Truly Invar: A Musical Tale of Furniture, or as I call it IKEA: The Musical, is a show everyone should watch. Even those who think musicals are stupid. Even my ex-stepson who once said while watching Paint Your Wagon (for all of five minutes) "No cowboy is going to randomly burst into song. This is stupid!"
We watched it on TV while staying with Leif's father. I happen to see it listed one day while I was pretending to read the newspaper and remembered that we'd seen commercials for it. It was definitely a "must see" even with the language barrier.
Accompanied by a violin and a pump organ on stage left, it's all dancing and singing (no speaking at all) AND it's educational. Seriously, watching a man who resembles Lurch on the Addams Family sing and play the organ while basically running as fast as he can (reminder: pump organ) for almost 2 hours is worth the time alone.
I learned all about IKEA. How it started (mail order), how it grew, and how it became blue and yellow (to prove just how Swedish the company really was). I was reminded that Sweden gave us dynamite and ABBA, Pippi Longstocking and Vikings (although I disagree with this. Norway gave us the Vikings, but this is an ongoing debate between Leif and myself. What the larger intellectual community has to say means little to us.) I learned that dynamite funded the first Nobel prizes but not from the show, from Leif. I hypothesized that IKEA is responsible for the abundance of cafeteria style restaurants in Sweden, and Leif didn't tell me I was wrong. Then again he didn't tell me I was right either. As depicted in the show, Swedes were aghast at the thought of customers getting their own food and paying at a central location, just as they were at the idea of customers finding their own things in a warehouse and bringing it to the cash register themselves. Obviously they've gotten used to the idea.
I learned all this from a bundle of dancing dynamite, a singing meatball and a host of other characters. I was particularly enchanted with a Viking sporting the traditional horned helmet, knee length braids AND a beard ala ZZ Top. Ingvar himself danced with a midsummer pole in a way that reminded me of Fred Astaire dancing with a coat rack. This really was an entertaining way to learn about Swedish history and culture, capitalism in Europe, politics and Swedish musical theater. Oh yeah, and about IKEA. Almost forgot that!
Of course at this point you'd have to watch it in Swedish, which makes it somewhat of a challenge but worth your personal struggle and the stress on your trusty translator. I think early next year they're coming out with an English version. I'm guessing it will lose something in the translation but I still recommend seeing it.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Canine defication supervisor
I'm back watching dogs poo. How exactly would one put this valuable skill on a resume....and make it sound like a coveted business skill that not everyone has? That's right. You don't. You bury that skill so deep no one would suspect that you've ever seen a dog or cat. Of course, if during the interview you happen to spy a picture of a dog or cat prominently placed feel free to mention it in passing as something you've done in the past. Could be a foot in the door, if that's a door you really want to open.
I guess I don't have to tell you that we're back up in the mountains, watching dogs poo. This time in the snow.
I've never been up here in the winter. In the summer all the doors are open and everyone comes and goes as they please and the only time we're all in one place is at dinner time. Now they're underfoot constantly (I'm sure they're thinking the same thing about us) and when we're all in the kitchen it's kind of like being on Noah's ark, if Noah had a twelve foot aluminum Larson rowboat with one oar and a slow leak. With both dogs laying on the floor there's no room left to walk. The cats take up residence on the chairs, usually the ones we would like to sit in.
Once we finish cooking a meal and get seated the dogs sprawl around our chairs, dog legs tangled with chair legs and Siri always has one foot touching me. This means getting up during the meal is impossible to do without making everyone get up and mill around the room for awhile. Tails brush the tabletop, someone inevitably trips over a dog, the cats start spitting and swiping at each other and general mayhem ensues till everyone gets back in their chairs. It's like running a Chinese fire drill in a closet. All in all meals are exciting and challenging here at Casa di Poo. (In Italian I believe we would call it Casa di Caca. If it were a fancier place perhaps Palazzo di Escremento.)
The pet owner spent a lot of time telling me how it was impossible for the cats to be outside overnight at this time of year. It was just too cold for them. They should go outside, she stressed, just not at night. Needless to say I let one outside early in the evening that first day and it didn't return for twenty four hours. Just to drive me crazy, I'm sure. She came back looking warm and invigorated, not freezing and pitiful. I blame my first sleepless night here on that cat.
Their owner had said that she was feeding the cats an extra time in the winter "because they need it" whatever that means. The day after I lost one of them they didn't bug me for food in the middle of the day so I didn't feed them. Possibly my stupidest point of that day. Later they showed me their displeasure by peeing and pooing in inappropriate places. I blame my second sleepless night on both the cats as I spent it hoping I had fed them enough before bed so that I wouldn't have to sterilize the entire house when I got up.
