a word on grappa

In Wednesday's Sweet Apple Omelet recipe from Gina DePalma's fabulous Dolce Italiano, a little thing called "grappa" was one of the ingredients -- and one that I omitted.

Probably because I singled it out, there ended up being quite a bit of discussion in the comments about this uniquely Italian creation -- questions that can be summarized as "What is grappa?", "Why would you use grappa in desserts?" and "Does Gina have a particular fondness for it as it appears in quite a few Dolce Italiano recipes?"

Since there is some mystery surrounding this peculiar clear bevanda, today we're talking grappa, and our source will be none other than Gina DePalma, who was more than happy to answer questions about its use in her recipes.

But first--what is it?

We needn't go further than Dolce Italiano for the answer. Have I mentioned that beyond a fabulous collection of recipes, Gina also offers an amazing amount of information on Italy, festivals and celebratory foods, the Italian language, and baking equipment and techniques?

You can also learn the history of gelato, why you should always toast nuts before using them, how to test your oven's prowess, and how to substitute different egg sizes in recipes.

And so much more!

In a section called "Ten Italian Ingredients You Should Know," Gina writes about "the building blocks of [her] dessert repertoire." These are the essential items in her pantry at Babbo, she says, and grappa is on that list.

From Dolce Italiano:

An aquavite, or "water of life," grappa is made by distilling grape skins and grape pomace, and this characteristic distinguishes it from other distillates made from wine or fruit....Grape pomace is essentially the leftovers of the winemaking process--the skins, pulp, and seeds. The pomace is heated in a still to produce an alcoholic mixture, which is distilled to remove the solids along with water, impurities, methyl alcohol, and any other volatile substances. The grappa is then carefully aged in a multistep process, which ends with a final reduction of alcohol and cold-filtering. Skilled, traditional grappa distillers produce a drink that is filled with nuance and flavor.

As every region produces wine, every region also produces grappa, but it is the northern versions that get the most accolades, particularly those from Friuli-Venezia Giulia and the Veneto.

Which brings us to the Sweet Apple Omelet. As Gina pointed out in her email to me, the recipe itself comes from Friuli, and so grappa was a perfectly logical and tasty addition to it.

But in general, Gina notes, "lots of pastry recipes--not just Italian--use spirits and distillates. Rum, brandy, framboise, even whiskey. Booze is there more than people realize, especially in European-style pastry."

I can certainly attest to that last part as sometimes it's difficult to find a dessert here that *doesn't* have some kind of alcohol in it--it's even in children's snacks! Here in the south where I am, grappa isn't usually the addition of choice but there is a lot of rum, brandy, anisette, and even vincotto. All tasty to be sure.

So why would you use grappa in a dessert recipe? From the book, Gina says that that "a truly fine grappa will accent and improve whatever flavor is highlighted on the plate." She particularly likes using grappa in fresh fruit desserts and says that it is "heavenly when added to a crepe batter or lightly sweetened whipped cream."

And about her allegedly using excessive amounts of grappa in the recipes?

"I think I use a good variety in the book--rum, amaretto, and grappa, mostly. I think that Americans see grappa as an unusual ingredient, and the recipes that use it have gotten more than their fair share of attention. But first and foremost, I use grappa in the recipes where it fits, either regionally, or because I think the flavor works really well."

So there you have it.

Now you know a little more about the mystical grappa, why Gina uses it, and why you should too.

I do want to be clear that I didn't use grappa in the Sweet Apple Omelet because I didn't have any. I was sick over the weekend when I needed to shop for ingredients, and since I wasn't going outside, this meant no grappa-shopping either.

Related to that, even if I could've gotten my hands on some grappa (surely one of my neighbors has a stash, although it might be peperoncino-flavored!), my recovering stomach was certainly not up for even the smell of it. Or at least I didn't want to risk it.

Next time I make the Sweet Apple Omelet though, I will certainly give the grappa a try in there. I trust Gina.

And now my mom does too because she just received her Christmas gift from me in the mail yesterday--her very own copy of Dolce Italiano! The mailman actually delivered it *while* I was on the phone with her.

It's just the most wonderful time of the year, isn't it?

P.S. Remember that today is the last day in the Dolce Italiano Contest so head over to Jenn's The Leftover Queen for the final recipe. And if you want to comment on that post or the previous nine recipe posts (you can comment on all of them once for a total of 10 chances to win), do so by

11:59 p.m. PST, DECEMBER 7--TONIGHT!!

in order to enter the drawing to win a personalized, signed copy of Dolce Italiano by Gina DePalma.

Here are the previous recipe posts:

Mosaic Biscotti & Sicilian Pistachio Cookies, Sara's Ms Adventures in Italy

Chocolate Kisses & Cassata alla Siciliana, Ilva's Lucullian Delights

Ricotta Pound Cake & Sweet Apple Omelet, here!

Chestnut Brownies & Chocolate & Tangerine Semifreddo, Shelley's At Home in Rome

Chocolate Salami, Jenn's The Leftover Queen

Best of luck and buon weekend!

if the shoe fits... you're not an italian policewoman

When Italy's Interior Ministry decided it was time to spruce up the uniform of the 14,750 women police officers (for more on the numerous branches of Italian police, head over to Mental Mosaic), they did what many of us do in a fashion crisis.

They bought new shoes--with higher heels for a "younger and sexier look" according to La Stampa.

Trying to save money, though, the government bypassed all the world-renowned (but expensive) Italian shoemakers and went with a company from Romania.

Unfortunately, when the shoes arrived, they weren't in standard European sizes, so the shoes didn't fit.

Which means a lot of useless shoes.

Oops.

You think they'll give the Italian government its money back?

Floor's open to your comments on whatever leaps out at you. Stomp away.

what's happening in italy?

Oh a lot, amici miei.

Let's start from the most serious and head down to the downright silly:

(1) Italian Premier Romano Prodi has called for a worldwide moratorium on the death penalty in front of the United Nations General Assembly. Without getting into a huge political debate (although you're welcome to do so in the comments!), I'm firmly against the death penalty, and I'm molto fiera that Italy has stood up against it in the UN.

