A Savory Serenade

They say singing to your plants will help them grow bigger. My Nana sings to her food, and I think that makes it taste better.

Today I overheard her serenading a pork roast.

Her voice resonated with nostalgia. It was most certainly a melody she learned as a child. I can imagine she picked it up as a little girl sitting on her kitchen floor in Brooklyn while her mother Antoinette hummed in Italian, just loud enough for the orecchiette to hear her and bubble to the top of the pot.


I scribbled down as many of the words as I could catch and (with the help of Google) discovered that my grandma was singing Mamma, made famous by one of the greatest Italian tenors of all time, Beniamino Gigli. Close your eyes and have a listen, it is simply beautiful (and if sung with affection, it makes for a succulent pork roast).


Do you serenade your food too? If so, send me a note and tell me what you sing!

Christmas with The Carbones: Part 2

A photo diary of Christmas Day with my family.
Southampton, NY
2007
(there's music too)

Christmas with The Carbones: Part 1

Carbone means coal in Italian. It's also my grandparents' surname, mother's maiden name, and a proud reflection of my southern Italian ancestry. And when the Carbones do Christmas it's 24 hours of feasts and follies.


The main event is in the kitchen where we stage a nonstop cook-a-thon that begins at dawn on Christmas Eve and continues until the final pot of coffee has been brewed on Christmas night. For good measure we throw in a few other holiday traditions: an hour in church, some gifts, a walk on the beach, some impromptu sing-alongs, and LOTS and LOTS of laughter.

Part 1: Christmas Eve:

For as long as I can remember, my family has been having fish on Christmas Eve and this year was no different, except instead of the usual 7 types of fish, we scaled down to three: shrimp cocktail, crab cakes and tilapia with capers and tomato. The meal with paired with a gorgeous Arnaldo Giolito Chardonnay, a gift from my Piemontese summer host family.

If I do say so myself (and I do), the star of Christmas Eve dinner was my "melt in your mouth" tiramisu. I took a tip from Emeril Lagasi and threw in a little Vin Santo (an Italian dessert wine). Sure I broke the rules of a traditional Italian tiramisu but my version was creamy yet light, and the Vin Santo (Italian for holy wine) gave it a curiously good kick!

In hindsight, the holy wine had me feeling anything but at our 10 o'clock Christmas Eve mass, and instead I was holding back giggles throughout the service. I walked in with best intentions but after only a few minutes I knew it would require all of my discipline to keep a straight face.

It began with the church choir. In years past I'd heard them belt out beautiful renditions of Handel's Messiah and Joy to the World, so I was expecting great things. But as we all know, one bad apple can spoil the bunch and this apple was majorly off pitch. Not just a little flat or sharp - she was singing in a different key altogether. Each time she hit a piercing note I thought sure I had wandered onto the set of Sister Act 3 and Whoopie would be walking through the door any minute.

Well, Whoopie never surfaced but my grandmother unknowingly and ever-so-endearingly provided enough humor for the evening.

She and my grandfather are devout Catholics, never miss a Sunday in church, and are usually among the most serious at mass. However there was something in the air this Christmas Eve that even had my grandmother fighting to keep a straight face.

Apparently her oversensitive sense of smell had picked up on the trail of someone's unfortuante gas problem a few pews ahead of us. She leaned over to explain the situation to my mother who tried to pretend nothing was happening. To remedy the problem in subtle fashion, my grandmother decided to wrap her scarf around her face and nose as she was praying.

Then there was the priest. He spoke with fantastic charisma and confidence when he was reading from the scriptures. But when it came time to talking off the cuff he choked. Perhaps it was his first holiday mass, perhaps he too had picked up on the scent, but for whatever reason he tripped over every 3rd word in his sermon. It was almost as difficult to follow as the stuttering cross-examiner in My Cousin Vinny. I did my best but I'm sorry to say, I was more confused than inspired by the end.

When it came time to offer a sign of peace to our neighbors, my grandmother (who had unveiled her face by now) shook hands graciously with those around her as she smiled and recited, "peace be with you." Seconds later I heard low rumblings on her end of the pew and realized that she was squirting globs of Purell anti-bacterial sanitizer into her hands. According to Nana, you never know when the germs will get you and it's better to be safe than sorry, even at Christmas Eve mass.

To be Continued...