The third day we took the dogs out for a long walk around the property as we had all pretty much been in the house watching it snow the day before. It was lovely. The sun was even shining part of the time. The dogs were running and playing in the snow and Leif and I were walking hand in hand, smiling at each other and enjoying the day. Suddenly Leif said "Is that Molly?" and pointed to the other side of the fence. The wrong side. He was right. That was our (for now) dog looking happily confused to be on the wrong side of the fence. After a little panic and brainstorming at high decibels Leif found a place to climb over the five foot fence and sweet talk the collarless, obedience school drop out back along the fence, down the road and into the gate. Meanwhile I stayed with the other dog inside the fence worrying that they would both disappear and I'd have some explaining to do. Needless to say Leif did a perimeter check and plugged any holes he found as best he could. I slept that night, only because I figured nothing else could go wrong.
The other day I heard a hissing sound. I looked through a doorway and saw, in Matrix-like slow motion, one cat floating backwards across the doorway with ears flattened, tailed bushed out, and claws and teeth bared. After she disappeared from the door the other cat floated by going forward....same configuration of ears, tail, claws and teeth. As she disappeared from view I heard growling that grew into yowling and suddenly stopped. One by one they both sauntered through the door looking completely innocent and carefree. I guess problem solved. I lost no sleep whatsoever over the two cats not getting along. They never get along.
So at last count we've had one disappearing/reappearing cat, one failed escape attempt, random acts of pooing and peeing and ninja cat performances. Things should slow down a little as it started snowing again today so the cats and dogs have re-entered hibernation mode. Which means everyone's getting along and not straying far from home. For now.
I guess I don't have to tell you that we're back up in the mountains, watching dogs poo. This time in the snow.
I've never been up here in the winter. In the summer all the doors are open and everyone comes and goes as they please and the only time we're all in one place is at dinner time. Now they're underfoot constantly (I'm sure they're thinking the same thing about us) and when we're all in the kitchen it's kind of like being on Noah's ark, if Noah had a twelve foot aluminum Larson rowboat with one oar and a slow leak. With both dogs laying on the floor there's no room left to walk. The cats take up residence on the chairs, usually the ones we would like to sit in.
Once we finish cooking a meal and get seated the dogs sprawl around our chairs, dog legs tangled with chair legs and Siri always has one foot touching me. This means getting up during the meal is impossible to do without making everyone get up and mill around the room for awhile. Tails brush the tabletop, someone inevitably trips over a dog, the cats start spitting and swiping at each other and general mayhem ensues till everyone gets back in their chairs. It's like running a Chinese fire drill in a closet. All in all meals are exciting and challenging here at Casa di Poo. (In Italian I believe we would call it Casa di Caca. If it were a fancier place perhaps Palazzo di Escremento.)
The pet owner spent a lot of time telling me how it was impossible for the cats to be outside overnight at this time of year. It was just too cold for them. They should go outside, she stressed, just not at night. Needless to say I let one outside early in the evening that first day and it didn't return for twenty four hours. Just to drive me crazy, I'm sure. She came back looking warm and invigorated, not freezing and pitiful. I blame my first sleepless night here on that cat.
Their owner had said that she was feeding the cats an extra time in the winter "because they need it" whatever that means. The day after I lost one of them they didn't bug me for food in the middle of the day so I didn't feed them. Possibly my stupidest point of that day. Later they showed me their displeasure by peeing and pooing in inappropriate places. I blame my second sleepless night on both the cats as I spent it hoping I had fed them enough before bed so that I wouldn't have to sterilize the entire house when I got up.
The third day we took the dogs out for a long walk around the property as we had all pretty much been in the house watching it snow the day before. It was lovely. The sun was even shining part of the time. The dogs were running and playing in the snow and Leif and I were walking hand in hand, smiling at each other and enjoying the day. Suddenly Leif said "Is that Molly?" and pointed to the other side of the fence. The wrong side. He was right. That was our (for now) dog looking happily confused to be on the wrong side of the fence. After a little panic and brainstorming at high decibels Leif found a place to climb over the five foot fence and sweet talk the collarless, obedience school drop out back along the fence, down the road and into the gate. Meanwhile I stayed with the other dog inside the fence worrying that they would both disappear and I'd have some explaining to do. Needless to say Leif did a perimeter check and plugged any holes he found as best he could. I slept that night, only because I figured nothing else could go wrong.
The other day I heard a hissing sound. I looked through a doorway and saw, in Matrix-like slow motion, one cat floating backwards across the doorway with ears flattened, tailed bushed out, and claws and teeth bared. After she disappeared from the door the other cat floated by going forward....same configuration of ears, tail, claws and teeth. As she disappeared from view I heard growling that grew into yowling and suddenly stopped. One by one they both sauntered through the door looking completely innocent and carefree. I guess problem solved. I lost no sleep whatsoever over the two cats not getting along. They never get along.
