phenomenon during a stay in Bourgogne, which, they tell us, is where the best snails are) discuss the grossness of "drooling" snails at length. This does not increase the likelihood of me trying them in the near future.
"It's kind of like when Mémé Elise used to kill the rabbits!" reminisces the uncle.
"Oh, yeah! The rabbits in that little hutch in her garden... poor things..." you can tell my mother is trying to inject a little sympathy into the situation purely for our benefit. It does not really work, so she changes the subject: "You know what was really nasty, though? The chickens. Remember how she used chase them around and then grab them and break their necks and tear all the feathers out in the kitchen? And there'd be chicken feathers flying around the house for the rest of the day?"
"She made Yvonne such a nice little coat with those when she was a baby, remember?"
Charming. (Also beginning to sound slightly Little House on the Prairie). They are starting to get quite maudlin about this grandmother, who, admittedly, was quite a character. (Her other exploits include wielding a pitchfork during epic battles with her rooster.)
"Oh!" something brilliant has apparently occurred to the uncle, "but you know what's really good?" he pauses for effect. "Frog legs!"
Indeed.
"No, seriously, you should try them - they sell them in 1 kilo bags at the grocery store. With the other frozen foods."
I refrain from laughing with difficulty. Some other relative launches on a complex explanation of how to best cook them (all I remember is that it involves a lot of butter... naturally). Someone else is commenting in a serious tone that frog legs do not taste at all like beef. (Okay...)
I personally am still stuck on the idea of a 1 kilo bag of frog legs. What would the packaging look like? Innocent little froggies peering out at you? Little frog legs already roasted on a spit? Or sautéed or whatever? Or perhaps the bags are transparent? What do frog legs even look like? Is the skin still on them?
Clearly what I need to do is to head over to Picard (the supermarket that specializes in frozen foods) and check this situation out.
In the meantime, I suppress another giggle. Only in France.
It is unfortunate. My brother and I have done well this time, arriving at the restaurant a bit early to allow ourselves time to peruse and decipher the menu beforehand in order to smoothly order our (admittedly somewhat conservative) velouté de carotte followed by grilled fish, thus avoiding having to ask our mother awkward questions. (For example: 'what's tartare, again?' 'raw meat' 'oh... right.') Somehow, though, we are still getting the 'you silly Americans, with your egregiously limited palate' lecture. Sigh.
"You've had moules (mussels), haven't you?"
Luckily, we have (before we were old enough to really know what was going on).
"And huitres (oysters)?"
I do not share the fact that I was sick for a week after the one and only time I tried an oyster (it was probably just unfortunately-timed, but I still like to blame the oyster).
"How about snails?"
Neither of us have ever tried snails. We protest that they just look so slimey and not particularly edible.
"But if you've tried oysters, snails are completely innocuous by comparison!" he informs us. "And if you think they look slimey when they're alive, you should see them when they're being prepared!"
An informative two or three minutes ensues, during which we learn that before you eat them, you have to make them "baver" (literal translation: drool) by packing them in salt. This gets all of the unwanted... um... stuff... out of them. He and my mother (who apparently witnessed this phenomenon during a stay in Bourgogne, which, they tell us, is where the best snails are) discuss the grossness of "drooling" snails at length. This does not increase the likelihood of me trying them in the near future.
"It's kind of like when Mémé Elise used to kill the rabbits!" reminisces the uncle.
"Oh, yeah! The rabbits in that little hutch in her garden... poor things..." you can tell my mother is trying to inject a little sympathy into the situation purely for our benefit. It does not really work, so she changes the subject: "You know what was really nasty, though? The chickens. Remember how she used chase them around and then grab them and break their necks and tear all the feathers out in the kitchen? And there'd be chicken feathers flying around the house for the rest of the day?"
"She made Yvonne such a nice little coat with those when she was a baby, remember?"
