How To Not Sell a Locked Bike in Italian

Carried my locked bicycle, since it could not roll, to the local bike shop in Colorno and attempted to sell it to the elderly man with one eye who works there. 

What I think I am saying: I didn’t steal the bicycle. The keys do not work because the lock has rusted over. I would like to sell my bicycle.  
What I am actually saying: I stole this my bicycle. The key do not function because of the red. I would like to sell.

Good shopkeeper with one eye: I do not understand you. Gestures to dirt on my knee as if seeking an explanation for my crazy talk. You have fallen and hurt yourself? 
 
What I think I am saying: No, I’m okay. Thank you. It’s okay. 
What I am actually saying: No, thank you. It goes well. 
 
What I think I am saying: I want to sell my bicycle. 
What I am actually saying: Sell bicycles.

Good shopkeeper with one eye’s response: I sell bicycles. 
 
What I think I am saying: I have a friend who I will call so he can help translate. I will return! I will return!
What I am actually saying: I have a boyfriend. I have telephone. I am a male who has returned! I am a male who has returned!

Good shopkeeper with one eye: When? Where do you live? 

What I think I am saying: Via Milano, near the gas station.                                                           What I am actually saying: Via Milano. Gas station. 
 
Walked home, Google Translated, and wrote everything on a Post-it like I should have the first time. Returned to the store. 
He says “Ahhh! Slice.” One eyed shopkeeper slices off the lock. 

Still wanted to sell him the bike, but at that point could not possibly take any more of the man’s time or energy. 
 
What I think I am saying: Thank you very much. I apologize for my poor Italian. 
What I am actually saying: A thousand thanks. I am sorry for the Italian poor. 
 
Walked home cackling. Okay, let’s be honest, outright belly laughing at myself in the freezing rain, thus offering the good citizens of Colorno further proof that I am a crazy person. Sliced my finger open on the rusty gate. Decide to bake brownies for nice bicycle man.

I really am sorry for the Italian poor.

My Italian Parents

Here in Italy in the middle of the night when I hear strange noises coming from the garden my first thoughts are not danger or fear, but rather ahhh there’s my neighbor at it again. I barely react anymore as I know that, more often than not, those strange clanging or scuffling sounds are just my middle aged neighbor climbing over my fence in order to compost my rose bushes, sort my recycling or spray my yard with insecticide.

Although they speak no English and my Italian can best be described as broken the benevolent duo next door have become surrogate parents of sorts. They take my trash out when I travel, set up large tents for our parties, and perform a whole host of other kind deeds without ever bringing attention to them.

In return, my roommates and I provide them with constant entertainment. In a futile effort to ward off the weight gain associated with our constant schedule of eating, my roommates and I developed an ambitious plan of doing work out dvd’s in our living room. The very first afternoon our neighbor exclaimed delightedly that she could hear us “playing gym” through the walls and would be sure to send her father over next time to join us. Every movement we make is overheard, every guest is scrutinized, and I suppose we must pass muster.

I recently returned from a month in the states and found myself locked out of the house for four hours with 3 huge suitcases. Sure, I remembered to pack my soynut butter but somehow house keys slipped my mind. Priorities I guess. Exhausted after so much travel and so little sleep, I curled up in my driveway and fell asleep on the pavement in the sun.

"If you were in the U.S." my sister told me "your stuff would have been stolen and you probably would have been molested." In Italy however, a man in the apartment building across the street who I had never seen before shouted down off his balcony for me to come in and relax. The congenial shouting caught the attention of my surrogate Italian parents who quickly scolded me and shooed me into their home where I was plied with fresh melon and glasses of pineapple juice. They plopped me down in front of their t.v. and played Night at the Museum 2 in English for me until my roommate arrived to save the day.

It’s nice to know that even with my mother an ocean away, I still have a middle aged woman who is creepily obsessed with my safety and watches my every move. You can sleep soundly at night momma knowing that my Italian neighbor is passing along important life lessons such as the fact that I should be sure to shut my windows before I leave for vacation because it might rain and the house would get wet. I’m not sure I would survive without the two of you.

Mussel Farming in Friuli

I go to a school where sometimes class consists of talking about mussel semen. And sometimes that class just happens to take place on a boat in a body of water in between Italy, Croatia and Slovenia. And sometimes, in the name of education, one finds oneself murdering and eating a raw mussel. I’m just devoted to my education.

And so is Reena. 

When it comes to mussels, I was in need of alot of education. Case in point: mussel farms. Did you know that mussels grow in underwater farms? I certainly didn’t.

Farming and reproduction all take place in the sea, which in this particular case, is the Gulf of Trieste. There are 17 co-ops that work in the 15-18 meters deep water and grow mussels. They take tiny mussels, the size of a newborn baby’s thumbnail, and fill them into long plastic sacks shaped like ropes. They place them under the water where in April the males and females will both release sticky fluids that  naturally attach the mussels to one another.

Mussel ropes.

Commercial size mussels are roughly 1 year old. When ready for consumption, the ropes are hauled up using a crane attached to the boat and then separated and cleaned on board with machinery.

Mussels being hauled on board, cleaned and processed. 

In Trieste, not just anyone can be a mussel farmer. One needs special authorization from the government (the last permit was issued over 10 years ago). As a kilo of mussels sells for roughly 50 eurocents wholesale in those parts, the farmers have formed co-ops to help cut out the middlemen and increase their share of profits. Their plots are 10 floating barrels and 10 rows with 1 barrel to another counting as a field. The particular co-op that we met with produce 300 tons of mussels each year.

This is what a mussel farm looks like. Barrels as far as the eye can see!

I think the UNISG students might actually have eaten all 300 tons of them at our mussel-themed seaside lunch provided by the co-op.