So at last count we've had one disappearing/reappearing cat, one failed escape attempt, random acts of pooing and peeing and ninja cat performances. Things should slow down a little as it started snowing again today so the cats and dogs have re-entered hibernation mode. Which means everyone's getting along and not straying far from home. For now.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Swedish coffee
At one time in my life I drank over twelve cups of coffee every day. When I found I couldn't function without it I quit cold turkey. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone; on the other hand I probably couldn't have done it any other way. Eventually, years later, I started drinking again, but in reasonable amounts. I even worked at a coffee shop and managed to keep myself down to about two cups a day.
One of the joys of living in Italy is the coffee. It's strong and small and delivers caffeine without muss or fuss. I spent two weeks in Sweden having coffee with breakfast, at elevens, sometimes after lunch, afternoon coffee and coffee with dessert after dinner. Sweden is definitely a place where the culture around coffee is just as strong as it is in Italy. I wish I could say the same for the coffee itself.
It's taken me five visits and endless gallons (or liters for those more metrically minded) of coffee in Sweden for me to figure out just what it is about it that doesn't work for me. This trip I made a concerted effort to really understand; to analyze the coffee and my reaction to it.
My conclusion, after hours of drinking coffee in multiple locations and accompanied by a variety of goodies, is that Swedish coffee is simultaneously tasteless and incredibly harsh. The grounds are only mildly aromatic, the kitchen doesn't fill with the smell of warm coffee while it's brewing and even when I stuck my nose in the cup (yes, I did this over and over. This is science, after all!) I could barely detect the faint aroma of coffee. It didn't taste like coffee in my mouth. In fact, it didn't taste like anything unless I added milk and sugar. Then it tasted like warm, sweet, watered down milk.
You'd think with all that lack of flavor going on that the experience would pretty much be over when I swallowed, wouldn't you? I did too. We would both be wrong. Five seconds after I swallowed the inside of my mouth felt like leathery wrinkled elephant skin and tasted vaguely like soap. Every time, without fail. It made me wonder why in the world they even drink the stuff. I have to assume that generations of exposure to Swedish coffee has rendered them immune to the after shock.
Then I had an epiphany. Maybe this is what makes Swedish coffee so Swedish. It's not too anything. It's not too strong, it delivers caffeine reliably and it will never compete with the flavors of the cakes and cookies. In fact, the cakes and cookies are essential as they mask the aftertaste. And because of these qualities it can be consumed in copious quantities giving Swedes as many chances to come together over a cup of coffee as they can stand.
One of the joys of living in Italy is the coffee. It's strong and small and delivers caffeine without muss or fuss. I spent two weeks in Sweden having coffee with breakfast, at elevens, sometimes after lunch, afternoon coffee and coffee with dessert after dinner. Sweden is definitely a place where the culture around coffee is just as strong as it is in Italy. I wish I could say the same for the coffee itself.
It's taken me five visits and endless gallons (or liters for those more metrically minded) of coffee in Sweden for me to figure out just what it is about it that doesn't work for me. This trip I made a concerted effort to really understand; to analyze the coffee and my reaction to it.
My conclusion, after hours of drinking coffee in multiple locations and accompanied by a variety of goodies, is that Swedish coffee is simultaneously tasteless and incredibly harsh. The grounds are only mildly aromatic, the kitchen doesn't fill with the smell of warm coffee while it's brewing and even when I stuck my nose in the cup (yes, I did this over and over. This is science, after all!) I could barely detect the faint aroma of coffee. It didn't taste like coffee in my mouth. In fact, it didn't taste like anything unless I added milk and sugar. Then it tasted like warm, sweet, watered down milk.
You'd think with all that lack of flavor going on that the experience would pretty much be over when I swallowed, wouldn't you? I did too. We would both be wrong. Five seconds after I swallowed the inside of my mouth felt like leathery wrinkled elephant skin and tasted vaguely like soap. Every time, without fail. It made me wonder why in the world they even drink the stuff. I have to assume that generations of exposure to Swedish coffee has rendered them immune to the after shock.
Then I had an epiphany. Maybe this is what makes Swedish coffee so Swedish. It's not too anything. It's not too strong, it delivers caffeine reliably and it will never compete with the flavors of the cakes and cookies. In fact, the cakes and cookies are essential as they mask the aftertaste. And because of these qualities it can be consumed in copious quantities giving Swedes as many chances to come together over a cup of coffee as they can stand.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Thanksgiving
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| This picture has nothing to do with Thanksgiving or Christmas. It's just pretty. |
OK, I promised a report on what I had for Thanksgiving dinner, so here it is.
I can't exactly remember.