Charming. (Also beginning to sound slightly Little House on the Prairie). They are starting to get quite maudlin about this grandmother, who, admittedly, was quite a character. (Her other exploits include wielding a pitchfork during epic battles with her rooster.)
"Oh!" something brilliant has apparently occurred to the uncle, "but you know what's really good?" he pauses for effect. "Frog legs!"
Indeed.
"No, seriously, you should try them - they sell them in 1 kilo bags at the grocery store. With the other frozen foods."
I refrain from laughing with difficulty. Some other relative launches on a complex explanation of how to best cook them (all I remember is that it involves a lot of butter... naturally). Someone else is commenting in a serious tone that frog legs do not taste at all like beef. (Okay...)
I personally am still stuck on the idea of a 1 kilo bag of frog legs. What would the packaging look like? Innocent little froggies peering out at you? Little frog legs already roasted on a spit? Or sautéed or whatever? Or perhaps the bags are transparent? What do frog legs even look like? Is the skin still on them?
Clearly what I need to do is to head over to Picard (the supermarket that specializes in frozen foods) and check this situation out.
In the meantime, I suppress another giggle. Only in France.
Sunday, January 3
Italian Food in America. Verdict: Risky
At best.
"So, how are you tonight? Aside from being freezing cold and wet, probably. It's snowing pretty hard out there, huh?" the young waiter soliloquizes* by way of introducing himself. If you are a stray Italian who has wandered onto this site and wonders why this is: it is because in America, tips aren't automatically included in the bill. You have to remember to leave them at the end of the meal, of your own volition. This is irritating and requires you to calculate percentages and stuff like that. It also causes the waiters to share far more of their personal lives and/or opinions on such things as the weather than you probably care about. You guys definitely have the better system. (Beppe Severgnini has a hilarious chapter about this in one of his hilarious books; I believe it is called "Un Italiano in America". Or "Ciao, America" for the English version. And I am not being sarcastic. He really is hilarious.)
In any case, though, I wish I could just stop the guy mid-paragraph: 'relax. We're going to tip you. You don't have to befriend us. Now just shut up and let us read the menu in peace.' I mean, if we'd wanted to sit around being hungry while someone blathered on unintelligently about nothing, we could've just stayed home and turned on the tv.
"... and a great cheese tortellini in creamy alfredo sauce." He is evidently giving the specials. "I had it myself during my break," he enthuses. Fun fact.
And probably a bad decision on his part. Alfredo sauce, apart from being kind of gross, is probably like guaranteed heart failure. Particularly when poured over cheese tortellini.
Also, minus fifty points for mentioning Alfredo sauce at all. Apart from being kind of gross (I feel the need to reiterate this) it is sort of like "french dressing" (and "Italian dressing", for that matter) in that it has absolutely nothing to do with the country from which it purportedly hails. I can guarantee that if you stick a bottle of "french dressing" in front of a French person, they will laugh at you until they taste it, after which they will possibly clock you over the head with the bottle. I was explaining this point to a mixed group of Italians and Americans once, and mentioned "alfredo sauce" as a comparable example of this phenomenon; one of the Italians launched into such a rant I almost started to worry he was going to give himself a stroke.
So, Italian restaurants in America: don't serve alfredo sauce, because it will cause you to lose all of your credibility. Or do, because most of America seems to like it. Whatever.
Anyway, one "main course" later (it was actually primi if you want to get picky: risotto that was tasty but not really risotto and some very chewy gnocchi in an oddly tasteless sauce), the dessert menu yielded the following: cheesecake (okay...), fudge brownie (I think we lost our Italian theme), apple pie (ditto), profiteroles (these are actually French, but whatever), tiramisu (oh, wait, here we go), and a rather linguistically-challenged "torta de nona". Interestingly enough, that last did not seem to be in any way related to torta della nonna, though I can only assume that's what they were going for.
We chose the profiteroles, which were a crime against French cooking, but on the bright side, no one will ever know because they will think the whole thing was Italian. Sorry, Italy.