Of course the United States will be one of the key opponents of the moratorium, but Italian Foreign Minister Massimo D'Alema thinks it has a good shot at passing since public opinion has shifted over the years in favor of outlawing the death penalty.

Time will tell, but I'm just happy that the discussion is on the floor and that Italy is in the forefront.

In related news, just this week, my blogging buddy over at Piacere wrote a great review of the book Dead Man Walking: An Eyewitness Account of the Death Penalty in the United States by Sister Helen Prejean as part of S.M.S. Books: Book to Movie Challenge and also linked to a website that continues to give updates to facts and figures in the book.

Perhaps you've seen the movie (I haven't), but it seems that the book is well worth a look too.

(2) This isn't technically in Italy, but we'll get there in a second. The Vatican City State has a new stamp--and not just any new stamp. This time the saint is from Calabria! Yeah! Go San Francesco di Paola!

For those who aren't up on Roman Catholic saints, Calabria's own Saint Francis is often overshadowed by Saint Francis of Assisi, the co-Patron Saint of Italy with Saint Catherine of Siena (although there is some debate on that, with Saint Joseph (father of Jesus) as the other contender).

Anyway, it's nice to see *our* Saint Francis being recognized. You can read more about the Patron Saint of Calabria and his stamp here.

Here's a preview:

Gorgeous, no?

(3) And finally, guess who's invading the Bel Paese? You'll never guess.

Or maybe you will.



Give up?

This ABC article is actually from April 30 of this year, but I just saw it referenced here. Scary thing is that the article talks about the time frame of 24-36 months during which Starbucks plans to open branches in France, Germany, Spain, and (gulp) Italy.

Which means we're *that* much closer to no more of this in the morning:

Yeah right.

So now that I've touched on politics, religion, and coffee--three subjects guaranteed to get any Italian fired up (only calcio is missing!)--I'll leave you to your Saturday.

Hope it's as gorgeous as ours is here!

STRIKE! drop the tagliatelle & no one will get hurt

I've been away from here for a while, so you may be wondering what's going on in Italy.

Well right here in the Bel Paese where a third of citizens say they prefer a plate of spaghetti over sex, Italy's going on a pasta strike on September 13.

Seems impossible, insane even, but Italy's four largest consumer groups are stufi with the planned price hikes of electricity, gas, train service, bread, milk, school books, and, of course, pasta, and they feel that a strike on pastasciutta would be a symbolic demonstration of citizens' feelings on the matter.

Some say that these planned increases would cause Italian families to shell out another 1000 euros per year on such items, spending up to 25-30% more--a huge increase especially if you consider that the average monthly salary in Italy hovers around that magic 1000 euros mark.

Go ahead. Gasp.

We all know that Italians are famous for their strikes (I'm guessing more than a few of you reading this have been affected by one or another), but a "sciopero della pasta?"

Unheard of, so you know this is serious.

Most Italians eat pasta every day, and some estimates say that an average Italian eats 54 kilos (119 pounds) of pasta per year--for some, as you can imagine, that's their own body weight or more.

The increasing price of wheat is really behind this, and it brings to mind Mexico's recent problems with the rising cost of corn to make its famous tortillas. What else is a nation to do when their food staple is threatened?

I have to say I think the Italians have a point here.

Now you may be worried about those Italians who might suffer the side effects of no pasta for a day, but don't worry--volunteers from the consumer groups will be handing out bread and milk throughout the country to assuage any pangs.

So if you'd like to support your Italian friends, just say no to buying or eating pasta on Thursday, September 13.

And an inside tip?

Start savoring that espresso, as it too has been the victim of a recent price increase.

And if you think Italians are protective over their pasta....

answering your questions: italy edition

Hey, remember when JennieBoo tagged me with the eight things meme and you wrote in with your questions after I asked for help?

For those who haven't been following, go read parts one, two, and three of my answers to catch up because now we're on the fourth installment of responses...and I *still* won't have gotten to all the questions by the time I'm done here.

You are such an inquisitive bunch!

These questions all have to do with Italy in some way or another, so let's start with a photo to get us in the mood.


Now settle in and get a cup of whatever it is will get you through this--it's a long one.

1. Sharon in Sicily asked me to name the strangest thing I've seen in everyday Italian life.

Oh where to begin? I'm going to go with something that truly baffles me and that no one has been able to adequately explain to me thus far.

Italians are notoriously obsessive about the cleanliness of the inside of their homes. So then why, oh why, is there so much litter, graffiti, and occasional bouts with garbage piles *outside* of them?

The juxtaposition of the two extremes is just...well...it's quite simply the strangest thing I have seen in everyday Italian life.

2. My Melange would like to know what my favorite spot in Italy is and where I'd like to go that I haven't yet been; in a related question, Kimberly wants to know where I'd suggest a first time overseas traveler head first.

You probably don't know this and maybe won't even believe it, but I'm not well-traveled within Italy at all--Calabria, yes, as I've seen everything in depth and many times (except the area around Cosenza--no offense to the Cosentini!). But I've never been to the biggies like Rome (gasp!) and Florence.

Wow. That felt like confession. I feel better now.

Anyway, right now, I'd have to say that my favorite spot in Italy is, well, home.

But a close second is Serra San Bruno, the site of an 11th century monastery nestled up in the Serra mountains (part of the Sila range) about 45 minutes away from me. It's a wooded area with walking trails and spots for picnics--there's even a little stream running through it. So peaceful and relaxing.

I also like Taormina in Sicily, which is gorgeous although quite touristy.

I've meant to travel more, I swear, but it's kind of expensive especially since I've been busy working to save up for various other things; travel just hasn't been a priority.

But on Kimberly's point, the first place we'll probably head once we get out and about is Rome--I think it's the most logical starting point for discovering Italy (but then I've never been very logical, which explains my roundabout route). Plus P's sister lives just outside the city, so that'll cut down on our costs.

3. Bec wants to know more about how long it took me to be fluent in Italian, or at least to be able to understand and respond.