I wish I knew how to type in a whisper. How awful of me. I'm sure you were expecting something a bit more wordy here. Possibly you wanted a lengthy description of a home made Swedish meal complete with riveting commentary on presentation and taste. Perhaps you were thinking that I would at least have set aside a moment while eating whatever I had to remember what I'm thankful for. Well, I did do that, but it's a daily ritual so Thanksgiving day just doesn't stand out among all the rest. Sorry.
In lieu of describing Thanksgiving dinner I will instead regale you with all the things Christmas that I ate or drank during the two weeks we spent in Sweden. It's not a short list as Swedes seem to enjoy making everything taste different for Christmas. I don't know why. Maybe it's because they don't have the Winter Carnival like we do in Minnesota and need some distraction to keep them from going stir crazy. Maybe they're tired of coming up with new ways to use beets and herrings. I just don't know.
First there was Christmas beer which we had the first night we were there and almost every meal we ate at home in the following days. Leif's dad has a favorite called Pripp's Jul. I'd like to report that it had a festive flavor with hints of gingerbread and candy canes but in truth it just tasted like beer. Maybe I would need to drink the everyday Swedish beer, every day, to find the finer points of Christmas beer. That's never gonna happen so I'll just take Pripp's word for it that it tastes like Christmas, if Christmas tasted like beer.
Then there is a Christmas soda called Julmust. Coca-Cola puts a picture of Santa on the can and calls it Christmas soda. Still tastes like Coke though. In Sweden Christmas soda tastes different. I can't really put my finger on what it tastes like. Sort of like a less sweet cola with a maple syrup taste at the end. Like having Christmas ham and coke in your mouth at the same time. Not unpleasant. Just different.
Christmas bread arrived in the stores a few days after we got there. Sometimes it has raisins, sometimes not, and the bread is more dense and dark. It tastes just slightly sweet and seems to go with everything from meat to cheese. I assume it also goes with caviar because I watched Leif and his dad eat it for breakfast (!), but it will have to remain a third hand report as I really don't enjoy caviar. FYI I didn't spot any Christmas caviar while I was there. I can't imagine that they would leave such an icon of Swedish food unmolested by Christmas spirit, but maybe this is where they are showing great restraint and I'm just not appreciating the effort.
Christmas is also the season for exotic sweet breads like Lussekatter. These are very traditional Swedish sweet buns made with saffron and raisins that are usually twisted into a figure eight shape. Since they all taste pretty much the same, marketing demands that there be a variety of shapes. Long coffee cakes, little saffron squares, big and little figure eights either looking perfect, like they came off a production line or so "hand made" that you'd swear they were fashioned by a team of four year olds on a sugar high. Every time you go to someone's house for coffee they hope that they're the first ones to serve you lussekatter. Of course they all couldn't be first, but I could honestly say I'd never see one shaped quite like it before.
Then there's the mulled wine called glögg. Every year the municipal liquor store releases a special, limited production flavor of the year in addition to the traditional glögg. All are served warm with raisins and almonds (in the cup so the raisins can soak up some alcohol) and there are alcohol free versions for drivers and kids. This years offering is in a white bottle and has the flavors of Japanese yuzu, ginger and mandarin oranges. I had to look yuzu up as it's a mystery food to me. According to Wikipedia (information source for the discerning) it is a strange looking sour citrus from Japan that is surprisingly frost-hardy. It probably doesn't taste like much on its own, but it's very good in glögg.
One night we had dinner with Leif's brother and his family. We had Christmas sausages called prins korv. Translated directly those would be prince sausages. They are halfway between a hot dog and a sausage in taste and size, and very good with beet salad and mashed potatoes. Tomas' wife Karin commented that the sausages didn't taste much like prince this year. Never having tasted a prince myself I couldn't argue; I'll just take her word for it.
And finally, Christmas candy, represented by the ubiquitous Julskum. I've described this before I think. Really sticky, kind of marshmallowy candy shaped like a Swedish Santa (kind of like a slightly scary looking gnome in a red suit.) Like glögg, there is a limited edition flavor of the year. This year it's something that roughly translates to wintergreen apple. I was not impressed. I like the regular flavor best, especially the way we had it this time. Karin made homemade chocolate sauce for the vanilla ice cream. That's right, made with real ingredients like cream and butter and cocoa and sugar. And when you dip the julskum into it, well, it's pretty much heaven. Sugar covered in warm, creamy chocolate. I'd suggest waiting till the kids go to bed so you don't have to share.
Leif tells me that while I think of salmon as a solid year round Swedish dish, many Swedes feel it's a very Christmas dish. We had it twice. Once baked in what Karin called an ordinary way and a (I suppose) typical sauce made with creme fraiche or maybe yogurt, dill, lemon juice and red caviar. I really love salmon made this way. The second time we had it Leif's sister used a recipe that she's had for years but never actually tried. Salmon baked with blue cheese inside and a sherry/dill cream sauce. It smells like old socks when it's cooking but tastes great.