Pizza Americana...Says Who?

I'm here to set the record straight after a hilarious discovery I made this week.

It is already distressing enough that an Italian's stereotype of Americans can be summed up in two words; McDonald's and pro-Bush. But this week I found out that Italians have concocted a pizza so disgusting and unhealthy that I can't imagine ever eating it -- and they convinently call it Pizza Americana.

This caloric masterpiece is a mish-mosh of a normal cheese pizza topped with HOT DOGS and FRENCH FRIES! I mean, why not just layer on some crumbled cellulite and sliced saddlebags to really give it that extra kick?

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for fusion cuisine. But to create such a cringe-worthy pizza and then claim that it hails from America is not ok in my book. I challenge anyone to find a pizzeria in America that uses french fries as toppings!

And while I'm at it, I'll clear up some other F.A.Q.s about my so-called American-ness:

1. No, I don't eat McDonald's 6 out of 7 days a week. Ironically, I can remember only one time I was in a McDonald's and it was in Thailand, at the request of my Italian ex-boyfriend.
   
2. No, I don't drive an S.U.V.


3. No, I'm not rich.


4. No, I don't support Bush.


5. Yes, on occasion I've been known to eat sausage, eggs and pancakes before 10am, with a side of hashbrowns and washed down with some American (dirty dish water) coffee.

If you happen to be in Italy and are feeling daring, you can find la Pizza Americana here:

Filippo's

Pizzeria Da Tullio

Al Passetto

Il Mondo Reale: Treviso

When I was 21, I was one of thousands of hopefuls who auditioned for MTV's The Real World (ok you can stop laughing now). I drove all the way up to Buffalo alone, filled out a 30-page application where I divulged way too many personal details, cried on camera about ex-boyfriends and made it to Round 3 before getting axed.

Thank God I was cut because the careers of our beloved Real World alums haven't proved too fruitful. Let's face it, shacking up in secluded tropical paradises with the likes of Tonya and Eric Neis, and competing season after season in the Battle of the Sexes Challenges isn't exactly the Hollywood Dream.

Though, little did I know I'd be living my very own version of Il Mondo Reale in Italy. Except we weren't picked to live in a house...we weren't type-casted by one of MTV's mastermind producers...we were just throw together by a stroke luck and in my case, a click of a mouse.

We're 5 strangers (not 7) with the potential to be 6 if this new German guys moves in, but we all hope he doesn't because, frankly, there's no more room in either of our two refrigerators for more food.

We don't have a confessional room in our house, but sit around the dining room table for an hour and you'll get enough juicy goss to fill a 30-minute episode.

Our pad isn't pimped out, but we do have 7 bedrooms, a fireplace that screams, "come cuddle next to me in a rocking chair," a sweet terrace, jacuzzi tub, loads of Italian Grandma knicknacks and sometimes we have heating.

So who are the other 4 characters?

We'll start with the only other girl in the house, Erica. She's super sweet but I think I've seen her for all of 20 minutes in the last two weeks. She works extremely long hours and we're kind of like two gondolas passing in the night. She went to Milan (her home town) last week to hear the Dali Lama speak and said it was incredibly inspiring. She likes minestrone soup and meditation.

Then there's Daniele, a 25-years-old graphic designer from Torino. He sometimes rocks cool wire-framed glasses (a very Italian fashion statement) and has a meticulously groomed goatee. He's a solid cook and has already whipped up a marvelous tiramisu, torta salata with pumpkin, and helped me prepare a risotto for my friend Stephanie's (pictured above) birthday last week. He has a killer playlist on his computer of Sigur Rós and Daft Punk, which I'm dying to download onto my IPOD. He also likes System of a Down, which I won't be downloading.


Next is Gianni, 27-years-old. He's very curious and takes the prize for best English speaker in the house (or most eager). He has strong political views and this weekend he participated in a 50,000 person protest against Bush's desired expansion of a U.S. military base in Vicenza. Despite his current anti-american sentiments we're in great accord when it comes to music, in fact, just yesterday I noticed a pre-birthday gift from Gianni sitting on my dresser...two Gotan Project cds!