First, as background for those who don't know--I came here without speaking Italian aside from "ciao" and some food words.

Now on becoming fluent, let me put it this way: the basics are easy, especially when you're immersed and don't have a choice but to learn, as was my situation. I went back to the US after six months here, and I was getting along just fine on a day to day basis by the time I left.

That said, four years later, I'm still not where I'd like to be, but I can hold my own in pretty much any situation. I think in Italian, dream in Italian, and often count in Italian, so I'd say I'm well on my way. What I need to do now is really study grammar and expand my vocabulary, and then I'll consider myself truly fluent.

I'd say it'll take a couple more years, though, because this, unfortunately, isn't much of a priority either. I've gotten a bit lazy, I'm afraid, and I'm quite happy to simply not struggle every day with easy things. When I'm ready for a challenge again, I'll pick up some books and study.

4. Stefania wanted to know if Italy's lifestyle really is more laid back and how I spend my days.

Great question, and I'm so glad you asked!

I live in a 350-person village in southern Italy, so yes, the lifestyle here *is* pretty laid back; people do things on their own time and when they want, thus our many expat complaints about lines at the post office and the doctor's office and not having our phone lines fixed for months.

That said, there are also cities in Italy, especially the farther north you go, that are very much like cities anywhere--a lot of rushing around and, unfortunately, a lot of stress. Our friend Michellanea is in Milano, and I think she'd be the first to tell you that she ain't taking afternoon naps and sipping limoncello all day.

Of course, neither am I, but I'm also not rushing around trying to get as much done in a day as possible--or having to cover great physical distances to get those things done (this is a general difference between city and rural life, I think, and not Italy-specific).

My average day? I do the same things as most everyone else only I work from home (except when I'm teaching) so I can schedule things when I want--some mornings I have errands, for example, and those are always more stressful than anything else I do. Other than that, I do yoga, take Luna on walks, work, get cappuccino at the bar with a friend, work, cook, eat, do laundry, clean, talk to my mom on the phone, blah blah blah.

Oh, and blog of course.

5. And finally, we have Anno:

It seems to me that there are so many romantic memoirs published about life in Italy (Eat Pray Love, which I Loved Loved Loved; and Under the Tuscan Sun); when you read these books, do you snort in derision, or is there something in them that still resonates with you?

This is a fabulous question. I'm laughing as I imagine my snorts of derision. I'll have to work on those--sounds like fun!

Hmm. How can I say this? There are some authors' styles that I appreciate more than others. Frances Mayes in Under the Tuscan Sun really pours it on; she's a flowery writer recounting the stresses of restoring a villa while she's in the US and trying to find creative ways to use all the wonderful flowers and vegetables in her Tuscan garden. She's half in the US and half out and obviously had a considerable amount of cash to work with.

Let's just say we didn't share the same experience.

That said, I didn't hate the book, and indeed, I found some passages that I liked enough to copy into my quote book such as:

Where you are is who you are. The further inside you the place moves, the more your identity is intertwined with it. Never casual, the choice of place is the choice of something you crave.

I identified with this sentiment as I read it during the year between when I decided to move here and when I did. So no snorts there.

On the other hand, I *really* enjoyed Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman's Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia by Elizabeth Gilbert, and yes, I keep promising a review, and it'll come at some point. I definitely recommend it as I enjoyed following Gilbert's journey, but interestingly, more on a spiritual level than anything.

Again, no snorting.

But I will say that if you want to read a spirited, down-to-earth "I moved to Italy" book, check out Extra Virgin: A Young Woman Discovers the Italian Riviera, Where Every Month is Enchanted by Annie Hawes.

Here are some of my favorite parts:

No matter how much you feel you're in the middle of nowhere around here, completely unobserved, you're sure to come across someone who saw exactly what you were up to--or who knows someone else who did.

Expats in small towns? You with me on this one?

I mentally take my hat off to whatever unbelievably desperate person first discovered the edibility of the olive--I'm sure I would have starved without ever guessing for a moment that the things weren't poisonous.

For those who don't know, raw olives aren't fit to be eaten--and if you don't believe me, you're welcome to try for yourself.

Lucy [Hawes' sister] and I are thinking longingly of a quiet place up a mountain, a place where people only speak one at a time, and in English. We need to rest our reeling brains.

Here here!

And finally, addressing a subject near and dear to my heart:

I, meanwhile, far from being modernized, have recently found myself being put through a typically Italian trauma...I have transmuted, inexplicably yet inexorably, from a signorina to a signora.

Perhaps I should explain that "signorina" means a young woman, and "signora," well, doesn't.

And that wraps up today's Italy Edition answers.

P.S. Figs Olives Wine--I haven't forgotten about your Italy-related question; I just have bigger plans for it.

P.P.S. If you haven't checked out the Bella Bags E-Party and Contest, get there! And do keep checking Bella Bags because Marcía's adding new bags all the time.

no parking (plus a poppy)

This is a sign in the corner of the small piazza near my house.

For those who don't know, these two, taken together mean "No parking in the entire sqaure."

There didn't use to be the additional "per tutta la piazza" language below the main sign, but it was added because some crafty parkers argued that, well, they weren't parked right below the sign, so they weren't in violation of anything.

Glad we got that cleared up.

Bonus! Here's a poppy just because.

sisterhood of the impossible-to-find pants

I find clothes shopping in Italy rough, and I know I'm not the only one.

It's not just the sales clerks that either (a) won't leave you alone to browse or (b) won't wait on you even when you ask.

It's more about finding the right clothes in the right style with the right fit at the right price.

Aw, I'm just going to say it: there isn't a pair of pants in Italy that I like, that will fit me, and that will not cost more than a plot of farmable Calabrian land.

No, I haven't scoured every store from the Alps to the Aspromonte, but I've been here almost four years, and I've never (that's mai) bought a pair of pants here. I've been able to get along with my basic, if somewhat outdated, wardrobe up until now, but another complication has been added to the mix.