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| Before the big storm hit. Already lots of snow. |
In fact, I thought I was smelling me (and desperately trying to remember when I last showered) while the salmon was baking as I was cooking tiny pancakes called plättar. These aren't Christmas either, but I was pretty proud of my little pancakes. I'm so good, in fact, that Leif's niece Rebecka thinks I should live with them so that I can make them every day. She's seven and probably easily convinced of things but I'll take the compliment in the spirit it was given.
We didn't have an actual Christmas dinner so there was no ham, or bread with the ham water, or herrings of many flavors, or beets prepared five different ways. But I think I've managed to give you just a hint of what it means to be Swedish at Christmas, at least while you're eating.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Happy birthday to me
This is the third birthday I celebrated outside the United States and the second one here in Italy. It was without my family, but spent with people who are quickly becoming like family to me. It was everything I could have hoped for and nothing like I thought it would be.
First, because I'm the most awesome wife ever, I told Leif to ride with his team in the morning. I stayed home and got the house ready for our lunch guests and did some baking. He came home happy and ready to do anything at all to make my day perfect.
Our good friends Katarina and Biago came to lunch with their daughter Sofia. We had two first dishes: pasta with pesto and couscous with curried shrimp. Both turned out perfectly and I'm happy to say that the only leftovers is about a cup of couscous. For dessert we had an Orange Olive Oil cake that I made. Right here and now I'm giving credit to my new friend Christine for the recipe. It's a hit with my Italian friends.
I know it seems that I write about food and meals a lot for someone who isn't a professional cook or food critic. It's not even really the food that's the great part of these stories. (but the food's great) It's the time spent at the table with friends while eating that great food. There was no mad rush to finish the meal so we could all sit around and talk. We talked while we cooked the pasta, then while we ate it. We talked while we made the couscous and shrimp, then continued while we ate that. We talked over our cake and coffee. And when we stopped eating we sat where we were and talked some more.
We talked about the food, yes. But we also talked about work, and families, and told stories about growing up. We shared ourselves while we shared the food. And even more exciting is that two years ago we spoke almost exclusively in English. Now over time we have a friendship language that freely moves between English and Italian, with the occasional Swedish thrown in for fun. All those languages has made our friendship richer and deeper because we don't just state a feeling, but use every word at our disposal to define it completely for everyone in the group.
They left almost three hours later and in true Minnesota fashion we were still trading stories as they walked down the stairs. We had just enough time to clean up from lunch when our friend Ola stopped by to pick up something from Leif. This sweet man apologized to me as he gave me my birthday kisses because he had tried to find a flower shop open but of course it was Sunday and so they were all closed. For me the thought was gift enough.
After Ola left we had just a few minutes before P-O, another friend, showed up to take us to his house outside of town for dinner with him and another friend, Claudia. I was starting to feel pretty special.
His house is high above Florence and the silence is like a blanket. There's a big fireplace with a little fire; just enough to make it smell woodsy and warm and throw those great lights across the room. Most of the rest of the light came from candles. They were everywhere: on the mantel, on shelves, on the floor, in the massive chandelier above the table. The flames flickered all around us as we toasted my birthday with champagne. The man knows how to create an atmosphere.
We cooked together, the four of us. We cleaned and sliced artichokes and onions and zuchini while Claudia made the beer batter for a kind of Italian tempura. After these starters we moved to the dining room for Swedish shrimps. A huge bowl of fresh Swedish shrimps in all their leggy, mustachioed glory sat squarely in the middle of the table. I probably don't need to remind anyone that I'm from an inland region where the shrimp comes cleaned and washed and most likely frozen. I'm not squeamish, thank goodness, but my shrimp stripping talents didn't impress anyone else at the table. They took pity on me and started tossing cleaned shrimp onto my plate.
The shrimp were followed by cheeses and more of my orange cake. Cheese is another one of those foods that are a pleasure to explore here. So many ways to make it, so many different stages of maturation. Pecorino aged in beer, gorgonzola made with goat milk and with cow milk just to taste the difference.
We had eight different wines we tried over the course of the meal, from all over Italy and right outside his door. There was a beautiful Brunello and a Chianti from 1999, both of which I enjoyed. There were some lovely fresh whites and then of course, dessert wines with the cake. I had a tough time keeping track of the four or five glasses I had in front of me as we moved from white, to red, to after dinner drinks.
Again, the food was only a backdrop for the conversation we shared in front of the fire, This conversation was less Italian and more Swedish, but just as deep and fulfilling for me. I'm learning, slowly, the art of friendship.
A wild ride down switchbacks into Florence was an exciting (and slightly dizzying) end to a birthday I will never forget. I feel loved.
