Turkey Day

A very happy Thanksgiving to you! The past few weeks we’ve been frequently asked one question: what do Italians do for Thanksgiving? The answer is nothing; it’s not a holiday here. We had decided, after much debating, to not make it a big all-out gluttony-fest in our home this year (and caught a lot of grief for that decision from my step-dad!).

Top Ten Reason for Not Making Turkey Today
10. Turkey is not commonly found in the markets except as breast filets
9. If I found a full turkey (or even a full bone-in breast), my oven is too small to accommodate the bird
8. I would have to buy a roasting pan (which would likely not fit into the oven)
7. I would have to buy a casserole dish for baking the dressing (I don’t like it stuffed into the carcass)
6. Friends had planned to come but had to postpone their trip. Other friends are out of town. It seemed frivolous to spend two days cooking all that food for just the two of us
5. Pumpkin needs to be purchased, cooked, mashed and then turned into a pie
4. We are living in a foreign country where this holiday doesn’t exist
3. We try to be thankful every day, not just on a prescribed holiday
2. I have a cold and feel rather cruddy; cooking a feast seemed like a chore
1. We live in Italy where one eats well every day!

So in the end we decided to “go local” and go out for lunch instead. But what providence! We sat in the restaurant waiting for the waiter to recite the daily menu choices and were astonished to hear him say “filetto di tacchino…” Huh? What’s that…turkey?! Today of all days! Naturally, seeing the signs in the menu we ordered the breast of turkey (which was sautéed in a light, white wine sauce along with artichoke quarters), a side plate of roasted potatoes, and toasted our compatriots at home with a slightly fizzy house white wine. We explained to the waiter that nearly every inhabitant of America would be dining on turkey today and he was rather amused at the irony of it being on offer this particular day in their restaurant. We ended up having an American Thanksgiving after all, with an Italian flavor.

But, of course, the whole point of the day is giving thanks to God for his love and all the blessings and opportunities he bestows.

This year I am particularly Thankful –
-For the provision, direction, and assistance given during our delays and bureaucratic problems to reach this dream
-For the past six months in Italy and all the incredible experiences we have had, the wonderful people we have met, and the history and culture we get to partake in
-For the family and friends who continue to stay in touch despite the physical distance
-For new friends who are so generous, caring, and patient with us foreigners
-For new opportunities to devote more time to writing (and to actually get paid for it!)
-For a wonderful husband who shares my dreams and is willing to take risks in order to live them out

Happy Thanksgiving!

A Visit From The In-Laws

I have often passed the several McDonald’s that so hideously mar the historic atmosphere in the beautiful cities of Rome and Florence and thought, what kind of fool would come here and eat at McDonald’s when there is so much wonderful food to be had? Enter my father-in-law.

I left him unattended for two minutes. I swear, two, measly minutes! When we next see him he arrives with ice cream cone in hand merrily licking away. From the fast food joint! Soft service ice cream in the land of gelato is just plain wrong. We tried to explain the error of his folly but he was not to be convinced. He was happy with his cone and we could rib him all he wanted. To make matters worse, we couldn’t get him to taste an authentic gelato until his last day in Italia, practically forcing it upon him. Don’t get me wrong, my father-in-law is a great guy and I enjoy his company. But this! Mamma mia!


But actually, we enjoyed their visit and took pleasure in showing them around our adopted home and introducing them to new foods. While prosciutto is something I take for granted, having grown up procuring it from a market in Cleveland, it was fun to see someone who had never tasted it before have their first experience in the realm of mountain-air cured pork. We also experienced a nearly-literal “whole hog” experience when our landlords invited us to a pig-fest, grilling sausages, enormous chops and ribs. My father-in-law valiantly partook of everything that was over-laden upon his plate, drank all the wine that continuously flowed into his cup and tried to interact with our non-English-speaking landlords in a very genuine (but often comical) way. He redeemed himself (somewhat) from the previous Incident.

Most of the restaurants in our area have menus that change constantly and are recited orally rather than having a written menu. I translated as we went along and they bravely tried many new-to-them, regional specialties. I think we convinced them that a trip to Italy really is “all about the food”.

Lest you think I fail to mention my mother-in-law, it’s not from lack of respect but that she just has the good sense to not expose herself to such ridicule. She is easy-going and allowed us to drag her along, letting herself be happily led to each new experience. She thoroughly immersed herself in her son’s passion for Italian coffee, partaking nearly as often he Bryan. We hope they enjoyed the sights and tastes of the bel paese; we enjoyed their visit. One particular ice cream cone excepted.

copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider

Are We Italians?