Over this time, I've lost somewhere around 35 pounds (16 kilos) in total. It's been gradual because I haven't actually been dieting, per se. Eating better? Absolutely. Moving more? For sure. And so as my lifestyle has changed, so has my pants size, and as I realized last week, the old ones just aren't even passable anymore.

Isn't this supposed to be the fun part of losing weight--when you get to go out and buy new clothes in a size you never thought you'd see?

Yeah well, it hasn't been enjoyable for a variety of reasons, one being that I have no idea what size I actually am. Even in American sizes, I'm not sure, but at least I know what I'm not based on my current clothes.

Sure there are handy little online conversion charts to help, but you know what? Even when I try on pants of the European sizes I (allegedly) used to be (35 pounds/16 kilos ago), they don't fit!

Whahuh?

I've concluded that it's a problem of body type and shape rather than of size; for instance, if I find a pair of pants that fit my thighs and bum, the waist is enormous. Anything that would fit my waist requires squeezing my legs into them until my torso is held up by two salsiccie (sausages).

Not a good look on anyone, I don't think.

Then there's a little thing called "length" and Italians only believe in one, so it's off to the tailor's to spend more euros if you aren't whatever that height is!

And don't even get me started on the low-rise fad that won't die.

On that subject, let's talk a little more about la moda. Even if I could find a pair of pants that fit, finding them in a style I like would be quite difficult. Plain old jeans (oh, I don't know, like from the Gap) are hard to find. Many have sequins or other stitching to liven them up.

Apparently I prefer my jeans rather deadened.

I've never been a big fan of bedazzled anything, but now, pushing 31, well, I find such jeans even less appropriate (although many of my Italian colleagues older than me don't see a problem).

I haven't mentioned the cost yet, but believe me, clothes are not cheap here (except for the staples like socks and underwear which you can get at the weekly market). I'm simply not willing to spend a small fortune on a pair of slutty-looking jeans (yeah, I said it) that make it difficult to breathe and sit at the same time, all while showing the crack o' my bum to the world.

And so I'm stuck in pants limbo.

Ordering online is an option, but for how long it would take something to get here (if it arrives at all) coupled with how expensive it is to ship and, oh, have I mentioned that I have no idea what size I am? Probably not worth the hassle.

I think I just may have to spring for a cheap Ryan Air flight to London where it is rumoured (get it?) that women built like me exist.

Either that, or, fellow expat women, sisters if you will, it's time to start an importing business.

Che ne pensate?
(What do you think?)

a few stolen moments

I've been away from the blogosphere for an entire week, and believe me, it's not by choice. Even now, I am typing from a work computer where I'm supposed to be doing some translation, but, well, there was a working Internet connection, and that's all the window I needed.

Let me assure everyone that I am fine, P is fine, Luna is fine--the only thing that's not fine is our damn phoneline (and accordingly, my Internet connection), which has been down since last Friday. It's been rough, but I've learned several things through the experience, and I'm going to do a Friday Five, taking a page out of Stefanie's book.

You can't imagine how long it just took me to link to Stefanie on this ancient computer that won't even accept my memory stick, which would've meant that I could've just copied and pasted what I had already written last night.

Five Things I've Learned in a Week Without the Internet

1. I hate Telecom (the phone company). Yeah, I knew that one, but now I hate them even more. Most of my town is without phone service, but they don't even have an estimate on when we might get it back. Ain't that cute?

2. I can carry on a decent conversation in Italian over the phone with a utility company. Information I'd rather not know, but whatever. I'm most proud of the fact that I haven't (yet) yelled or cursed in either language.

3. I spend a lot of time on the Internet. I knew this one too, but it wasn't completely obvious until I was faced with considerably more free time this past week. I'd be lying to say it wasn't nice to get other things accomplished too, so I think I can take this is a warning sign to re-balance things around here. See, it's not all bad!

4. Murphy's Law of the Blogging World: You may get writer's block on a frequent basis while you have the full ability to post, but once you can't, the ideas will abound. That said, rest assured, this last week was not completely wasted, blog-wise. I have at least a week's worth of posts ready to pull out when I most need them. Again, trying to look on the positive side here.

5. And finally, the best of all--I have made a lot of wonderful blog/Internet friends. I've gotten emails from people who had never even commented on the blog wondering if I was OK. Wow. That is just awesome, and I thank you all for your concern. I promise I'll get back to everyone just as soon as I'm up and running from home. It's hard to even borrow computers to use around here, but perhaps I'll splurge and hit the Internet café one of these days (but hopefully I won't need to...come on Telecom!).

I, too, miss being a part of your daily lives, and I can't wait to catch up on all that has happened in my absence. I wish I had a time frame for when I'd be back to the regularly-scheduled program, but, you know, since Telecom doesn't know, I don't know either. You'll come back, though, right? I miss you!

P.S. I'm not sure how this post will look as this computer doesn't even have the font I normally use. Bear with me, and say a little prayer, would you?

another homeless smurf

On Saturday afternoon, P and his friends went hunting tartufi (truffles) in the mountains that surround us. Other than a ton of rainbows, the sprouting of delicious mushrooms is another great side effect to all the rain we've been getting. While normal funghi hunting, e.g., for porcini, occurs in the fall and winter, our black truffles are just getting good around this time.

Ah, yes, I should point out that we only have black truffles down here as the white, expensive, sacred ones are further north in more famous white truffle country.

So how did we do? Well, no luck on the tartufi this time, but P did find a rather unique 'shroom that he brought home for me. Have I mentioned he's always bringing me something?


This is actually a porcino, well out of season, and just cute as a button (about that small as well). So if you want to start up a collection or something, it would seem that we've just created another homeless Smurf*.

And you thought Gargamel was nasty.

*In Italian, the Smurfs are called "I Puffi."

From Wikipedia: Italian: puffi (singular: puffo), the name has been reinvented from scratch because in Italian language the "schtroumpf" or (in Italian spelling strumpf) reminds speakers of the Italian word "stronzo," literally meaning 'piece of excrement.' Note that the dialect word 'strunz' is even closer to 'strumpf.' The fantasy name "puffi" is derived from the word "buffi" (singular: buffo, as in opera buffo) a word meaning at same time "funny" and "strange."

fava beans and cream puffs

And you thought all that green beer from St. Patrick's Day was disgusting.