First, because I'm the most awesome wife ever, I told Leif to ride with his team in the morning. I stayed home and got the house ready for our lunch guests and did some baking. He came home happy and ready to do anything at all to make my day perfect.
Our good friends Katarina and Biago came to lunch with their daughter Sofia. We had two first dishes: pasta with pesto and couscous with curried shrimp. Both turned out perfectly and I'm happy to say that the only leftovers is about a cup of couscous. For dessert we had an Orange Olive Oil cake that I made. Right here and now I'm giving credit to my new friend Christine for the recipe. It's a hit with my Italian friends.
I know it seems that I write about food and meals a lot for someone who isn't a professional cook or food critic. It's not even really the food that's the great part of these stories. (but the food's great) It's the time spent at the table with friends while eating that great food. There was no mad rush to finish the meal so we could all sit around and talk. We talked while we cooked the pasta, then while we ate it. We talked while we made the couscous and shrimp, then continued while we ate that. We talked over our cake and coffee. And when we stopped eating we sat where we were and talked some more.
We talked about the food, yes. But we also talked about work, and families, and told stories about growing up. We shared ourselves while we shared the food. And even more exciting is that two years ago we spoke almost exclusively in English. Now over time we have a friendship language that freely moves between English and Italian, with the occasional Swedish thrown in for fun. All those languages has made our friendship richer and deeper because we don't just state a feeling, but use every word at our disposal to define it completely for everyone in the group.
They left almost three hours later and in true Minnesota fashion we were still trading stories as they walked down the stairs. We had just enough time to clean up from lunch when our friend Ola stopped by to pick up something from Leif. This sweet man apologized to me as he gave me my birthday kisses because he had tried to find a flower shop open but of course it was Sunday and so they were all closed. For me the thought was gift enough.
After Ola left we had just a few minutes before P-O, another friend, showed up to take us to his house outside of town for dinner with him and another friend, Claudia. I was starting to feel pretty special.
His house is high above Florence and the silence is like a blanket. There's a big fireplace with a little fire; just enough to make it smell woodsy and warm and throw those great lights across the room. Most of the rest of the light came from candles. They were everywhere: on the mantel, on shelves, on the floor, in the massive chandelier above the table. The flames flickered all around us as we toasted my birthday with champagne. The man knows how to create an atmosphere.
We cooked together, the four of us. We cleaned and sliced artichokes and onions and zuchini while Claudia made the beer batter for a kind of Italian tempura. After these starters we moved to the dining room for Swedish shrimps. A huge bowl of fresh Swedish shrimps in all their leggy, mustachioed glory sat squarely in the middle of the table. I probably don't need to remind anyone that I'm from an inland region where the shrimp comes cleaned and washed and most likely frozen. I'm not squeamish, thank goodness, but my shrimp stripping talents didn't impress anyone else at the table. They took pity on me and started tossing cleaned shrimp onto my plate.
The shrimp were followed by cheeses and more of my orange cake. Cheese is another one of those foods that are a pleasure to explore here. So many ways to make it, so many different stages of maturation. Pecorino aged in beer, gorgonzola made with goat milk and with cow milk just to taste the difference.
We had eight different wines we tried over the course of the meal, from all over Italy and right outside his door. There was a beautiful Brunello and a Chianti from 1999, both of which I enjoyed. There were some lovely fresh whites and then of course, dessert wines with the cake. I had a tough time keeping track of the four or five glasses I had in front of me as we moved from white, to red, to after dinner drinks.
Again, the food was only a backdrop for the conversation we shared in front of the fire, This conversation was less Italian and more Swedish, but just as deep and fulfilling for me. I'm learning, slowly, the art of friendship.
A wild ride down switchbacks into Florence was an exciting (and slightly dizzying) end to a birthday I will never forget. I feel loved.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Thanksgiving is coming
I figure I better talk about something besides cycling or people will start to think I'm a very one dimensional person. I have plenty of other dimensions to talk about. Like the fact that this is the third Thanksgiving I'll miss at my brother's house. Or the fact that I have yet to come up with some kind of personal holiday tradition on my own. Oh well, there's always next year.
Thanksgiving is approaching quickly. I won't even be here. I'll be in Sweden and since we're staying with his dad chances are I won't be eating turkey, stuffing, smashed taters and gravy, cranberries, sweet potatoes, Parker House rolls or pumpkin pie on that day. No candy corn, pickles or jello salad either.
With my luck Thanksgiving will be the day my husband decides to take me up on my offer to try one of his father's favorite foods. It always appears in his fridge the day before we are scheduled to leave, in large quantities. Like he's been just waiting for me to leave so he can eat normally again. So I said, casually in other conversation so he might forget about it but he probably won't, it would be considerate of me to try blood pudding. That way his dad doesn't have to wait till I leave to enjoy his meals again. I have a feeling it will definitely make me thankful for other foods.
