I accompanied a friend from work to Milan the other day. In addition to being just plain fun, it was also kind of cheering in the I'm-a-retarded-foreigner department. When you've been here a while, you kind of stop being able to use the "I've only been here three months" excuse to cut yourself a break when you do something stupid, so you might beat up on yourself rather a lot. On this particular Saturday, though, I was able to impart all sorts of useful wisdom to my less-experienced friend (who has, in fact, only been here a couple of months, and therefore can still use that excuse): that the smaller rete regionale machines in the train station won't give you a ticket to Milan; that you shouldn't get off at Milano Rogoredo or Milano Lambrate but wait for Milano Centrale, how to buy a ticket for the metro, how to use said metro once you've got a ticket, where to get off to see the Duomo (although, being that the station is called 'Duomo', I feel like that's more or less obvious if you think about it for a minute), and other things like that.
Also, there are things in Italy that are really fun to show someone for the first time. The Duomo in Milan is one of them. I very clearly remember turning the corner into the piazza my first time in Milan (having hiked the seventy billion kilometers from the train station because I was scared of the metro at that point), and I was all sweaty and tired, but then there it was and it was amazing. It's one of those "Oh! Oh! Oh my god!"-type moments.
We take photos of various things, make a pilgrimmage to the big store of the Local Fashion Thing where we teach (it looks nice - must remember to compliment whichever of our students is in charge of the window displays), and eat some gelato while staring dazedly at the Duomo. It is a beautiful spring day.
On our way back up the Via Emilia, the Mille Miglia cars whiz past us, honking and sputtering, and the people lined up on the sidewalk cheer. There's a band playing in the piazza. They've put the yellow chairs back out by the fountains, which means reading in the sun to the sound of water splashing (yay!). Later, we have a spritz in the shadow of our Duomo while a warm breeze floats around.
Summer is back!
Showing posts with label Food. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Food. Show all posts
Monday, May 10
Monday, May 3
In which I eat some cheese and call it dinner
Teaching English is pretty fun. I mean, think about it. Half the knowledge you need is already there if you're a native speaker. (The other half, the teaching bit, takes a little more effort to acquire, but it's doable, thus far.) You get to meet all sorts of people. And they're generally happy to see you. Unlike the me-being-a-doctor scenario, which involves children associating me with needles and evil people who poke them and are connected with being sick. I mean, aside from people who are being forced to learn English for whatever reason, most people come to lessons voluntarily. Some are even being given a little break from work in order to attend.
The trouble with teaching English, though, is that the hours are pretty ridiculous. Sometimes you have a lesson at 8am and some more sprinkled throughout the day and another that finishes at 8:30pm. Sometimes you arrive at home and take your heels off and your feet hurt and you've forgotten which of your five businessmen students is an Inter fan (again!) so you won't know who to ask about the match next week.
At such times, the last thing you feel like doing is hauling out the pots and pans and knives and torturing some food into a semblance of edible. (Edibleness? Edibility? What? What am I even talking about?) So you take a piece of Pecorino Toscano out of the fridge, lop off a few slices, and call it a day, sitting in front of the computer and staring vaguely at the computer while wondering what you meant to do when you sat down in front of it. (Hint: probably it involved checking your email, genius. Just click on Internet Explorer and you're halfway there.)
So, sometimes, that's what happens at my house. You know what, though? There is calcium in cheese. That's good for you. So there.
The trouble with teaching English, though, is that the hours are pretty ridiculous. Sometimes you have a lesson at 8am and some more sprinkled throughout the day and another that finishes at 8:30pm. Sometimes you arrive at home and take your heels off and your feet hurt and you've forgotten which of your five businessmen students is an Inter fan (again!) so you won't know who to ask about the match next week.
At such times, the last thing you feel like doing is hauling out the pots and pans and knives and torturing some food into a semblance of edible. (Edibleness? Edibility? What? What am I even talking about?) So you take a piece of Pecorino Toscano out of the fridge, lop off a few slices, and call it a day, sitting in front of the computer and staring vaguely at the computer while wondering what you meant to do when you sat down in front of it. (Hint: probably it involved checking your email, genius. Just click on Internet Explorer and you're halfway there.)
So, sometimes, that's what happens at my house. You know what, though? There is calcium in cheese. That's good for you. So there.
Saturday, April 17
Grana padano
"No, ma, probably in America your 'parmesan', it's not veramente Parmigiano Reggiano - D.O.P." he says this last rather emphatically.
Our Wednesday morning English lesson is winding down, the whirring sound of insects beyond the screens contributes a sense of summer lethargy to the lesson, and we have slipped onto the subject of food (as you do) and one of my students is explaining to me why American food is defective. (This is a common theme if you're talking to Italians about food.)
"No, its probably grana padano," he explains, making a face. I nod, pretending I understand why this is such an important point. He continues, his facial expression clearly conveying his distaste, "grana padano, it's not such good quality," he tells me. "Don't buy it."
"Infatti," adds another student, "it's strange because when you tell someone to go buy cheese, just generally, you say 'vai a prendere la grana', but really you mean Parmigiano Reggiano. No one would ever just buy grana padano."
"Yes," they all agree. "Don't buy grana padano. Only Parmigiano Reggiano. It's better."
I accept this and we move on to adverbs of frequency, using the framework of how often we eat various types of food. (Should you ever be in the situation of teaching English - or any language, really - to adults in Italy, food is pretty much a sure bet as a conversation point. You can make the longest of lessons go by in two seconds if you just start them talking about food.)
In the ensuing months (this was actually last May), every time I pass grana padano in the supermarket, I remember what's-his-name from that group last year, and I do not buy it. Until one day there happens to be a very appealing chunk of it on sale in Standa (Billa, whatever) and I am hungry and I say (to myself, silently), 'hey, what the heck, it has a D.O.P. as well,' and buy it.
And now it's awkward because the other day I grated it onto some bizarre rice and tomato mixture that I had concocted (don't ask - we've already established that I am crap at cooking, right?) and... anyway... the point is, Ithink I might possibly like it better than Parmigiano Reggiano, D.O.P.