Just kidding. You're not meant to eat the fava beans and cream puffs together, but they are both traditional for today, St. Joseph's Day, or La Festa di San Giuseppe as it's called here. It's held in honor of Joseph, the foster father of Jesus, and, in fact, also serves as Italian Father's Day.

So, before I forget, Happy Italian's Father's Day, Dad (he's an Italian citizen now too, you know)!

Actually, the Feast of Saint Joseph is celebrated by more than just Italians--it's a worldwide Catholic feast--but it is especially important in Sicily, where St. Joseph is honored for saving the island from famine during the Middle Ages; the population survived on fava beans, and so they are always a part of the celebration. In fact, I saw the first favas of the season today at my little grocery store but by the time I went home to get my camera, someone had hauled away the whole case of them. Guess they're celebrating big time.

Those of Italian heritage may remember a little something about St. Joseph's altars full of flowers, wine, cakes, and those wonderful zeppole (zee-powl-ee)--perhaps even one from your own house. Although many refer to zeppole as cream puffs (pictured at left), there are actually many different versions of zeppole from Rome on down.

My grandmother made zeppole more like this but used regular sugar instead of powdered; this is also how P's mom makes them as well, which leads me to believe that this is the Calabrian way (at least in these parts--along with dialects, recipes can change drastically from village to village). Here, though, they don't put any sugar on them at all, so it's basically chunks of fried dough stretched so that it has some lightness.

And, incidentally, neither P's mom nor my grandmother would think of filling these dough pockets with cream--if you find anything inside, it's likely an anchovy, and what a delicious treat it is!

Don't tell anyone, but I actually put sugar on the ones filled with anchovies too. I did this at one New Year's dinner and got all kinds of crazy looks. I tried to explain how much I enjoy sweet and salty mixtures, but finally just used the fact that I'm American as an excuse. That compensates for many a faux-pas you know.

I wimped out and didn't make any zeppole for today, mostly because I'd end up eating every last one. Maybe next year.

Today is also the day when all the Giuseppes (Josephs), Giuseppinas (Josephines), etc., celebrate their onomastico, or name day. Since many Italians share their names with saints, they celebrate both a birthday and a separate onomastico, unless, of course, they were named for the saint of the day they were born. My grandmother, for instance, was named Pauline because she was born on the day of St. Paul's conversion.

Did you know that in Italy, the celebrator is expected to treat everyone else? So, I'm looking at you, Joe O.--you owe me some Vitamin Y.

And here I'll also give a shout out to my great-great-grandfather, Giuseppe, who was so named because he was born today, March 19, 1873, just a short walk from where I'm typing this and mere steps from P's house as it turns out.

Auguri Papù!

sunday scribblings: superstitions

*Don't forget that all this week is the Ultimate Blog Party!

Prompt #49: Superstitions

Superstitions--a topic close to my heart having grown up with an Italian-American grandmother and now living in southern Italy, where Roman Catholicism and mysticism live in surprising perfect harmony. That phenomenon is worth a whole post, and indeed books have been written on the subject. Perhaps someday I'll wax theoretical, but for today, let's stick in the here and now, the daily implications of superstition in my life.

I've already written about my experiences with malocchio, The Evil Eye, perhaps the greatest superstition of all, especially since it crosses many cultures and religions. Some of my other favorite superstitions are things you should avoid doing lest you invite bad luck: placing a loaf of bread upside down, spilling wine, olive oil, or salt, dropping scissors.

Another of my favorites is that a pregnant woman's cravings should always be satisfied or else the baby will be born with a birthmark in the form of the desired food or the child will be generally disfigured. You scoff?

I inherited a birthmark that my father has because my pregnant grandmother expressed her craving for chicken while scratching her legs. Yes, we both have chicken-shaped birthmarks on our calves (although I prefer to think it looks more like a heart). Someday I may show you, but sorry, today's not the day.

All of my pregnant readers are more than welcome to quote me on this topic, by the way.

But my freakiest experience with southern Italian superstition happened about a year ago when P's mom rushed into the house with tears in her eyes, begging me to go and retrieve some of her jewelry she had given me a few months before.

"What happened?" I asked.

"I had a dream." I'm pretty sure she thought that would be enough information, but, you know, I'm American, so I ask questions.

"About the jewelry?" I was still not making a move for the steps to get the jewelry, so she gently guided me with her hands.

"No, about you and my son, and...." She sat down, started rocking back and forth, made repeated, furious signs of the cross, and began mumbling what I assume were prayers.

"What happened in the dream?" I stepped down two steps and stopped.

"I didn't sleep all night," she said, and continued saying prayers and crying. I didn't see the conversation going any further, so I didn't push it. I assumed that P and I had been dead in the dream--because if we had just broken up in the dream, that wouldn't have been so upsetting? Right? Hard to tell. I went to get the jewelry.

"This is everything?" she asked as I handed her a few little boxes that contained earrings and a necklace I rather liked--it had a tiny ladybug charm, which, ironically, I always thought meant good luck.

"Yes, that's everything. Do you want something to..."

"OK, I have to go," she said abruptly and left, still saying prayers and still crying, but most importantly clutching the jewelry.

So I was left in the wake of this early morning encounter to consider not only my own and P's mortality, but also what the jewelry had to do with any of it. Through various research including thinking back to my own grandmother but *not* including asking P's mom, because this is a subject not to be discussed, I think maybe I've figured it out.

Among southern Italians, it's a common practice that when one prays to a particular saint or the Virgin Mary for a request, one often promises something in return--many times it is a piece of jewelry to be pinned to the clothes of a statue.

I'm wondering if perhaps P's mom had promised my pieces of jewelry somewhere along the way for some request, and then saw something bad happening in her dream because she gave them to me instead. Or perhaps she had simply promised away that jewelry in lieu of P and I staying stay and/or together. Or maybe she had seen something in the dream about the jewelry somehow causing trouble.