All our American friends in Florence are feverishly preparing for the holiday. They're combing the grocery stores and local markets for those "must have" items. Some of it's easy. Potatoes, corn, zuchinni....most any vegetable they can get here. But there are other things that commonly grace the Thanksgiving tables in the States that have to be approached differently here.
For instance, turkey is a common meat here. But no Italian would think of buying an entire turkey and cooking it. In fact, if you want a whole, uncut turkey you have to order it in advance from a small butcher shop. And endure the looks and the comments about (crazy) Americans.
Pumpkins are plenteous here, but pumpkin pie filling or solid pack pumpkin is only sold in some stores and like my experience with Cream of Mushroom soup, be prepared to pay through the nose for it. I think one friend paid 4-5 euro for a single can. I can't say that I love love love pumpkin pie enough to pay that much.
I have another friend who is currently scouring the area for fresh or frozen cranberries to make her own cranberry sauce. So far no luck. All my sources say the only cranberries they've been able to find are the canned ones. And we all agree that those are awful. Or maybe I should just say they're not everyone's cup of tea. My son loves the darn things. Italy appears to be one of those countries that doesn't really grow cranberries or consume them.
I also haven't seen sweet potatoes here. Or marshmallows. Now I know that half of you are reading this and gagging at the thought and the other half are thinking "Oh yeah, just like mom used to make." It is entirely possible that they may be available in cans next to the pumpkin and cranberries. I've never taken the time to look. Actually, I've never seen these canned items in the stores myself. I've just seen them in other people's houses.
The bread will have to be Italian. Unless you buy the tiny sandwich loaves, some of which boldly state on the label good for 30 days! Who wants to buy bread that will still be fresh in 30 days? Even Wonder Bread doesn't throw that kind of boast around. So the bread will be salt-less Tuscan bread or focaccia. Unless they bake it themselves.
Once they have the food they'll have to worry about the guests. Because Thanksgiving isn't a holiday here. Anyone who could make it to their house will have to eat and run so they can get back to work. I imagine that most people, like one of my friends, has pushed the actual meal to Saturday so that her Italian family can come. Others will probably move Thanksgiving "dinner" to dinner time here, which is around 8-8:30pm. It's a scheduling nightmare, especially with children.
There are a few local restaurants that have a Thanksgiving dinner menu planned and a few others that offer take out food or baked goods. I have no idea how well attended those are. The first year I was here I was still in my "OMG I'm in Italy" fog of happiness and felt grateful to find a restaurant with pumpkin soup. Last year I was in Sweden and honestly can't remember what I had to eat.
I promise to report on what I actually have on Thanksgiving. Don't blame me if it's blood pudding. Thank my parents for teaching me good manners and consideration for others. And my husband for having a long memory.
Thanksgiving is approaching quickly. I won't even be here. I'll be in Sweden and since we're staying with his dad chances are I won't be eating turkey, stuffing, smashed taters and gravy, cranberries, sweet potatoes, Parker House rolls or pumpkin pie on that day. No candy corn, pickles or jello salad either.
With my luck Thanksgiving will be the day my husband decides to take me up on my offer to try one of his father's favorite foods. It always appears in his fridge the day before we are scheduled to leave, in large quantities. Like he's been just waiting for me to leave so he can eat normally again. So I said, casually in other conversation so he might forget about it but he probably won't, it would be considerate of me to try blood pudding. That way his dad doesn't have to wait till I leave to enjoy his meals again. I have a feeling it will definitely make me thankful for other foods.
All our American friends in Florence are feverishly preparing for the holiday. They're combing the grocery stores and local markets for those "must have" items. Some of it's easy. Potatoes, corn, zuchinni....most any vegetable they can get here. But there are other things that commonly grace the Thanksgiving tables in the States that have to be approached differently here.
For instance, turkey is a common meat here. But no Italian would think of buying an entire turkey and cooking it. In fact, if you want a whole, uncut turkey you have to order it in advance from a small butcher shop. And endure the looks and the comments about (crazy) Americans.
Pumpkins are plenteous here, but pumpkin pie filling or solid pack pumpkin is only sold in some stores and like my experience with Cream of Mushroom soup, be prepared to pay through the nose for it. I think one friend paid 4-5 euro for a single can. I can't say that I love love love pumpkin pie enough to pay that much.
I have another friend who is currently scouring the area for fresh or frozen cranberries to make her own cranberry sauce. So far no luck. All my sources say the only cranberries they've been able to find are the canned ones. And we all agree that those are awful. Or maybe I should just say they're not everyone's cup of tea. My son loves the darn things. Italy appears to be one of those countries that doesn't really grow cranberries or consume them.