Clearly I have the palate of an uncultured peon. Sigh. So now when I go to the supermarket, I have to sneakily grab my grana padano and hide it under a head of lettuce or something. Although apparently I don't feel the need to capitalize 'grana padano', even though it's clearly got its own D.O.P, too. I'm too lazy to go back and fix it now, though, so... tough luck. Anyway... yeah, there's no moral to that story or anything. Back to your normally scheduled activities.
Our Wednesday morning English lesson is winding down, the whirring sound of insects beyond the screens contributes a sense of summer lethargy to the lesson, and we have slipped onto the subject of food (as you do) and one of my students is explaining to me why American food is defective. (This is a common theme if you're talking to Italians about food.)
"No, its probably grana padano," he explains, making a face. I nod, pretending I understand why this is such an important point. He continues, his facial expression clearly conveying his distaste, "grana padano, it's not such good quality," he tells me. "Don't buy it."
"Infatti," adds another student, "it's strange because when you tell someone to go buy cheese, just generally, you say 'vai a prendere la grana', but really you mean Parmigiano Reggiano. No one would ever just buy grana padano."
"Yes," they all agree. "Don't buy grana padano. Only Parmigiano Reggiano. It's better."
I accept this and we move on to adverbs of frequency, using the framework of how often we eat various types of food. (Should you ever be in the situation of teaching English - or any language, really - to adults in Italy, food is pretty much a sure bet as a conversation point. You can make the longest of lessons go by in two seconds if you just start them talking about food.)
In the ensuing months (this was actually last May), every time I pass grana padano in the supermarket, I remember what's-his-name from that group last year, and I do not buy it. Until one day there happens to be a very appealing chunk of it on sale in Standa (Billa, whatever) and I am hungry and I say (to myself, silently), 'hey, what the heck, it has a D.O.P. as well,' and buy it.
And now it's awkward because the other day I grated it onto some bizarre rice and tomato mixture that I had concocted (don't ask - we've already established that I am crap at cooking, right?) and... anyway... the point is, Ithink I might possibly like it better than Parmigiano Reggiano, D.O.P.
Clearly I have the palate of an uncultured peon. Sigh. So now when I go to the supermarket, I have to sneakily grab my grana padano and hide it under a head of lettuce or something. Although apparently I don't feel the need to capitalize 'grana padano', even though it's clearly got its own D.O.P, too. I'm too lazy to go back and fix it now, though, so... tough luck. Anyway... yeah, there's no moral to that story or anything. Back to your normally scheduled activities.
Saturday, April 3
Boh
"Ma sei tornata, alla fine?" the cashier asks me. I am sorting through my change, cursing once again the fact that I still have not removed the quarters from my purse, so it takes me a second to look up at her. It is indeed the one I chatted with a few days before leaving last year.
"Ah, si," I respond, smiling.
We chat for a moment. I feel all neighborhood-y. You know, like when the cashiers know you and stuff.
"E poi a settembre, che fai?" she asks.
"Boh... non sono sicura... maybe I'll go home and go back to school," I explain, not particularly clearly.
"Brava," she encourages.
Boh. If I were really brava, maybe I'd know what to do with my life by now...
"Ah, si," I respond, smiling.
We chat for a moment. I feel all neighborhood-y. You know, like when the cashiers know you and stuff.
"E poi a settembre, che fai?" she asks.
"Boh... non sono sicura... maybe I'll go home and go back to school," I explain, not particularly clearly.
"Brava," she encourages.
Boh. If I were really brava, maybe I'd know what to do with my life by now...
Sunday, January 31
In which I cook chicken
"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.
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.
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.
Thursday, August 27
The supermarket is depressing
I remember a time, probably in high school, when I used to study a lot and not do much else, so my only hope of getting out of the house was often a trip to the supermarket with my mother. The benefits of this were twofold: a.) I could read a book (for fun!) on the way there, and b.) I had a say in what food we bought. It was all very fun. Post-Italy, it's a little different.
The parking lot of Shop Rite has not changed a bit. They still cannot spell (what was wrong with calling it Shop Right? it's kind of a stupid name either way, and was the one additional letter so costly?) and the parking lot is full of Americans in various states of obesity and unfortunate wardrobe choices. Welcome home, Self. I personally am a horrible dresser, so I really shouldn't criticize, but still. Some things were just not meant to be worn out of the house, even in America. I myself have sort of adjusted halfway to being back: I am wearing flip-flops, but with a dress that is not a nightgown and is therefore too much for Shop Rite.
We walk into the vestibule and gusts of frigid air billow out at us every time the door closes. My exposed limbs are sad, and I run back to my mother's car and return armed with a heavy sweater that you'd think would be appropriate for October.
There are a lot of types of apples in America. That's nice. Also the blueberries are significantly cheaper. The tomatoes are guaranteed not to be as good and that is sad. We buy some anyway. Perhaps I will attempt to make sauce again. Goodness only knows how that will go, but it can't be any worse than Chef Boyardee and whatever other crap is stored by the gallon in the sauce and condiments aisle.
Speaking of which, other things that are gross: "French" dressing. It is not French, and, in my opinion, not fit to be put on salad. Ditto "Italian" dressing. Ditto anything that comes out of a spray-paint-type can. And speaking of that, spray-on cheese (excuse me: cheez) and spray-on whipped cream. I roll faster through that aisle.
Ooh, the Italian food section! This contains parmesan that was made in Wisconsin, exorbitantly priced sausage, some apparently genuine (but expensive) grana padano, and some pancetta a cubetti. This is a nice surprise, and will be helpful for making either carbonara or amatriciana - it's hard to tell which, because it does not tell you whether the pancetta is dolce or smoked. I pass by the French section quickly, noting that it is in a similar state of affairs (and has been for years): Brie from Wisconsin and still no creme fraiche. I do not understand how there can be such a wide variety of products in the dairy/egg section (liquid eggs? what, because you can't beat them yourself? really?) and yet it has never occurred to anyone to import some creme fraiche. Or make it in Wisconsin.