Like I said, I haven't asked, because, truth be told, I don't actually want to know the whole story. I'm definitely superstitious, and I believe in messages coming through dreams, so this was one time I was more than happy to live in blissful ignorance.

In fact, I didn't even tell my own mom about this until I figured P and I were in the clear. Like birthmarks, superstitions seem to run in the family.

drowning our sorrows

As many of you may know, Italy is currently without a Prime Minister. Some of my expat blogging friends have written about it as it is currently our biggest news story.

Far be it from me to be the one to understand educate you on Italian politics, but let's just say that this is a frequent occurrence (over 60 changes in power since World War II), so no one should be scared.

We still have a president after all.

Feel better? No?

How about a Kinder treat?


P threw one of these in my bag yesterday as I set off for school, knowing that I get peckish mid-afternoon. I've always avoided these Kinder snacks (although the little chocolate eggs are heavenly), but just as P guessed, I hit it around 4 p.m.

It was love at first bite with its orange and chocolate flavors mixed together in cakey deliciousness. And then I tasted a little tinge of...something...alcoholic?

Was it possible that these children's treats are laced with Jesus Juice?


And there it is in plain Italian. Third line down.

If you don't speak Italian, "liquore" means "liquor," "vino liquoroso" is a port-like wine, Marsala for instance, and "alcool" indeed means "alcohol," and in this Kinder snack, you'll find 8.5%.

Again, like the resignation of Prodi, I don't really know what that percentage means, but I do know that I felt really nice after the Kinder fiesta bar, that I no longer cared about the government's status, that yesterday's lesson went swimmingly, and that I've already requested a box full for next week.

Now let's hope we'll soon be able to raise our Kinders and salute the new (or old, as it may be) governo.

love thursday: making it pretty

Italian women love their homes.

They express this love by keeping them cleaner than some hospitals and by decorating them.

Now I don't mean like for the holidays kind of decorating, because actually, that's not so common at least where I am. And I'm also not saying that all the southern Italian homes I've been in are especially warm and homey, at least for my taste. I've seen quite a few stark white walls, and since many of the apartments (most Italians live in flats stacked one on top of another) double as echo chambers, an overall sterile feeling isn't uncommon either.

That said, Italians are masters of making things pretty. We know this. So while maybe some homes lack a certain lived-in feel, it's rare to find a bare balcony or terrace. Flowers, plants, and trees are everywhere adding splashes of color to complement the lush green hills and achingly blue sea.

Other that a simple love of nature, this, in my expat opinion, has a lot to do with the bella figura, making a good impression. I have to believe that there's some sort of logic along the lines of "If the outside of your house is brutto, it doesn't matter how well you clean the inside."

I don't know if that's true, but it goes a long way in explaining sights like this:


This isn't an uncommon scene here in Calabria. Unfortunately, many unfinished concrete monstrosities line the SS 106 that runs along the Ionian Coast. And man are they fugly (even when they're completed for the most part).

But that doesn't stop Italian women from making homes out of them from the outside in, from trying to make them pretty, from showing them some love.

Happy Love Thursday everyone!

fancying up the donkey

In response to yesterday's post, one of my favorite bloggers, The Other Girl, has gone on the record as wanting donkey (or small goat as the case may be) rings on her dream home.

Now TOG (we're t h i s c l o s e , so I can call her that) is a girl with some major coglioni, but I realize that some of you out there just may be too shy to admit your desire for The Rings--this post is for all of you as well.

Below you will find the proper installation of said gadgets lest you be the laughing stock of your neighborhood because of some half-assed hook ups.

Context people. You know what I mean.


See them there on either side of the door? These people thought ahead and smartly planned for more than one donkey; you'd be well-advised to do the same as I think you'll find that one ass is hardly ever enough.

Plus I hear that symmetry is in this year.

quantifying weirdness

Shelley of At Home in Rome modified the famous "Six Weird Things About You" meme into the "Six Weird Things About Your City" meme. I'm an overachiever, so I'll tag myself with both. Anyone who would like to play along, feel free and then come back and leave a link in my comments so I can find you in all your weirdness.

Let's start with me:

1. I have neither set foot in a Starbucks nor drunk their coffee. Ever. I don't have anything against them, but we just never crossed paths before I left the U.S. Now I'm quite proud of this, so I will spend the rest of my life purposefully avoiding that caffeine-pushing Siren out of sheer stubbornness. Lucky for me, in southern Italy, this is quite easy to accomplish. I crack easily when it comes to coffee.

2. I arrange my silverware drawer in a very particular way and get upset if someone goes in there and moves things around. Of course all like items are together in slots, but the most important rule is that the bigger ones face up and the smaller ones face down (talking mostly forks and spoons here). And they are stacked, not willy nilly all over the place. Sharp knives all together *in their sheaths* as I don't need to be slicing myself reaching into the drawer. The rest of the knives congregate in another slot and wallow in their dullness. Don't worry, if you're ever a house guest, I won't ask you to put away silverware. In fact, I'll probably ask you not to.

3. I can recite all of the Presidents of the United States in order. Wanna hear? Washington, John Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, John Quincy Adams....OK, I'll stop. We had to learn this when I was in 11th grade to recite every week to our teacher as a quiz, and what can I say? Some things in my brain just won't give up their prized positions. On that note, sorry if I forget your name. There's only so much room up there.

4. I can tie a cherry stem into a knot using only my tongue. This has more value in the real world than most scholastic accomplishments, so, kids, get practicing!

5. I used to have an intense fear of fire, as in fear that my house/apartment would burn down. I can't say it was irrational because my family's house did burn down in 1971 (before I was born) and so THE FIRE was always part of our lore. On the other hand, seven years of college and apartment building 3 a.m. fire alarms only fanned the flames, so to speak. I'm getting past it now that I live in a stone house, but the fact that people burn off their land still freaks me out. A lot.

6. I have two different sets of 4 cups each.



The narrow, flowered ones are for coffee and the wider ones are for tea. In the morning, first I choose coffee or tea (usually coffee), then I pick the mug to match my mood and/or my outfit. Yes, my doggie is the only one who sees my morning routine, but this process grounds me. Get it? Coffee? Grounds? I'm here all week folks!