I also haven't seen sweet potatoes here. Or marshmallows. Now I know that half of you are reading this and gagging at the thought and the other half are thinking "Oh yeah, just like mom used to make." It is entirely possible that they may be available in cans next to the pumpkin and cranberries. I've never taken the time to look. Actually, I've never seen these canned items in the stores myself. I've just seen them in other people's houses.
The bread will have to be Italian. Unless you buy the tiny sandwich loaves, some of which boldly state on the label good for 30 days! Who wants to buy bread that will still be fresh in 30 days? Even Wonder Bread doesn't throw that kind of boast around. So the bread will be salt-less Tuscan bread or focaccia. Unless they bake it themselves.
Once they have the food they'll have to worry about the guests. Because Thanksgiving isn't a holiday here. Anyone who could make it to their house will have to eat and run so they can get back to work. I imagine that most people, like one of my friends, has pushed the actual meal to Saturday so that her Italian family can come. Others will probably move Thanksgiving "dinner" to dinner time here, which is around 8-8:30pm. It's a scheduling nightmare, especially with children.
There are a few local restaurants that have a Thanksgiving dinner menu planned and a few others that offer take out food or baked goods. I have no idea how well attended those are. The first year I was here I was still in my "OMG I'm in Italy" fog of happiness and felt grateful to find a restaurant with pumpkin soup. Last year I was in Sweden and honestly can't remember what I had to eat.
I promise to report on what I actually have on Thanksgiving. Don't blame me if it's blood pudding. Thank my parents for teaching me good manners and consideration for others. And my husband for having a long memory.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Revolution of a cyclist: On being unfaithful
I feel like I'm being unfaithful. At the very least like I've been fickle with my affections.
Today was a perfectly beautiful November day. The kind that hardly ever happen and when they do invariably there are a hundred other things to do that steal the day away. But I don't have that problem very often, so I went on a ride with Barbara. We rode up to Fiesole. Pretty much the same ride Leif and I took with Lucy the triathlete and her fantastically in shape for the shape he's in husband.
Barbara is another super athlete, but this time I have ALL my gears so the ride was....not easy, but not terribly hard either. It was a perfect day. Bright sunshine and cool breezes under those impossibly blue Tuscan skies surrounded by green mountains slowly changing their colors to yellows and reds followed us along the winding roads outside Florence.
We rode for three hours, stopping at the top to wander through an outdoor market where Barbara learned about properly preparing chestnuts and yet another older man touched my bike without asking and made small talk with us for awhile. Then we got to throw ourselves down the mountain. My favorite part.
I got home and felt energized by the whole morning, looked at the sunshine and tried to decide what I should do with the rest of the day, because it was too beautiful to waste sitting inside. [That's the northerner in me, by the way. We chase the sun during the winter months. It's a habit that's almost impossible to break, but I'm working on it.] I thought I might go draw at a church I haven't visited yet. It's a ways from our house and I thought I could just hop on my mountain bike and ride over.
The very next thought was "Oh, I wish I could take my road bike. That mountain bike is just so heavy." Then I practically slapped my own hand for even thinking a thing like that. Even though it's like driving a Suburban it's been my companion for almost two years. It gave me my freedom here.
See: fickle and unfaithful. And now I shall go down and make it up to her by checking the tire pressure and maybe wiping off a layer or two of dust. And never, ever let her know I'm secretly yearning to fly like a bird instead of rolling over everything in my path like a tank.
 |
| Not from today, but typical of the views I was forced to look at during the whole ride. Terrible, I know. |
Barbara is another super athlete, but this time I have ALL my gears so the ride was....not easy, but not terribly hard either. It was a perfect day. Bright sunshine and cool breezes under those impossibly blue Tuscan skies surrounded by green mountains slowly changing their colors to yellows and reds followed us along the winding roads outside Florence.
We rode for three hours, stopping at the top to wander through an outdoor market where Barbara learned about properly preparing chestnuts and yet another older man touched my bike without asking and made small talk with us for awhile. Then we got to throw ourselves down the mountain. My favorite part.
I got home and felt energized by the whole morning, looked at the sunshine and tried to decide what I should do with the rest of the day, because it was too beautiful to waste sitting inside. [That's the northerner in me, by the way. We chase the sun during the winter months. It's a habit that's almost impossible to break, but I'm working on it.] I thought I might go draw at a church I haven't visited yet. It's a ways from our house and I thought I could just hop on my mountain bike and ride over.
 |
| My companion through thick and thin. Even though she threw me once and broke my elbow. |
See: fickle and unfaithful. And now I shall go down and make it up to her by checking the tire pressure and maybe wiping off a layer or two of dust. And never, ever let her know I'm secretly yearning to fly like a bird instead of rolling over everything in my path like a tank.
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