Vats of artificial-looking vegetable oil, cereal boxes into which you could probably fit a small child if you needed to, similarly sized bags of chips (crisps!), and garishly colored "fruit snacks" follow. I emerge from the supermarket with rye bread, grapes (no seeds!!), some mediocre-looking tomatoes, and a jar of mild salsa. My mother raises her eyebrows as I deposit it into the trunk and help her with whatever she bought.
"Salsa?" she asks.
"Yeah. I like salsa. It's refreshing," I explain.
"But don't you need chips or something to put it on?"
"Oh," I say. "Yeah, I guess. I forgot about that." I am evidently still slightly disoriented. Maybe it's the fuso orario. Or something.
In any case, my toes are just thawing again in the warm humidity of NJ in August, and I have no intention of venturing back into the nuclear winter just for a bag of chips.
"We'll make tacos or something this weekend," my mother says in a consoling tone of voice. "We'll buy the boys a pizza or something," she adds as we drive past the local pizza place. (My brother and father do not like tacos.)
The smell of goopy cheese drifts in through the open windows and I glance at all of the people with their huge pizza boxes emerging from the pizza place and getting into their huge cars.
Sigh.
The parking lot of Shop Rite has not changed a bit. They still cannot spell (what was wrong with calling it Shop Right? it's kind of a stupid name either way, and was the one additional letter so costly?) and the parking lot is full of Americans in various states of obesity and unfortunate wardrobe choices. Welcome home, Self. I personally am a horrible dresser, so I really shouldn't criticize, but still. Some things were just not meant to be worn out of the house, even in America. I myself have sort of adjusted halfway to being back: I am wearing flip-flops, but with a dress that is not a nightgown and is therefore too much for Shop Rite.
We walk into the vestibule and gusts of frigid air billow out at us every time the door closes. My exposed limbs are sad, and I run back to my mother's car and return armed with a heavy sweater that you'd think would be appropriate for October.
There are a lot of types of apples in America. That's nice. Also the blueberries are significantly cheaper. The tomatoes are guaranteed not to be as good and that is sad. We buy some anyway. Perhaps I will attempt to make sauce again. Goodness only knows how that will go, but it can't be any worse than Chef Boyardee and whatever other crap is stored by the gallon in the sauce and condiments aisle.
Speaking of which, other things that are gross: "French" dressing. It is not French, and, in my opinion, not fit to be put on salad. Ditto "Italian" dressing. Ditto anything that comes out of a spray-paint-type can. And speaking of that, spray-on cheese (excuse me: cheez) and spray-on whipped cream. I roll faster through that aisle.
Ooh, the Italian food section! This contains parmesan that was made in Wisconsin, exorbitantly priced sausage, some apparently genuine (but expensive) grana padano, and some pancetta a cubetti. This is a nice surprise, and will be helpful for making either carbonara or amatriciana - it's hard to tell which, because it does not tell you whether the pancetta is dolce or smoked. I pass by the French section quickly, noting that it is in a similar state of affairs (and has been for years): Brie from Wisconsin and still no creme fraiche. I do not understand how there can be such a wide variety of products in the dairy/egg section (liquid eggs? what, because you can't beat them yourself? really?) and yet it has never occurred to anyone to import some creme fraiche. Or make it in Wisconsin.
Vats of artificial-looking vegetable oil, cereal boxes into which you could probably fit a small child if you needed to, similarly sized bags of chips (crisps!), and garishly colored "fruit snacks" follow. I emerge from the supermarket with rye bread, grapes (no seeds!!), some mediocre-looking tomatoes, and a jar of mild salsa. My mother raises her eyebrows as I deposit it into the trunk and help her with whatever she bought.
"Salsa?" she asks.
"Yeah. I like salsa. It's refreshing," I explain.
"But don't you need chips or something to put it on?"
"Oh," I say. "Yeah, I guess. I forgot about that." I am evidently still slightly disoriented. Maybe it's the fuso orario. Or something.
In any case, my toes are just thawing again in the warm humidity of NJ in August, and I have no intention of venturing back into the nuclear winter just for a bag of chips.
"We'll make tacos or something this weekend," my mother says in a consoling tone of voice. "We'll buy the boys a pizza or something," she adds as we drive past the local pizza place. (My brother and father do not like tacos.)
The smell of goopy cheese drifts in through the open windows and I glance at all of the people with their huge pizza boxes emerging from the pizza place and getting into their huge cars.
Sigh.
Wednesday, July 15
Noontime in Reggio
Sometimes I don't have work until late in the evening, so I like to sleep late (until someone starts chucking bottles in the glass recycling thing), lie in bed for a while wondering how many bottles the guy can possibly have, and then go for a walk around Reggio. Right now it's very hot, so it's a short walk: down to Oviesse to stock up on water (pain in the arse but necessary chore), and back to the piazza to absorb the culture, take a moment to look at the duomo and get teary about having to leave (for some reason the sight of the duomo over the roof of the vescovado makes me exceptionally emotional), and get some erbazzone to comfort myself. (Yay, emotional eating! So healthy!)
On some days, the erbazzone at Melli (local panificio - bakery) is fresh, hot, and crunchy. Especially if they give you a piece from the side: the side pieces have more crunchiness and a thinner layer of spinach-y stuff, thus giving you the optimal ratio of crunchy part to spinach-y part. It pretty much all depends on when you go - you have to go when they have taken a fresh batch out of the oven, before it has cooled, but after they have finished the last batch. I have not yet discerned the precise pattern of how often they take out a new batch, though. I fear that my time in Reggio will come to an end before I solve that particular mystery. Or if you're good friends with the people there, they just give you some of the new batch anyway.
I'm not good friends with the people there. Probably because I've only been going there for about a month, rather than a decade, like most of the clients (I'm guessing). This is because a) I haven't lived here a decade and b) I was scared to go in there for a really long time because I wasn't sure how one ordered things, or what they were called. It gets kind of awkward when you're like "I want a piece of bread" and they're like "what kind?" and you're like "um... the round kind? I dunno... any kind, really... you pick!" and they raise their eyebrows at you.