And finally, Santi. He's from a small town in Spain but he's here in Treviso studying opera. He's got the face of a baby bear, but his voice packs enough power to knock you out with one blow. He didn't intend to become a tenor, but won a contest a few years back and is now on the fast track to stardom. He enjoys singing in the shower and has an infectious laugh. Here's Santi at our apartment seranading Stephanie with his rendition of Tanti Auguri:

And here's Stephanie. She's a vicina (neighbor), not a roommate but is a dear friend to me. She's 24, from Florida, and has signed on for a 2-year contract teaching at the International School in Treviso. Her boundless positivity and free spirit are refreshing, as is the fact that she's AMERICAN. She gets me...without any need for translation.

So that's it. That's my true story for the next 6 months...now let the drama unfold.

Che Freddo

I am strangely cold today.  I almost feel as if I'm freezing from the inside out.  My body is like ice.  I layered on the gloves, hat and scarf but I still felt the chill.  Sad to say, but I don't think any chestnut or hot cocoa can warm me up.  Maybe the Grappa in the kitchen that has "flammable" written on the label will do the trick...I'll let you know.

Chestnuts Roasting...(you know the rest)

It's not likely that you'll find any chestnuts roasting on an open fire in New York City.  It might be more apropos to sing about greasy hot dogs or pretzels smothered in mustard.

But in Italy during winter, chestnuts are being roasted on street corners everywhere.  This weekend I had my first taste of one, and then 2, 3, and 4.  They were delicious!  A bit nutty and a delightful texture, it was like a juicy peach tastes on a hot  
summer day.  Just right.

Could it be that Mel Tormé's 1944 hit, "The Christmas  Song" was inspired by time he spent in Italy?  Let's see:

• Chestnuts roasting on an open fire (check)
• Folks dressed up like Eskimos (check)
• Jack Frost nipping at my nose (check...he's not exactly nipping, more like chopping down on my bitterly cold nose as I ride my bike to work at 6:30am)
• A turkey and some mistletoe.  Hmm.  Turkey (check...see Thanksgiving) but I've yet to land underneath anyone's mistletoe.
• Yuletide carols being sung by a choir.  (check... if you count my 13-year-old students singing High School Musical 2)

Well, wherever Mel sought inspiration I am glad he put pen to paper and whipped out this Christmas classic.  It's an all-time favorite of mine.  And now that I'm in my post-chestnut-eating glory, I'm even more in the Christmas spirit!  

Merry Merry!  

Photo credit:  rubbahslippahsinitaly.blogspot.com

Venice Reflections

I've decided to appoint Venice as my go-to destination for reflection. In New York I have a similar place. It's my grandparent's beach house in Southampton where I sit for hours on the rocks watching the swans gracefully cross the inlet. I have achieved my most profound moments of clarity on this beach. It's familiar and peaceful, warm and inspiring.

As I learned this weekend, Venice on a Saturday is anything but peaceful and its not yet familiar, but its grandeur and beauty inspire me. And despite the cold temperatures, I feel warm there. Perhaps I am warmed by a rush of independence.

Here I am, alone in one of the most beautiful cities in the world with surprise and adventure lurking around every corner.

Sure, I have my moments of loneliness and fear. I mean, moving to a foreign country alone is not exactly within the boundries of one's comfort zone, and it's certainly contrary to the conventional idea of "normal" for a 25-year-old American girl. But what is normal anyway? High school, college, cubicle in Corporate America? Last time I checked, cubicles weren't the height of comfort either.

But any time I have a doubt about the choice I've made, I know where I will go. Venice.


I will find a little knook off the beaten track and look down into the still water of the canal. And there I will see my reflection. A reflection of a girl who is figuring out life on her own terms, doing something she has always dreamed of doing and making a mark on the world one day at a time (or at least trying).

And then I will stand up, walk to the nearest caffé and order a cioccolata calda. Because after all is said and done, chocolate is simply the best medicine.


Photo by © andybandi

Upgrade?

If you haven't already heard about my change in accommodations, I took some before and after photos of my bedroom! This is the old one, with the striped bed cover and turquoise walls.

UPGRADE? You be the judge. In my new bedroom, the door next to my bed leads into a private bathroom with a toilet, bidet, shower that actually has a curtain, and a large vanity chest with two mirrors! Above my bed hangs a large cast iron chandelier that creates a romantic glow in the room.

I love it!

Pasta and Politics?

I know. You're thinking, "What does pasta have to do with politics?" Well nothing unless, of course, you are one of the many who suspect that our president has linguini for brains.