Anyway, conclusion: Italian food, generally speaking, is a lot better in Italy. And note that I say "generally speaking". This is because some of the best Italian food I have ever had was actually in America, in the town where I went to college, in the restaurant owned, interestingly enough, by the professor who taught Italian II.
So, actually, I guess that means that the real conclusion is that you have to try it to know for sure... but it's kind of at your own risk, so good luck with that.
*Soliloquizes looks very bizarre written down, but Merriam-Webster online confirms that 'to soliloquize' is indeed a verb. ... It's probably a little pretentious that I feel the need to put footnotes in my blog. Oh, well.
"So, how are you tonight? Aside from being freezing cold and wet, probably. It's snowing pretty hard out there, huh?" the young waiter soliloquizes* by way of introducing himself. If you are a stray Italian who has wandered onto this site and wonders why this is: it is because in America, tips aren't automatically included in the bill. You have to remember to leave them at the end of the meal, of your own volition. This is irritating and requires you to calculate percentages and stuff like that. It also causes the waiters to share far more of their personal lives and/or opinions on such things as the weather than you probably care about. You guys definitely have the better system. (Beppe Severgnini has a hilarious chapter about this in one of his hilarious books; I believe it is called "Un Italiano in America". Or "Ciao, America" for the English version. And I am not being sarcastic. He really is hilarious.)
In any case, though, I wish I could just stop the guy mid-paragraph: 'relax. We're going to tip you. You don't have to befriend us. Now just shut up and let us read the menu in peace.' I mean, if we'd wanted to sit around being hungry while someone blathered on unintelligently about nothing, we could've just stayed home and turned on the tv.
"... and a great cheese tortellini in creamy alfredo sauce." He is evidently giving the specials. "I had it myself during my break," he enthuses. Fun fact.
And probably a bad decision on his part. Alfredo sauce, apart from being kind of gross, is probably like guaranteed heart failure. Particularly when poured over cheese tortellini.
Also, minus fifty points for mentioning Alfredo sauce at all. Apart from being kind of gross (I feel the need to reiterate this) it is sort of like "french dressing" (and "Italian dressing", for that matter) in that it has absolutely nothing to do with the country from which it purportedly hails. I can guarantee that if you stick a bottle of "french dressing" in front of a French person, they will laugh at you until they taste it, after which they will possibly clock you over the head with the bottle. I was explaining this point to a mixed group of Italians and Americans once, and mentioned "alfredo sauce" as a comparable example of this phenomenon; one of the Italians launched into such a rant I almost started to worry he was going to give himself a stroke.
So, Italian restaurants in America: don't serve alfredo sauce, because it will cause you to lose all of your credibility. Or do, because most of America seems to like it. Whatever.
Anyway, one "main course" later (it was actually primi if you want to get picky: risotto that was tasty but not really risotto and some very chewy gnocchi in an oddly tasteless sauce), the dessert menu yielded the following: cheesecake (okay...), fudge brownie (I think we lost our Italian theme), apple pie (ditto), profiteroles (these are actually French, but whatever), tiramisu (oh, wait, here we go), and a rather linguistically-challenged "torta de nona". Interestingly enough, that last did not seem to be in any way related to torta della nonna, though I can only assume that's what they were going for.
We chose the profiteroles, which were a crime against French cooking, but on the bright side, no one will ever know because they will think the whole thing was Italian. Sorry, Italy.
Anyway, conclusion: Italian food, generally speaking, is a lot better in Italy. And note that I say "generally speaking". This is because some of the best Italian food I have ever had was actually in America, in the town where I went to college, in the restaurant owned, interestingly enough, by the professor who taught Italian II.
So, actually, I guess that means that the real conclusion is that you have to try it to know for sure... but it's kind of at your own risk, so good luck with that.
*Soliloquizes looks very bizarre written down, but Merriam-Webster online confirms that 'to soliloquize' is indeed a verb. ... It's probably a little pretentious that I feel the need to put footnotes in my blog. Oh, well.