The eyebrow raise is killer. Actually, I live in fear of getting the eyebrow raise every time they ask how much I want of the erbazzone/gnocco/crostata/anything-else-that-comes-in-large-trays. Some of them are nice (or just want to sell their stuff) and they place their knife such that you stand to get an enormous piece of whatever you're buying. Then you can experience the satisfaction of a demure "un po' meno, per favore". Very ladylike. Excellent.
Others are a bit stingy, which I don't really get, because hello, how about you worry about selling your product and I'll worry about my weight, okay? and they offer you a midgy little piece and (internally) you're like "aww, hell, lady, I've been running around after six-year-olds all day and I haven't eaten since those stale crackers for breakfast" but because you're a proper repressed girl (men, you have it *so* much easier) what you actually say is "si, va bene, grazie," and try not to sigh regretfully. At least this way you don't get the eyebrow raise, though.
Actually, what's even riskier in terms of eyebrow raise potential is when you get there around 7:25pm (they close at 7:30) and you've just come from a long day at work (see reference to six-year-olds) and you don't plan to put any effort into making dinner so what you really want to do is buy both a piece of erbazzone or gnocco (main course) and a piece of crostata or torta di riso (dessert!) and sit down in your chair (yeah, I don't own a table) and that way the most challenging thing you have to worry about is how to avoid getting crumbs down the front of your shirt. I did that once and got a very disdainful look from the lady, though, so that was the end of that. This can be remedied by visiting two of the branches of Melli separately and buying one thing at each, but that takes more effort and also just makes me feel ridiculously pathetic. So instead I just buy my usual piece of erbazzone and try to remember whether or not I still have any nutella that I can just eat out of the jar for dessert.
Yeah. We Americans are kind of gross. It's the food-related female guilt complex, though, I'm telling you. Otherwise I could just wander over to the gelateria and have a granita (practically calorie-free, I bet - it's just ice and syrup, right?) and stroll around with it, trying not to get hit on by those weirdos in the piazza. As it is, though, I am a girl and so I will never go to the gelateria unless I am either desperate or in a group of friends (that's okay because it's social eating - permissible). Anyway. Both the gelateria and the weirdos in the piazza are a story for another day, so I'll leave you with that incredibly un-enlightening thought...
On some days, the erbazzone at Melli (local panificio - bakery) is fresh, hot, and crunchy. Especially if they give you a piece from the side: the side pieces have more crunchiness and a thinner layer of spinach-y stuff, thus giving you the optimal ratio of crunchy part to spinach-y part. It pretty much all depends on when you go - you have to go when they have taken a fresh batch out of the oven, before it has cooled, but after they have finished the last batch. I have not yet discerned the precise pattern of how often they take out a new batch, though. I fear that my time in Reggio will come to an end before I solve that particular mystery. Or if you're good friends with the people there, they just give you some of the new batch anyway.
I'm not good friends with the people there. Probably because I've only been going there for about a month, rather than a decade, like most of the clients (I'm guessing). This is because a) I haven't lived here a decade and b) I was scared to go in there for a really long time because I wasn't sure how one ordered things, or what they were called. It gets kind of awkward when you're like "I want a piece of bread" and they're like "what kind?" and you're like "um... the round kind? I dunno... any kind, really... you pick!" and they raise their eyebrows at you.
The eyebrow raise is killer. Actually, I live in fear of getting the eyebrow raise every time they ask how much I want of the erbazzone/gnocco/crostata/anything-else-that-comes-in-large-trays. Some of them are nice (or just want to sell their stuff) and they place their knife such that you stand to get an enormous piece of whatever you're buying. Then you can experience the satisfaction of a demure "un po' meno, per favore". Very ladylike. Excellent.
Others are a bit stingy, which I don't really get, because hello, how about you worry about selling your product and I'll worry about my weight, okay? and they offer you a midgy little piece and (internally) you're like "aww, hell, lady, I've been running around after six-year-olds all day and I haven't eaten since those stale crackers for breakfast" but because you're a proper repressed girl (men, you have it *so* much easier) what you actually say is "si, va bene, grazie," and try not to sigh regretfully. At least this way you don't get the eyebrow raise, though.
Actually, what's even riskier in terms of eyebrow raise potential is when you get there around 7:25pm (they close at 7:30) and you've just come from a long day at work (see reference to six-year-olds) and you don't plan to put any effort into making dinner so what you really want to do is buy both a piece of erbazzone or gnocco (main course) and a piece of crostata or torta di riso (dessert!) and sit down in your chair (yeah, I don't own a table) and that way the most challenging thing you have to worry about is how to avoid getting crumbs down the front of your shirt. I did that once and got a very disdainful look from the lady, though, so that was the end of that. This can be remedied by visiting two of the branches of Melli separately and buying one thing at each, but that takes more effort and also just makes me feel ridiculously pathetic. So instead I just buy my usual piece of erbazzone and try to remember whether or not I still have any nutella that I can just eat out of the jar for dessert.
Yeah. We Americans are kind of gross. It's the food-related female guilt complex, though, I'm telling you. Otherwise I could just wander over to the gelateria and have a granita (practically calorie-free, I bet - it's just ice and syrup, right?) and stroll around with it, trying not to get hit on by those weirdos in the piazza. As it is, though, I am a girl and so I will never go to the gelateria unless I am either desperate or in a group of friends (that's okay because it's social eating - permissible). Anyway. Both the gelateria and the weirdos in the piazza are a story for another day, so I'll leave you with that incredibly un-enlightening thought...
Friday, June 19
Tondo
I really love the insalatori (salad) tomatoes here. The tondo (which means round) ones and the oblungo (which is self-explanatory) ones. I haven't tried those weird lumpy mutant-looking ones yet, but I'll let you know.
Did I ever mention that I finally got my hair cut? About two months after I originally meant to, but still. It went fairly well, even though I kind of rushed the girl. I stopped in between classes and I was like "yeah, I want it about 3-5 centimeters shorter, not really layered (scalati); do whatever you want but I need you to be done in an hour because I have to go back to work". She was remarkably understanding and didn't butcher my hair. I think I will go back there before I leave and go completely crazy, i.e. tell her that she can do really whatever she wants (including scalati if she sees fit) as long as it's still long enough to put up. (Because otherwise there is just no escape when it gets hot, and that is no good.)