However, it was last night's delicious baked cannelloni dinner, prepared by my roommate Gianni, that brought my roommates and I together around the table for what turned into a very insightful (and heated) discussion about American vs. Italian politics/society.

I am the first to admit that I am in no way "top of the class" when it comes to political debate, especially debate in a foreign language! But last night was a rare chance for two completely different cultures to unanimously agree on one thing:

The grass isn't green on either side of the fence.

For example, America has Bush, Treviso has Gentilini. He is no longer the official mayor of Treviso because has has already served the maximum of two consecutive terms, but he still maintains shared control of the city with the new mayor, Gobbo. Gentilini is part of the Lega Nord political party, whose major platform is to create greater autonomy in this area of Italy. I have been told that Gentilini has made huge strides to preserve the beauty of the city and keep it safe, but here is a taste of his stance on homosexuality:

In August of 2007, as a result of meetings between homosexuals that was particularly widespread near the Treviso hospital, Gentilini made a number of statements, including wanting to give "...city policemen the right to carry out ethnic cleansing against the faggots...here in Treviso, faggots and things like that don't have a chance." After strong criticism, he then stated: "I've got nothing against gays, lesbians and prostitutes. Everyone is the master of his or her own body. But I'm not going to put up with these amorous exhibitions in the province of Treviso. Ethnic cleansing means tabula rasa." (from Wikipedia)

To even the playing field, here is one of our President's ingenious Bushisms:

"The question is, who ought to make that decision? The Congress or the commanders? And as you know, my position is clear -- I'm a commander guy." --George W. Bush

Last night's topics changed course at about the same tempo as the uncorking of wine bottles...frequently. When we reached the subject of the Italian labor market, my roommates became visibly disturbed. They are disillusioned, mainly because the few jobs available here are given on the basis of who you know. Apparently merit gets you nowhere, which is why there are many young college-educated professionals working as waiters and baristas. To explain the way in which young Italians get (or more frequently don't get) jobs, we did a little role playing at the dinner table. I was the prospective employee, Gianni a prospective employer. His first three interview questions were:

How old are you?
Are you married?
Do you have the intention to have children soon?

I was flabbergasted. None of these questions are even close to being legal in the American system. Of course not all Italian employers are this way, but there seem to be no clear parameters for hiring and firing. Also, negotiating salary prior to accepting the job is considered rude.

The War and oil (not extra virgin), Bush and Osama...we agreed, disagreed and drank until the late hours. It was exactly the kind of eye opening experience I hoped I'd experience in Italy.

First Impressions: A Girl in Venice

Venice without a camera in hand is a crime, I know. But that was the predicament yesterday for my first ever trip to Venezia. But I`m not worried. Yesterday was one of what I plan to be dozens of trips to this extraordinary city, seeing as it is a stone´s throw from Treviso. I calculated the travel time by train and it´s the equivalent of a subway ride from my apartment in Greenwich Village to my friend`s pad on 81st and Riverside...20 minutes. And train tickets are whopping 3 Euros round trip. Does it get any better?

Back to yesterday. I taught 2 English lessons in the morning but have a rather light afternoon on Mondays so my colleague Francesca decided it was the perfect opportunity to escape to Venice. To build some stamina for our afternoon of sightseeing, Francesca prepared what was, for Italian standards, a light lunch of pepperoncini stuffed with anchovies and capers and rigatoni con pomodoro. We washed it down with a bit of Soave and some caffe.

The late morning downpour had the potential to spoil the trip, as Venice in the rain means high tide and immediatly flooded streets. But what began as a gloomy Monday morning, blossomed into a magically foggy afternoon and it couldn`t have been a more perfect backdrop for Venezia. My first impression was one of complete awe. I did a slow 360 twirl with my eyes perched upward at the incredible balconies and green painted shutters above me, then became affixed with a small motor taxi that zipped in front of me, a gondola that glided behind me...and a water ambulance that hurried by my left.

Oh my god...I am really in Venice.

I had goose bumps for the next two hours as Francesca and I strolled about the misty Calle (narrow streets) and crossed bridge after bridge. We paused on the famous Rialto amidst a small group of camera-happy tourists. Instead of searching for photo ops I found a calm space on the bridge´s ledge and watched the silouttes of three gondaliers rowing in tandum slowing fade into the distance.