Saturday, January 2
New Year
A very happy 2010 to all!
I'm back! (Not from the dead. Although I did catch the Cold of Death, probably from my piccolini at the daycare, but I'm over it and so I forgive them.) Anyway. Um...
December in brief:
12/3 - Make final decision to move back to Reggio. Give notice at daycare. An interesting mix of sadness and awkwardness ensues. Promise to return for visits in the summer.
12/12 - Experience Italian food in America. Will possibly share thoughts on this in the near future. (And by "near" I probably mean "sometime before 2011".)
12/19 - Try new Indian restaurant in Morristown. Is delicious, and markedly better than previous week's restaurant experience.
12/20 - Bake Christmas cookies!!! (Um, yes, because clearly this was important for everyone to know.)
12/23 - Holiday parties at daycare. This involves a.) decorating our room with decorations that are both festive and evenly spread among the various holidays but also religion-free (this is harder than you'd think) as well as made by the children (baby sweatshop!), b.) coordinating a lot of easily chewable nut-free food, and c.) coralling my children into some sort of circle so that we can perform our "holiday songs". Yes, perform. The one-year-olds. They actually did remarkably well, my little geniuses. Am proud mommy! (Lest anyone be confused: I am kidding. These are the daycare children. I don't have any that are actually mine.) Anyway...
12/24 - Finish Christmas shopping circa 3pm. (Also vital information.) To ponder: why do I feel like this is actually an improvement on previous years? New year's resolution: research methods to combat procrastination.
12/25 - Christmas!! In case you weren't aware.
12/26 - Pack life into two suitcases for the third time in a year and a half. (Probably should consider being a little more stationary at some point in the near future.) Finish up some last minute travel arrangements.
12/27 - Make way to Newark to depart for the motherland (France). Renew my (largely unfounded) dislike for Newark airport.
12/28 - Arrive in motherland. Eat bread. Yum. Curl up in bed with Cold of Death.
Which pretty much brings us to the present.
I'm back! (Not from the dead. Although I did catch the Cold of Death, probably from my piccolini at the daycare, but I'm over it and so I forgive them.) Anyway. Um...
December in brief:
12/3 - Make final decision to move back to Reggio. Give notice at daycare. An interesting mix of sadness and awkwardness ensues. Promise to return for visits in the summer.
12/12 - Experience Italian food in America. Will possibly share thoughts on this in the near future. (And by "near" I probably mean "sometime before 2011".)
12/19 - Try new Indian restaurant in Morristown. Is delicious, and markedly better than previous week's restaurant experience.
12/20 - Bake Christmas cookies!!! (Um, yes, because clearly this was important for everyone to know.)
12/23 - Holiday parties at daycare. This involves a.) decorating our room with decorations that are both festive and evenly spread among the various holidays but also religion-free (this is harder than you'd think) as well as made by the children (baby sweatshop!), b.) coordinating a lot of easily chewable nut-free food, and c.) coralling my children into some sort of circle so that we can perform our "holiday songs". Yes, perform. The one-year-olds. They actually did remarkably well, my little geniuses. Am proud mommy! (Lest anyone be confused: I am kidding. These are the daycare children. I don't have any that are actually mine.) Anyway...
12/24 - Finish Christmas shopping circa 3pm. (Also vital information.) To ponder: why do I feel like this is actually an improvement on previous years? New year's resolution: research methods to combat procrastination.
12/25 - Christmas!! In case you weren't aware.
12/26 - Pack life into two suitcases for the third time in a year and a half. (Probably should consider being a little more stationary at some point in the near future.) Finish up some last minute travel arrangements.
12/27 - Make way to Newark to depart for the motherland (France). Renew my (largely unfounded) dislike for Newark airport.
12/28 - Arrive in motherland. Eat bread. Yum. Curl up in bed with Cold of Death.
Which pretty much brings us to the present.
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