Speaking of hot... ye gods, Reggio! Who knew it could get so warm here? Well, actually, it was this warm when I came here to interview which was... will have been exactly a year ago in a few days. Now they're interviewing people for next year. Aw. Cyclical.
I actually don't hugely mind the heat except for one thing: I have no screens in my window. Which means that if I leave the window open, especially at night, weird stuff comes inside and EATS me. I'm pretty sure I have circa 20 bug bites on me right now and those suckers are itchy! I particularly hate the ones on my upper thighs because you really can't scratch those without looking strange. Boo.
At least this week I have shutters. Last week they had taken them away to paint them, and after a few days, I got kind of lax about the undressing thing... and now I kind of am hoping that none of the people who work in the vescovado across the street saw me. Because somehow it seems inappropriate to be flashing the vescovado staff. I'm actually not too clear on what the people inside there do, but I know it has something to do with bishops, and it's also attached to the Duomo, so... yeah.
Anyway. Off to check out the weather predictions for tomorrow to see if I can take a train trip to somewhere interesting, and then maybe get some erbazzone for lunch. And maybe get some information about the local swimming pool, which would be useful to work off the calories of the erbazzone.
Did I ever mention that I finally got my hair cut? About two months after I originally meant to, but still. It went fairly well, even though I kind of rushed the girl. I stopped in between classes and I was like "yeah, I want it about 3-5 centimeters shorter, not really layered (scalati); do whatever you want but I need you to be done in an hour because I have to go back to work". She was remarkably understanding and didn't butcher my hair. I think I will go back there before I leave and go completely crazy, i.e. tell her that she can do really whatever she wants (including scalati if she sees fit) as long as it's still long enough to put up. (Because otherwise there is just no escape when it gets hot, and that is no good.)
Speaking of hot... ye gods, Reggio! Who knew it could get so warm here? Well, actually, it was this warm when I came here to interview which was... will have been exactly a year ago in a few days. Now they're interviewing people for next year. Aw. Cyclical.
I actually don't hugely mind the heat except for one thing: I have no screens in my window. Which means that if I leave the window open, especially at night, weird stuff comes inside and EATS me. I'm pretty sure I have circa 20 bug bites on me right now and those suckers are itchy! I particularly hate the ones on my upper thighs because you really can't scratch those without looking strange. Boo.
At least this week I have shutters. Last week they had taken them away to paint them, and after a few days, I got kind of lax about the undressing thing... and now I kind of am hoping that none of the people who work in the vescovado across the street saw me. Because somehow it seems inappropriate to be flashing the vescovado staff. I'm actually not too clear on what the people inside there do, but I know it has something to do with bishops, and it's also attached to the Duomo, so... yeah.
Anyway. Off to check out the weather predictions for tomorrow to see if I can take a train trip to somewhere interesting, and then maybe get some erbazzone for lunch. And maybe get some information about the local swimming pool, which would be useful to work off the calories of the erbazzone.
Monday, May 18
Dolce
"Caffe? Dolce?" the waiter stops by to ask, leaning over the people at the end of the table in order to be heard.
"Cosa avete di bello stasera?" asks someone towards the middle.
The waiter puts one hand contemplatively on the shoulder of the man over whom he is standing and begins to reel off the options. The men order things with chocolate, cream, and sauce flavored with frutti di bosco. The women order sorbetti, causing a lively discussion to erupt. The theme of it appears to be that they should go ahead and indulge, have a real dessert, stop watching their figures.
Italian, Italianized English, and two varieties of dialect fly up and down the table, along with a lot of gesticulating and some of the idioms I have come to love so much. I can detect at least three different conversations occurring simultaneously, with people occasionally crossing over from one to the other as their opinion is requested - often by someone shouting down the length of the table. The guy sitting next to me is so animated he bumps me in the shoulder.
"Scusa!" he interrupts himself, touching my back briefly in apology before reaching around me to smack the guy on the other side of me, ostensibly to reinforce whatever point he was originally making. The waiter, in the meantime, has surreptitiously gone around the table and managed to confirm everyone's choices.
"Ah-oh!" the first guy finishes off decisively with something that is between a sound and an actual expression, as far as I can tell. I look around and take a deep breath, absorbing the smell of pizza and coffee, the jovial attitude, and the deep sense of contentment that my dinner companions, longtime friends who have taken me temporarily into their group, derive from each other's company. I'll miss this when I leave.
"Cosa avete di bello stasera?" asks someone towards the middle.
The waiter puts one hand contemplatively on the shoulder of the man over whom he is standing and begins to reel off the options. The men order things with chocolate, cream, and sauce flavored with frutti di bosco. The women order sorbetti, causing a lively discussion to erupt. The theme of it appears to be that they should go ahead and indulge, have a real dessert, stop watching their figures.
Italian, Italianized English, and two varieties of dialect fly up and down the table, along with a lot of gesticulating and some of the idioms I have come to love so much. I can detect at least three different conversations occurring simultaneously, with people occasionally crossing over from one to the other as their opinion is requested - often by someone shouting down the length of the table. The guy sitting next to me is so animated he bumps me in the shoulder.
"Scusa!" he interrupts himself, touching my back briefly in apology before reaching around me to smack the guy on the other side of me, ostensibly to reinforce whatever point he was originally making. The waiter, in the meantime, has surreptitiously gone around the table and managed to confirm everyone's choices.
"Ah-oh!" the first guy finishes off decisively with something that is between a sound and an actual expression, as far as I can tell. I look around and take a deep breath, absorbing the smell of pizza and coffee, the jovial attitude, and the deep sense of contentment that my dinner companions, longtime friends who have taken me temporarily into their group, derive from each other's company. I'll miss this when I leave.