Next was Piazza San Marco. It humbled me. I experienced a rare moment of bliss when I stood right in the center of the nearly empty square surrounded by hundreds of glowing white lights. I closed my eyes as the bell tower chimed five times. Each time the hair on my neck rose slightly higher. When I opened my eyes I realized that I had a huge grin on my face...it stayed there the rest of the afternoon.

Francesca was full of funny anecdotes. I especially like the one she told me about the Chinese man last summer who set up a little lemonade-like stand in one of the campi (like a small piazza). But instead of beverages he was selling plastic bags of water from the canal...50 cents a bag. I just can`t imagine that going over as well along the Hudson River.

From campo to campo we went, window shopping in designer boutiques, and pointing out osterie that we would like to one day visit. One campo had a charming mercatino where vendors were closing sales on local delicacies. Another was milling with university students procrastinating their evening of term papers and dissertations. My favorite campo was quite vacant of people but filled instead with the sound of a single violinist. His notes rang out like the far cry of a wolf.

The afternoon slid into evening without notice, but as the bell tower struck six, my tiring legs knew it was time to say goodbye to Venezia...at least for now.

Luckily I have a rare break this weekend...NO WORK ON SATURDAY!

To Venice or BUST!

Snaps of Treviso

Life in Treviso is starting to feel more like home. I moved on Saturday and now live in a much bigger apartment with 7 bedrooms, a living room, huge terrace, fireplace and private bathroom. After two weeks of living out of my suitcases I finally unpacked. As my mom says, everything has a place now. It feels great.







It was a beautiful weekend - lots of sun and perfect cycling weather. My new apartment is just steps from a georgous riverside bike path with ducks, swans, seagulls and some other species of birds that I've never seen before. Biking in the city centre is bit more harrowing, as my bicycle lacks brakes and the roads are narrow and busy. But it's exhilirating to zip in and out of the piazzas and over the tiny bridges absorbing the sound of foreign language, the smells of coffee brewing and bread baking, the sights of children playing and old men discussing the week's news...it's overstimulation in the finest form.

This photo is in another small town called Badoere. I go there every Tuesday to teach four English lessons. Every week the bus lets me out in the center of this Rotonda just as the sun is rising over the rooftop. I breathe in the fresh morning air and revel in the solitarity. Once the bus has gone there is complete silence in the rotonda. It's breathtaking.

Guilty Pleasures

I have two guilty pleasures on my mind today: MySpace and chocolate. The former has to do with my new roommate, Gianni. He kindly let me check my email on his computer, where I noticed a link to MySpace. The social networking site, which has already exploded and somewhat fizzled in the U.S. due to the more user-friendly Facebook, is still on the rise here in Italy.

And with all new internet sites, there are bound to be some kinks.

As we were looking at Gianni's MySpace page I noticed the Relationship Status section and there it was in big promiscuious letters, "SWINGER"! Now don't get me wrong, I'm a very open minded person...whatever floats your boat. I thought, I can share a house with a swinger, no problem! At least I have my own bathroom in case there is an influx of overnight guests.

But as we were perusing Gianni's MySpace photos he just didn't strike me as the swinging type. So I ever so politely asked him about it...and herein lies the MySpace glitch:

In the Italian version of MySpace the relationship status, "spirito libero" implies
a free spirited person/single. But when MySpace Italia is translated into the English site, "spirito libero" defaults to SWINGER! I did some necessary (and quite enjoyable) blogging research and checked out dozens of Italian men's MySpace profiles only to find that, sure enough, MySpace has unintentionally created a cyber community of Italian swingers! I've gotta believe they are recieving some odd propositions in their MySpace inbox...

So I just wanted to set the record straight. All Italian MySpacer's are NOT swingers.

And on to my other guilty pleasure...chocolate. I'll have you know that I have yet to buy my first jar of Nutella (shocking, I know). But this weekend some even more tantalizing treats are taking over Treviso. Every piazza in the historical center is overflowing with vendors selling chocolate of every shape and size. Truffles, candies, bars...you name it.
My favorite is the cioccolata calda (hot chocolate). Nestles has nothing on this, my friends. This hot chocolate is indulgently creamy and gloriously gloppy. Just a small swig will give you your fix...it's heaven in cup.

MMmmmmm