Piggy Pants

I feel like I should have bought a pair of these pants before I started UNISG. Gluttony pants-designed by a chef. The pants have three different buttons: piglet, sow and boar.

 As your waistline expands, so can your waistband! The pockets are even lined with pictures of people chowing down…just to get you in the mood.

After 6 months here, I’m pretty sure I’d be at Boar by now.

Gluttony Pants

$100- made in San Francisco

http://betabrand.com/betapants/gluttony-pants.html

The Delights of Life (and UNISG)

“One of the delights of life is eating with friends, second to that is talking about eating. And, for an unsurpassed double whammy, there is talking about eating while you are eating with friends.
”

— Laurie Colwin

For a triple whammy, try talking about eating while eating with friends while your friend’s mother teaches your class how to make Korean BBQ and kimchee.

Cheddarholics Anonymous

I didn’t know I had a cheddar problem until I moved to Italy. You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone, but you do know you’re an addict when you’re begging your visitors to illegally lug two-pound chunks of that extra-sharp awesomeness on their transatlantic journeys.

While working at a cheese shop with an extensive international selection of cheeses, I had had the world at my fingertips, or rather, in my mouth. I worried that as a full-time graduate student I wouldn’t be able to maintain the diet of cheese, cheese, cheese, and then more cheese, to which I had become accustomed.

I needn’t have worried. Italian Cheese Therapy (as recommended by Cheddarholics Anonymous) has filled the void, and in the process, expanded my waistline. In order to satiate my desire for that elusive extra-sharp (or French favorites, which are few and far between here), I’ve just been forced to seek out beloved old Italian standbys and discover new cheesy delicacies. Italian Cheese Therapy is tough stuff, but somebody’s got to do it.

ICT isn’t limited to UNISG students, however. ICT is just as tasty and positive-mood-inducing whether you’re watching The Godfather in New York or meeting a real godfather in Sicily.

To see my guidelines on how to put together your own perfect Italian cheese plate wherever you may be, check out my blog entry on the The New Gastronomes.

UNISG: We Do It With Food

One of my goals this year is to not come home morbidly obese.

It’s a loftier goal than you might imagine when you have classmates like mine. For a recent assignment, we were set loose in the ALMA kitchens and told to prepare one dish of our choice on the school’s dime. Some of my classmates even awoke at 5 a.m. to drive an hour and a half each way to La Spezia to purchase fresh seafood. We’re a dedicated lot.

Each person made a dish of personal significance that we then presented outside under the portico in the courtyard. It was an intensely intimate experience seeing what each person chose to make and why, not to mention an intensely tasty one. And let me tell you, there is not one weak culinary link in this class. Each dish was uniformly awesome in every way. I am so lucky that I get to eat like this all the time, that I get to be with these people all the time.

 And now for the food porn:

Pasta with Zucchini Flowers, Saffron and Shrimp

Sausage Rolls

Guacamole, Pico de Gallo and Hummus

Fried Prawns with Sweet and Sour Leeks and Pumpkin Puree

Raw Oysters

Roast Chicken with Arugula and Bread Salad

Meatballs and Tzatziki

Macaroni and Cheese (Thank You Parents for lugging a 2 lb block of extra sharp cheddar over in your luggage)

Korean Ribs Braised with Grappa

Zucchini Blue Cheese Soup

Stuffed Eggplants, Taiwainese Noodles, Tomato Salad with Fried Ricotta, Eggplant Yogurt Dip and Foccaccia

Renegade Sour Cherry Pie

Bread Pudding

Shortbread and Strawberry Basil Sauce

Strawberry Tiramisu (Recipe to Follow-Promise!)

Everything the Heart Can Stand

“I believe in everything the heart can stand.”

— Casey Haymes

Where I Live Now

A zippy 3 bedroom, 3 bathroom (and 3 bidet)  orange townhouse set between rolling fields and a gas station.

 

 

The smell of pig poo and the sight of a large yellow Agip sign will forever remind me of my Italian home.

We have 2 balconies, a lovely garden which we intend to fill with these vegetables, and a next door neighbor who is deeply invested in our lives.

I have slept in a twin bed for my entire life. Now that I’m in graduate school, I’m movin’ on up. I’m pretty sure it’s the size of a small country.

 

And of course, I have a dressing room/study chamber.

I probably shouldn’t admit this, but my absolute favorite thing about my new home is the dish rack. It’s two tiered and set inside the cabinet above the sink thus freeing up valuable counter space and everyday I think it’s the best invention I’ve ever seen.

 

I live with two charming roommates Lauren and Diana (from the U.S. and Italy respectively). They are smart, kind, generous and really I could just go on all day listing positive adjectives about them. I suppose they’re my other favorite thing about this house, besides the dish rack of course.

I Go To School In A Castle

I go to school in a castle. Well, a ducal palace that then became a favorite home of Napoleon’s wife. Same thing.

There may or may not be a moat. No big deal.

The view outside our classroom window

The building was later used as a mental hospital until recently when it was converted into the University of Gastronomic Sciences and ALMA (an international school of Italian Cuisine). We’ve been warned that sometimes former mental patients wander back to the building and sit in on classes. I can’t even make this stuff up.

The ALMA students cook lunch for us every day, and we can generally tell what they are learning in school by what is offered on our lunch buffet. If they are learning seafood, we will have fish with pesto, cold spaghetti with mussels, fried calamari etc. If it’s eggs, we’ll have three kinds of omelettes, poached eggs with greens and more. We’ve even had frog day.

I like it best when they are learning how to make chocolate cake. Or gelato.

Penne with broccoli sauce, freshly baked bread, marinated veggies, custard baked  fennel, and polenta.

Just so you don’t get too jealous, I’ll have you know they get quite heavy handed with the salt.