Friday, March 6
How to make really awful food
1. Ensure that there are no witnesses. This is of paramount importance.
2. Decide what to cook. If this involves glancing into your fridge to evaluate the contents, vaguely remembering your grandmother doing something with some of them once when you were little, and therefore electing to throw all of them into a pan with some olive oil, so much the better. For example's sake, let's say you have chosen potatoes, leeks, onion, and pancetta. (Your grandmother makes something delicious with onions, pancetta, and potatoes. Potatoes and leeks go together in soups or something, as far as you recall. Ergo, should be good. Never mind the fact that roasting - like with the grandmother's dish - is not the same as making soup, and neither of those involves a pan anyway.)
3. Cut up the onion into very small pieces. This will ensure that it cooks before the rest of the ingredients are finished and will permeate your apartment with a nice burnt smell.
4. Cut the potatoes into small cubes and throw them into the pan. Google "sauteed potatoes" and note that all the recipes call for boiling them first. Abort mission and prepare to try again.
5. Remove the eyes of the potatoes in a somewhat haphazard fashion, since you cannot remember exactly how to find the eyes, or how to remove them correctly anyway. Cut large, vaguely spiral-shaped chunks of potato out. Wonder if perhaps you're meant to boil them before you peel them, remove the eyes, etc. and decide that it can't possibly matter. Throw them in. Be proud that you didn't get boiling water on yourself. (Small mercies, you know.)
6. Chop up the leeks, noting that it is extremely difficult to make the stalks stay together. Put them in the pan with the onions and some olive oil. Admire your handiwork while the potatoes cool so that you can cut them. Briefly wonder if, like potatoes, leeks should be boiled before sauteeing them. Or if you're really supposed to sautee leeks at all. Decide you're too lazy to start over and watch the leeks for signs of intense distress.
7. They look fine. Cut up the (boiled) potatoes, noticing that, once again, you have removed them before they were done (okay, so, mostly boiled). Not a problem, though: just cut around the still-raw part in the center and use the rest.
8. As advertised, the too-small onion bits are beginning to give off a bit of a burnt smell. Toss in the potatoes (the cooked parts) and hope that that will absorb some of the problem.
9. Mix it all around, feeling important. Things are not really cooking at the same rate and everything is making spluttery sounds. Decide that you're not really feeling up to adding the pancetta today, and shove it back in the fridge. Good thing it's vacuum sealed or something, and apparently good for another month.
10. Turn off the gas before things get out of hand. Fleetingly wonder if they have smoke alarms in Italy. Open the window just in case. Tentatively shove some of the mixture onto a plate, hoping to taste it and dispose of the evidence before anyone gets home.
11. Taste. If you've followed the instructions correctly, you will be able to enjoy the texture of not-quite-done potatoes coated in a slimy layer of olive oil. You will note that a mouthful of leek is similar to a mouthful of onion, and about as pleasant. You will wonder what the appropriate way to cook leek is, anyway. Despite the overabundance of taste-filled things, like onions and leeks, in the dish, the whole thing will taste a bit bland.
Note that, usually, things that are full of fat and onion taste delicious, so how you have managed to create such a not-particularly-balanced and truly unappetizing dish out of such innocent ingredients is really quite remarkable.
12. Clean up the kitchen meticulously, pour the rest of the stuff into the garbage, and wash the dishes carefully. If the chilly breeze coming in from the open window is being cooperative, no one will ever know.
2. Decide what to cook. If this involves glancing into your fridge to evaluate the contents, vaguely remembering your grandmother doing something with some of them once when you were little, and therefore electing to throw all of them into a pan with some olive oil, so much the better. For example's sake, let's say you have chosen potatoes, leeks, onion, and pancetta. (Your grandmother makes something delicious with onions, pancetta, and potatoes. Potatoes and leeks go together in soups or something, as far as you recall. Ergo, should be good. Never mind the fact that roasting - like with the grandmother's dish - is not the same as making soup, and neither of those involves a pan anyway.)
3. Cut up the onion into very small pieces. This will ensure that it cooks before the rest of the ingredients are finished and will permeate your apartment with a nice burnt smell.
4. Cut the potatoes into small cubes and throw them into the pan. Google "sauteed potatoes" and note that all the recipes call for boiling them first. Abort mission and prepare to try again.
5. Remove the eyes of the potatoes in a somewhat haphazard fashion, since you cannot remember exactly how to find the eyes, or how to remove them correctly anyway. Cut large, vaguely spiral-shaped chunks of potato out. Wonder if perhaps you're meant to boil them before you peel them, remove the eyes, etc. and decide that it can't possibly matter. Throw them in. Be proud that you didn't get boiling water on yourself. (Small mercies, you know.)
6. Chop up the leeks, noting that it is extremely difficult to make the stalks stay together. Put them in the pan with the onions and some olive oil. Admire your handiwork while the potatoes cool so that you can cut them. Briefly wonder if, like potatoes, leeks should be boiled before sauteeing them. Or if you're really supposed to sautee leeks at all. Decide you're too lazy to start over and watch the leeks for signs of intense distress.
7. They look fine. Cut up the (boiled) potatoes, noticing that, once again, you have removed them before they were done (okay, so, mostly boiled). Not a problem, though: just cut around the still-raw part in the center and use the rest.
8. As advertised, the too-small onion bits are beginning to give off a bit of a burnt smell. Toss in the potatoes (the cooked parts) and hope that that will absorb some of the problem.
9. Mix it all around, feeling important. Things are not really cooking at the same rate and everything is making spluttery sounds. Decide that you're not really feeling up to adding the pancetta today, and shove it back in the fridge. Good thing it's vacuum sealed or something, and apparently good for another month.
10. Turn off the gas before things get out of hand. Fleetingly wonder if they have smoke alarms in Italy. Open the window just in case. Tentatively shove some of the mixture onto a plate, hoping to taste it and dispose of the evidence before anyone gets home.
11. Taste. If you've followed the instructions correctly, you will be able to enjoy the texture of not-quite-done potatoes coated in a slimy layer of olive oil. You will note that a mouthful of leek is similar to a mouthful of onion, and about as pleasant. You will wonder what the appropriate way to cook leek is, anyway. Despite the overabundance of taste-filled things, like onions and leeks, in the dish, the whole thing will taste a bit bland.