Moving on to the second half, which I'll call "Six Weird Things About Southern Italy (although some may apply to the entire country)." Now, to be clear, I'm not necessarily complaining, just observing. And remember, this is all from my experience, so if yours differs, do share in the comments:

1. The whole wedding process. This includes but is not limited to: (1) hand-delivering all invitations; (2) inviting 500 of your closest friends; (3) the fact that only women actually enter the church except for the groom, best man, fathers (maybe), altar boys, and priest; (4) as a guest, being expected to give an envelope full of money--anywhere from 150 euro per person on up is the norm; and (5) having to get married in the comune even if you have a church wedding. This last one is Italy-wide; only the ceremony in the comune counts as far as the state is concerned. After that, you can do what you like. More or less.

2. Another general Italian thing--milk in boxes, unrefrigerated and on normal shelves. I'm used to it now, but it's just an odd concept to get used to when you're used to a big ole plastic container in the refrigerated dairy section.

3. Southern Italians' proficiency with knives. I don't know if this is country-wide or not, but man, down here, even children are adept with knives. Maybe part of it is because they peel all their fruit, and I'm not just talking about oranges and lemons (which, incidentally, is also done with a knife). Apples, pears, really anything with a skin. Even potatoes get peeled with a knife as opposed to a potato-peeler.

And if you're ever in southern Italy up in someone's campagna, you're bound to see each and every man pull out his own pocket knife to cut up bread, salami, and cheese. Seriously, this is the go-to utensil, and when it comes right down to it, it is rather hard to argue with the logic; you can poke things/hold them in place like you would with a fork, scoop things like you would with a spoon, and of course cut. Weird but kinda genius.

4. The fascination with the wind. Shelley wrote about how people are always concerning with taking in the wind, you know, getting sick, and yes, this is true here as well, but I'm talking about the actual wind. The scirocco and tramontana are the biggies. At any given moment, someone is ready to tell me that the weather is all due to whatever type of wind blowing, and, for instance, whether or not I should take my laundry off the line because the scirocco is blowing up odd pink ash from Mount Etna that I'll never get out of my clothes no matter what I try. Weird but kinda cool, actually. I love the wind.

5. Female friendships. I'll probably get some flack for this one, but I'm going to say it: it's difficult to form friendships with many Italian women. Some are closed off to the possibility, others have far different interests than your average Western woman, still others are just worried we foreigners are just man-stealers. In their defense on that last one--show of hands! How many expat bloggers are with Italian men? Uh huh.

Anyway, it seems to me that many Italian women just have a different mentality regarding female friendships--that they are formed very early on in life, and after that, it's tough to break into the circle. Not impossible, especially where there are open-minded, curious Italian women, but difficult nonetheless. Weird and sad.

6. The strict adherence to the coffee routine. By this I mean the fact that coffee may be drunk in the morning, around 10, after lunch, and possibly after dinner. A cappuccino may only be drunk sometime before 10 a.m. as far as I can glean, and never, ever after meals. I know many of us expats have written about this one, but it's so weird and so prevalent that it bears mentioning yet again.

Come on, share your weirdosity with the world!

conquering evil (one plastic red horn at a time)

Ah, southern Italy—gorgeous pristine beaches, lush rolling hills, an omnipresent citrus smell, and a centuries-old evil curse. Come again?

I’m talking about southern Italy’s not-so-well-kept-secret, malocchio, derived from the Italian words for bad (male) and eye (occhio), known colloquially as “The Evil Eye.” Anyone who is of Italian heritage, or who has ever known someone who is, probably knows about it, although the general beliefs behind this tradition run through various cultures and religions.

Its roots are in envy, and its symptoms can include headache, excessive yawning, and a general malaise; yes, this sounds like just another day for some of us, but a trained eye, excuse the pun, can tell the difference. In its more severe forms, the afflicted can end up poor, injured, ill, or dead.

Now do I have your attention?

My first introduction to the “Evil Eye” came with the story of how my older brother was “overlooked” as a baby, which to southern Italians, is a very bad thing. It happens when someone looks at another with envy or, as in my brother’s case, someone had complimented his sparkling blue eyes without adding “God bless him” or the like.

Envy alert!

So my great-grandmother called for olive oil, water, and scissors, shooed everyone out of the room, and went to work. Some sort of prayers were overheard, but since no one else was with her, and my bisnonna isn’t around anymore, what exactly happened in there has remained a family mystery.

But another question always nagged at me: What if I had been overlooked too? My great-grandmother was already gone by the time I was born, and my grandmother didn’t do the prayers. And although I certainly can’t claim stunning blue eyes, I’ve seen baby pictures; I wasn’t a toad.

What if I had been living my whole life under an evil spell?

Fast forward twenty years to Calabria, and I would finally have the answer, because there, little to my surprise, malocchio is alive and well, despite all the plastic red chili pepper horns liberally dispersed to counteract its effects; both the color red and the figure of a horn fight off the Evil Eye.

Incidentally, if you don’t have a horn pendant or keychain, you can always make them with your hand—index and pinkie extended with thumb over the middle fingers, folded into the fist.

Do this out of view of the malocchio-er in order to avoid even more nasty looks. A sprinkling of salt around the outside of your house works too.

So, back in Calabria, one morning, P and I were enjoying the morning sun and cappuccini before a trip to the weekly farmer’s market when I suddenly felt sluggish, my head heavy and headachy—classic malocchio symptoms, P informed me through violent head nods. Lucky for me, nearby was Nato, an elderly man who knew just what to do.

Normally prone to mumbling anyway, Nato mumbled in my general direction while making the sign of the cross and kissing his fingertips repeatedly. He then informed me that it was a man far away who had given me the Evil Eye. Perhaps a whole ocean away? Interesting, and food for later thought, but my head still throbbed.

Then he said a bunch of prayers, mostly inaudible although I made out the name of Sant’Antonino, a “Hail Mary,” an “Our Father,” and a “Glory Be,” which took about three minutes in total, and poof!

