Eureka! Obika.

In New York City, it's not often that a restaurant can claim to be "the first", "history-making, " "never-been-done-before." But next week Italians will do it with the opening of Obika, Manhattan's first mozzarella bar. I couldn't be more excited.

The bar takes style cues from the Japanese and ingredients from Campania; we're talking mouth-watering Mozzarella di Bufala DOP on a direct flight from Paestum to Madison Avenue. It's the freshest you'll get in the city.

Adding to my delight for this place is the aperitivo-style menu that allows you to create small plates all centered around your desired glob of cheese, with accessories like fresh tomatoes and pesto, bresaola, anchovies and prosciutto. Now just add some smartly dressed European sophisticates and a tad of loungy house music and you'll be transported right back to Milan...or Turin...or Rome (the other three Obika locations).

Or not, seeing as this mozzarella mecca has taken residence in the lobby of the IBM building. In Midtown. On the East Side. And if you ask me, there's nothing like corporate American tecchies to remind you that you're NOT in Europe at all. I will, however, make an exception to my "never dine above 23rd Street" rule and see for myself next week.

Stay tuned for a full review of Obika.

When life gives you lemons...

...make Limoncello. The simplest recipe I've been given for this potent cordial was from my Umbrian host mother, Rita. It was something like this:

1 Large jam jar
1 Gigantic lemon
Grain alcohol
Sugar

Heat the alcohol then pour it in the jar. Suspend the lemon in jar so it's not touching the alcohol and put the lid on. Let sit for 40 days so the lemon disintegrates. Add sugar to taste. Serve chilled after every meal for "digestion" and a lovely buzz.

My Umbrian host family on their rooftop terrace

Babba-da-Boopi...

A Mumuu Here and a Mumuu There

Did you know animal sounds are different in Italian than they are in English?

Our "Cock-a-doodle-doo" is "Chicchirichí."

"Ribit Ribit" is "Cra Cra."

"Woof Woof" becomes "Bau Bau."

But Old McDonald can rest assured, there's still one sound that's universally recognized.

"Moo Moo."

And in Italy, "Moo Moos" are MUCH more than a cattle call. They are the statement of all fashion statements. Those bold, floral dresses in dozens of patterns but usually only one size: LARGE.

The Mumuu is becoming more and more appealing to me, ever since I entered into my second quarter of life. It take the guess work out of fashion. It's versatile and airy. It can go from the farm to the market to a Sunday luncheon with ease. No one blinks an eye.

My nonna shares my love for the Mumuu. Here she is donning her brand new blue and pink number.



And this is one of my favorite Mumuu from the bus in Ischia. Of course, Mumuu should be accessorized appropriately: a scrunchie, and slip-on clogs (with socks).



Email me any worthy Mumuu you come across. They just may end up as my "Mumuu of the Month."

Tutto x Tutti

Supermarkets in Italy are a joy. Especially the smaller, less Westernized alimentari which are often times nothing more than a room with a mish-mosh of boxes and products stacked ceiling-high. Forget about wheeling a cart and numbered aisles. You just sort of browse and eventually you find what you're looking for. Or better yet, ask. Italian store owners take huge pride in their merchandise, especially when it comes to food. A tomato is not just a tomato. It's like a work of art. Picasso and pomodori are equally as beautiful in Italy.


In Praiano, a coastal town only a few miles from Positano, my mother and I had an Italian supermarket experience to rival the "window shopping" night I had in Treviso.

The view from our apartment in Praiano

My friendly local grocer from Treviso

After a 30-minute vertical climb to upper Praiano, we found what we had been searching for--Tutto x Tutti, the town's only major supermarket. Immediately we were tickled by the colorful assortment of vegetables and fruit sitting in baskets out front, and the marvelously messy shelves of Italian treats inside. They really did have "everything for everyone," as they name implied.

Our basket quickly filled to the brim with the evening essentials: bottled aqua frizzante, peaches and pearcocce, a variety of peach that's firmer and more golden, prosciutto (to go with the fresh figs we were given from Giovanni our landlord), olio and miele to take home to my relatives. We were comparing the extra virginities of the oil when we were halted by a curious man. A local. My favorite kind of encounter.