Note that, usually, things that are full of fat and onion taste delicious, so how you have managed to create such a not-particularly-balanced and truly unappetizing dish out of such innocent ingredients is really quite remarkable.
12. Clean up the kitchen meticulously, pour the rest of the stuff into the garbage, and wash the dishes carefully. If the chilly breeze coming in from the open window is being cooperative, no one will ever know.
Tuesday, March 3
Aglio e olio
The other day, I cooked something. For real. With ingredients and tomatoes and things. It was pretty exciting, despite a few minor hiccups.
For instance, my grasp of the recipe was not so firm. I had it explained to me by an Italian Friend, but she is from down south and generally lops off the last syllable (or more) of most of her words, which makes her a bit of a challenge to follow at times. So all I really retained from the conversation was that it was called 'pasta aglio e olio'. Which kind of leads you to believe that you need pasta, aglio (garlic), and olio (oil). But no. It is all a nasty practical joke.
I googled it and it turns out you also need peperoncino. I don't even know what that is, but the point is, I didn't have any. It's okay, though. I kept my cool and decided to substitute with tomatoes. Because they were in the fridge, and, anyway, tomatoes are red, peperoncino kind of sounds like it might be red... so, yeah. Whatever.
Another issue is that spaghetti-shaped pasta (bucatini, if you're really interested) is difficult to cook. Because unless you own a pot the size of my entire kitchen, there is no obvious way to get the suckers actually into the pot. I called my mother for advice. I don't generally call my parents to be bailed out of whatever difficulties I get myself into, so I figured it would be permissible on a one-off basis. She was silent for a moment. "Well, you just put them in. The end inside the water will go soft and the rest will fall in."
Oh.
So, anyway, it all worked out charmingly. The result wasn't actually delicious or anything, but it was edible. Which, all things considered (namely, my history with cooking), is quite a nice surprise.
My roommate arrived home just as I was sitting down to eat. This was actually optimal timing, because the pasta was still steaming impressively and all manner of cooking instruments were lying about attesting to my efforts, but I hadn't actually started tackling the awkward issue of how to eat the pasta with at least a minimal amount of grace.
"Ciao!" said I as she poked her head into the kitchen.
"Ah! Ma... you made the sauce with fresh tomatoes? Ah. Brava! Ti stai italianizzando." ('Ah' is meant to denote a breathy little sound of surprise and shock, presumably due to the fact that the apartment was still standing and nothing was even the least bit burnt.) She retreated, perhaps not trusting her luck any further.
I glanced down at my pasta. And then at my boots (which are sexy and Italian and black and make very satisfying clacking sounds at work), my more or less reasonably ironed shirt, and obligatory black sweater (because in winter you wear black, period). For a very brief instant, I felt cool and capable and smooth and un pochino italianizzata.
I smiled.
For instance, my grasp of the recipe was not so firm. I had it explained to me by an Italian Friend, but she is from down south and generally lops off the last syllable (or more) of most of her words, which makes her a bit of a challenge to follow at times. So all I really retained from the conversation was that it was called 'pasta aglio e olio'. Which kind of leads you to believe that you need pasta, aglio (garlic), and olio (oil). But no. It is all a nasty practical joke.
I googled it and it turns out you also need peperoncino. I don't even know what that is, but the point is, I didn't have any. It's okay, though. I kept my cool and decided to substitute with tomatoes. Because they were in the fridge, and, anyway, tomatoes are red, peperoncino kind of sounds like it might be red... so, yeah. Whatever.
Another issue is that spaghetti-shaped pasta (bucatini, if you're really interested) is difficult to cook. Because unless you own a pot the size of my entire kitchen, there is no obvious way to get the suckers actually into the pot. I called my mother for advice. I don't generally call my parents to be bailed out of whatever difficulties I get myself into, so I figured it would be permissible on a one-off basis. She was silent for a moment. "Well, you just put them in. The end inside the water will go soft and the rest will fall in."
Oh.
So, anyway, it all worked out charmingly. The result wasn't actually delicious or anything, but it was edible. Which, all things considered (namely, my history with cooking), is quite a nice surprise.
My roommate arrived home just as I was sitting down to eat. This was actually optimal timing, because the pasta was still steaming impressively and all manner of cooking instruments were lying about attesting to my efforts, but I hadn't actually started tackling the awkward issue of how to eat the pasta with at least a minimal amount of grace.
"Ciao!" said I as she poked her head into the kitchen.
"Ah! Ma... you made the sauce with fresh tomatoes? Ah. Brava! Ti stai italianizzando." ('Ah' is meant to denote a breathy little sound of surprise and shock, presumably due to the fact that the apartment was still standing and nothing was even the least bit burnt.) She retreated, perhaps not trusting her luck any further.
I glanced down at my pasta. And then at my boots (which are sexy and Italian and black and make very satisfying clacking sounds at work), my more or less reasonably ironed shirt, and obligatory black sweater (because in winter you wear black, period). For a very brief instant, I felt cool and capable and smooth and un pochino italianizzata.
I smiled.
Thursday, February 19
Cappelletti
"Cappelletti," decides the six-year-old I'm babysitting after a contemplative pause.
I wonder for the nth time what possessed me to answer in the affirmative when I was asked if I would mind just 'picking her up from school and feeding her lunch before you begin the lesson'. Still, here I am in their kitchen and I can't exactly tell a six-year-old that she will have to starve for the afternoon just because I am a bit frightened of her stove. For one, it would completely shatter her trust in adults.
And anyway, it's not so hopeless, is it? I happen to know that cappelletti are smallish and roundish, because I saw a picture on a poster in a bus stop. I vaguely recall having read the "cappelletti in brodo" on a menu somewhere, which presumably means that they should be served in broth. Or cooked in broth. Or something similar. And I have a more or less concrete idea that broth can be made by dissolving a little cube of brown dust in the water. Splendid.
Armed with this information, I turn back to the freezer while my little student looks on expectantly. Towards the top, there seems to be quite a variety of liquor, ranging from things I recognize (limoncello - because it is bright yellow, you see) to things I don't (brownish, amberish, darkish, clear, etc.). This is probably good to keep in mind in case the cooking for the boss' daughter doesn't go entirely as planned. On the shelves below that, there are many paper bags.