Malocchio gone, I was assured.

Maybe it was the fact that I had come inside out of the sun or that I finally had my caffeine fix, but, you know what? My headache was gone, and I was inspired to head off to market after all. What weapons these prayers were!

So, of course, I wanted to know them—what if someone was envying P too? Turns out you can only learn the process on Christmas Eve from someone who has also been taught on Christmas Eve. Lucky for me, I didn’t have to look any further than P’s Mamma, who, a few months later, just before Midnight Mass, walked me through the prayers as I mangled the local dialect.

Sorry, no photographic evidence was allowed.

The fun part was when the water, olive oil, and scissors came into play. Solving a 35-year-old family mystery, this must’ve been what my great-grandmother had done, having carried the tradition from Calabria to America.

The process is actually quite simple. Place water in a small dish and then drop olive oil slowly into it. If the olive oil disperses, the Evil Eye is, indeed, present, and you pierce the oil with the scissors while reciting the prayers.

“Die Malocchio Die!”

No, that is not an official part of any prayer, but I certainly can’t give away any centuries-old secrets here.

So now I’m armed against malocchio, especially important since it seems that I had been cursed for who knows how long. I don’t think I can remove the Evil Eye from myself (of those I’ve asked, no one is really sure of the protocol there), but luckily there’s no shortage of paesani willing to do the trick.

Who knows whether there’s any truth to the superstition, but really, at this point, who really cares?

All I know is that once a month, I smile at my neighbor Anna Maria as I sprinkle salt around my porch and steps, and I never, ever leave home without my plastic red horn keychain.

staying healthy

So I finally went and signed up for the Italian health care system. As expected, it wasn't what I'd call a normal experience, but then again, it wasn't awful, so I'm counting my blessings.

I walked into the local clinic, greeted by paint peeling off the walls. As an aside, I was told today that it's a law in Italy that private service-oriented businesses must repaint their walls every year or risk fines/being shut down for a while. And come to think of it, I've never seen paint peeling off walls of bars or restaurants...but health care clinics and hospitals? Whole other story.

Anyway, there were two large rooms off of the main hallway (full of sick people), but only one of them had a person inside. Really far away from the door and at a really small desk. And he was wearing a rather bulky jacket despite the fact that it wasn't even cold enough outside for it. Looked like he hadn't quite settled in yet for the day, so he'd be in a good mood, right? I mean, it was only 10 a.m.

So I picked him for lack of any other choice.

I told him that I needed to register for the health care system. He merely raised his eyebrows.

I added that I had never been a part of the system because I just got my Italian citizenship. He asked where I'm from. Why that matters, I'm not sure, but I told him anyway.

Another three second pause and he said, "You need a certificate of citizenship."

I told him I have an Italian ID card. FYI, this lists your citizenship on it.

"Codice fiscale?" he challenged. This is a tax code and like our Social Security number in the States.

"Got it." Hah!

He told me I was going to have to have some pazienza and wait for his colleague to show up. Again, 10 a.m., so I'm not sure when we were expecting the mystery man. Any minute, I imagined, but the pazienza comment wasn't very comforting.

So I sat down in the hall as far away from all the sickies as I could. I'm just shedding this nasty cough, so I'd rather not repeat the last two weeks. As I waited, two different people asked me questions about where to get some kind of receipts. Right. Um, I'm sitting in the hallway on a plastic blue chair. Maybe you should ask someone inside a room at a desk, mini as it is? But no problem. I took it as a compliment that I look knowledgeable. And not sick.

After just 20 minutes of clipping my fingernails to pass the time (I'm not lying; I forgot a book), the guy went out for a smoke, about ten feet from me, glancing at me every now and again as if throwing subliminal messages to leave. At least that's what I got through the haze.

When he finished, he came over to me, asked for my documents, and then took them and made photocopies. Note this verbal request because this is the last time this man spoke to me for a long while. Also note that this is the same man that told me I had to wait for his colleague who was nowhere in sight.

He motioned for me to follow him, and so I did. We walked down the hall past the sickies (I held my breath) and into another rather large room. Anyone who has ever been in an Italian waiting room of this sort knows the kinds of looks I got from the other plastic blue chair occupants. I fiddled with my ID card, stuffing it in and pulling it out of its plastic holder repeatedly to avoid the stares. I'm pretty sure they still hated me.

Two small desks inside this room. Not sure what the deal is with the mini-desks, but I imagine it has to do with funding issues. And the fact that Italy is the opposite of Texas--everything is smaller here.

He pushed out the visitor chair (padded!) and motioned for me to sit down. Then he typed some stuff into the computer, wrote some more stuff on an application-like form, filled out a little card that I'd get to take with me--probably a good 10 minutes of complete and utter silence. The pen was broken off at the top so that the ink had leaked down the side a bit, and I couldn't help but wonder why he didn't just throw that one away and use one of the other 30 identical ones in a little cup on the desk. Right. Funding? Are we sensing a trend?

He scared me a bit as he barked at me to choose a primary doctor; he literally only said "Dottore?" Luckily I already had a name ready. I hate to think I'd have had to ask for a list from which to choose.

A series of ink pads and stamps (bam! bam bam! bam! bam!), my signature (he pointed to the X), and I was holding my new (handwritten) health care card.

Then, I swear, the man gave me a little "ciao" wave like you'd give to a baby--scrunchy fingers, opening and closing rapidly. At least it wasn't the backwards ciao, which would have been way too familiar for our relationship in my opinion. Although scrunchy fingers? Yeah, that was pushing it too.

So I left thinking that this guy maybe didn't actually have the authority to do what he just did, being as though he wanted me to wait for his "colleague," which I began to think was code for "boss." But when I got home, I compared my card to P's, and guess what? Same handwriting.

Guess it just wasn't his turn to work, and he held out as long as could.

But then he must've felt sorry for me or something, so all is forgiven on my end.

And so I say, Signor Scrunchy Ciao: grazie mille! I am now free to injure myself.