He said "Hello", in English. I responded, "Salve." A shiny gold necklace was tangled in his grey chest hair, which was proudly on display. His blue workman's shirt was unbuttoned--almost completely. The topic of conversation moved this way and that, just like the melody of his sing-song Italian voice. From good local pasta, to the reason for my stay in Praiano to how beautiful my mom was.

"Ma lei è la sua sorella, non la mamma," he said cheekily.

When I told him she was, in fact, my "Mamma" and not my sister, it was as if something came over him. That's when he broke into song. Eerily, it was the song my Nana sings in the kitchen at every Sunday dinner.

It was one of those "only in Italy" moments. The kind you try to imagine happening at home and then laugh. It could never. After the serenade it was back to business for everyone. Our friend went on his way, the deli man sliced some prosciutto and then we checked out.

At the register I realized we had way too many heavy items to consider walking home. I asked for a bus schedule and before I could even figure out how to read it, the store owner was by my side explaining that his son, Pasquale, who was about my age and a beutiful specimen of Southern Italian, would be happy to give us a passagio home.

So after small talking with Pasquale through the rear view mirror and giving him the required double kiss for his chivalrous services, my mom and I said farewell, hit the kitchen and buzzed giddily all night about our fortuitous adventure through the alimentari.

Abroad'r View from Mom

This year, my twenty-six year old daughter, Courtney, presented me with the mother of all Mother’s Day gifts: a sixteen day-long adventure, with her, in Italy. I missed her terribly, as she had been living and working there as an English teacher for over a year, so the idea of spending two and a half weeks with her exploring the Amalfi Coast was a most appealing prospect on many levels. So, on July 14th, I gleefully boarded a Eurofly jet at Kennedy Airport for the eight and a half hour journey -- alone, but in the warm company of a planeload of Italian families, presumably on their way back to Naples after a visit to America. Courtney had arranged our itinerary, which included four main destinations: Sorrento, Ischia, Capri, and Praiano, situated on the coast midway between Amalfi and Positano. Having become completely fluent in Italian over the past year, she was easily able to select simple, elegant, off-the-beaten-track accommodations for us in each city – the ones typically frequented by European travelers, rather than the usual choices of American tour groups. This suited me fine, as one of my hopes for the trip was to become as immersed as possible in the culture, language, and day-to-day life of the locals. Since we would be on the move during our stay, I had endeavored to pack little more than the essentials: flat, comfortable walking shoes for navigating the hilly, coastal terrain; light, loose-fitting clothing, as the temperature promised to be soaring; a good camera, loaned to me by my other daughter; and a blank travel journal, to record my thoughts, feelings, and observations. It is this last item, my journal, which brings me to this page today.

The physical beauty, emotional connection, cultural appeal and personal challenge of this adventure unexpectedly, but absolutely, lifted it from a truly wonderful vacation to the ranks of a life-altering experience. I came away entranced, inspired, humbled, and enlivened. Several people who have seen me since my return have commented that I appear to have “a glow” about me. As I traveled, my faithfully written daily narratives were dedicated to painstakingly communicating every glorious sensory detail of my experiences. However, while re-reading my journal upon my return to Long Island, I discovered that the best way to rouse the powerful memories I now obsessively desire to play over and over again in my mind is to go to my “stream of consciousness” pages, on which I had simply peppered dozens of individual words, like rapid-fire buckshot; which, when read in random order and mentally processed, evoke a flood of deep, clear, and satisfying reminiscences. How thrilling that these simple, single words hold the key to the vast vault of sounds and images safely stored in my brain -- accessible at any moment as a chance encounter or a purposeful departure from the mundane.

I will ever be grateful to my daughter and the forces in my life that opportunely converged this summer, allowing me to partake of such a rich and glorious sojourn. And I will return often to my treasured pages of written scatterings, then close my eyes and dream.

-Written by my mom, JoAnn Scott