I open one experimentally, but it contains squarish ones that are probably tortelli. This bit of knowledge boosts my confidence: I am cultured and knowledgeable! I can (more or less) recognize tortelli! I smile and resume my search. It transpires that there are no fewer than three bags containing smallish roundish stuffed-looking pasta. I sigh. Their contents all look completely identical to me. Come to think of it, perhaps they are. Perhaps the only difference is that some of them are already expired and if I choose to serve her those, I will poison her and be fired (and possibly put to death). Little Student raises her eyebrows at me. She is far too clever for her own good, and, what's worse, I think she knows it. Also, she is adorable, which doesn't help.
"How about these?" I say conversationally, holding out one of the bags. The little frozen round things rattle interestingly.
"Those are tortellini," she informs me, rather witheringly, switching from midwest American (courtesy of her mother) to her lucky little native speaker's accent for the last word.
Indeed. There's nothing for it. This will be like that time I helped her with her reading homework and had to get out a dictionary to figure out what arrampicatore meant. ('Climber', in case you're curious. It was in reference to squirrels, I think.)
"Well, then which ones do you want?" I am a coward and try to make it seem like it is a personal choice on her part, rather than my pasta-related ignorance, that is causing difficulty here. Like I said, though, she is a bright kid. She points to one of the bags.
"These are the cappelletti," she says confidently, before scampering off to play with her Disney princess dolls, some of which, it appears, speak Italian, while others speak English. I reflect that she would make an interesting case study, and attempt to console myself with the intellectual quality of this thought while I turn on the stove and stab at the cube of broth-making stuff with a fork so that it will dissolve more quickly.
I inspect the bags of frozen pasta again while I wait for the water to boil but I still don't see much of a difference. Perhaps the cappelletti are slightly more orange. And maybe ever so slightly smaller. But other than that they look exactly the same. Upon later reflection, it occurs to me that perhaps the shape is slightly different. Or the spacing of the wavy bits on the edges. But probably you have to be born Emiliana to see it.
While I am ruefully contemplating this, my little charge scampers back into the kitchen with an important look on her face.
"You have to put the brown square into the water," she informs me sagely, "that makes the brodo. Otherwise it's just water."
I reflect that it's lucky for my self-esteem that I'm tall enough to reach the stove and she isn't. Otherwise I would feel profoundly useless.
P.S. Cappelletti is rather tricky to spell: three sets of doppie! But this makes it fun to say.
I wonder for the nth time what possessed me to answer in the affirmative when I was asked if I would mind just 'picking her up from school and feeding her lunch before you begin the lesson'. Still, here I am in their kitchen and I can't exactly tell a six-year-old that she will have to starve for the afternoon just because I am a bit frightened of her stove. For one, it would completely shatter her trust in adults.
And anyway, it's not so hopeless, is it? I happen to know that cappelletti are smallish and roundish, because I saw a picture on a poster in a bus stop. I vaguely recall having read the "cappelletti in brodo" on a menu somewhere, which presumably means that they should be served in broth. Or cooked in broth. Or something similar. And I have a more or less concrete idea that broth can be made by dissolving a little cube of brown dust in the water. Splendid.
Armed with this information, I turn back to the freezer while my little student looks on expectantly. Towards the top, there seems to be quite a variety of liquor, ranging from things I recognize (limoncello - because it is bright yellow, you see) to things I don't (brownish, amberish, darkish, clear, etc.). This is probably good to keep in mind in case the cooking for the boss' daughter doesn't go entirely as planned. On the shelves below that, there are many paper bags.
I open one experimentally, but it contains squarish ones that are probably tortelli. This bit of knowledge boosts my confidence: I am cultured and knowledgeable! I can (more or less) recognize tortelli! I smile and resume my search. It transpires that there are no fewer than three bags containing smallish roundish stuffed-looking pasta. I sigh. Their contents all look completely identical to me. Come to think of it, perhaps they are. Perhaps the only difference is that some of them are already expired and if I choose to serve her those, I will poison her and be fired (and possibly put to death). Little Student raises her eyebrows at me. She is far too clever for her own good, and, what's worse, I think she knows it. Also, she is adorable, which doesn't help.
"How about these?" I say conversationally, holding out one of the bags. The little frozen round things rattle interestingly.
"Those are tortellini," she informs me, rather witheringly, switching from midwest American (courtesy of her mother) to her lucky little native speaker's accent for the last word.
Indeed. There's nothing for it. This will be like that time I helped her with her reading homework and had to get out a dictionary to figure out what arrampicatore meant. ('Climber', in case you're curious. It was in reference to squirrels, I think.)
"Well, then which ones do you want?" I am a coward and try to make it seem like it is a personal choice on her part, rather than my pasta-related ignorance, that is causing difficulty here. Like I said, though, she is a bright kid. She points to one of the bags.
"These are the cappelletti," she says confidently, before scampering off to play with her Disney princess dolls, some of which, it appears, speak Italian, while others speak English. I reflect that she would make an interesting case study, and attempt to console myself with the intellectual quality of this thought while I turn on the stove and stab at the cube of broth-making stuff with a fork so that it will dissolve more quickly.
I inspect the bags of frozen pasta again while I wait for the water to boil but I still don't see much of a difference. Perhaps the cappelletti are slightly more orange. And maybe ever so slightly smaller. But other than that they look exactly the same. Upon later reflection, it occurs to me that perhaps the shape is slightly different. Or the spacing of the wavy bits on the edges. But probably you have to be born Emiliana to see it.
While I am ruefully contemplating this, my little charge scampers back into the kitchen with an important look on her face.
"You have to put the brown square into the water," she informs me sagely, "that makes the brodo. Otherwise it's just water."
I reflect that it's lucky for my self-esteem that I'm tall enough to reach the stove and she isn't. Otherwise I would feel profoundly useless.
P.S. Cappelletti is rather tricky to spell: three sets of doppie! But this makes it fun to say.
Thursday, January 22
The thing with the supermarkets
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.
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.
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.
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