Since our arrival in the bel paese I’ve received numerous looks of surprise when I open my mouth and out come words that are heavily American-accented, normally accompanied by “ma non e italiana?” Wellll, yes and no, I reply and explain my family heritage. Numerous times the good citizens of Anzio would say, “I know you’re from an Italian family,” or some such comment and so I figured I just blended right in and didn’t give it any more thought.

Until they started asking Bryan if he is Italian. His initial shock the first they broached the question was, “HUH? Iii-o?”

One Anzio resident went so far as to declare Bryan as having “classic Roman features”. It was my turn to respond, “HUH?” But as I looked around at the Romani I can see how he may have thought that, especially in the eyes which are a hazel-y color of not-quite-brown but not-quite-green that I have noticed in the faces of Roman residents. It may give me an identity crisis that they think him Italian instead of me. Do I look like a tourist? Good gracious I hope not.

Perhaps it is because I’m not a native-born Italian and we’re staying for a year, so they wonder why would we be here unless my husband were Italian. Maybe we’ve adapted so well to our environment and have become so comfortable with our life here that he appears so at ease and thus “native”. Or maybe they’re being polite and trying to make conversation. But it’s become such a regular occurrence that we are now beginning to wonder just what his mom may have been up to 45 years ago that she produced an Italian-esque son. His parents are in town right now so I’ve been doing some digging to see if there are some Latin skeletons in the closet, but they assure me that there were no Italian mailmen or milkmen who may have come a'calling. Darn. Would have made a better story and maybe could have garnered us citizenship by birthright if there had been. I guess we just have to settle for looking Italian.

copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider

Buon Compleanno

Yesterday I saw myself as I had been. I was on the street and saw a girl of about 17 who looked remarkably like I did at that age, accentuated because the fashions of the 80s are right back in style and she was even dressed in clothes that I might have worn then. Her hairstyle, too, was a slightly curly flow at about shoulder-length, though I suspect hers to be natural waves while mine were the result of a Mom-administered home perm. She had that carefree confidence that teens have, the result of being sure that they know everything and are indestructible, something I outgrew sometime in my twenties and thirties when I went out on my own and saw more of the world and realized I didn’t have all the answers, and learned that life was, indeed, tenuous and short. But for now she is youthful and self-assured. They say everyone has a twin somewhere in the world. Mine is Italian and seems to have not aged. This thought gives me a smile since today is my fortieth birthday.

The Big Four-Oh. The one that is the butt of countless jokes, festooned in black, and characterized by horrid, you’re-getting-old gifts. At least in my family, that is the norm. When my mom turned forty, my uncle ordered for her a huge bouquet of dead flowers. Beautifully arranged and tied in festive ribbons, but utterly dead. My other uncle, Mom’s youngest brother, was presented with a prune tree coupled with endless jokes about “regularity”. Bryan received a box of cookies frosted black, in the shape of buzzards. Hideous (but tasty, I confess). What wretched gifts will arrive on my doorstep remains to be seen. I’m hoping that escaping the country will spare me some of the brutality.

The funny thing is, I don’t feel old. Forty, when I was 17, seemed a century away and sound very ancient. Now that I’m there I think, what’s the big deal? I’m just getting started! Because of the fact that my physical health went to pot when I turned thirty (chronic fatigue and fibromyalgia have plagued me since), that milestone was harder than this one. On my thirtieth birthday I awoke in tears with the thought, dang it, I’m no longer in my twenties and that really sucks! I remember feeling that life was skidding past me and I'd not yet accomplished anything noteworthy. It depressed me for awhile.

Forty, instead, is easier for me to accept. It’s just another day on the calendar, after all. I am here in Italy, having taken great risks and overcome great obstacles to get here and fulfill a dream. Forty is the year of my dreams-come-true! Forty is the beginning of new things and marks a milestone of looking-forward and anticipating the next adventure instead of looking backward with regret over lost youth. (Besides, blessedly, I don’t look forty!) I have nothing to prove to anyone (except myself).

As I looked at that young girl I smiled because of her resemblance to me. And I silently wished her well, knowing that I would never want to trade places with her. I wouldn’t want to go back in time and be a teenager again. I like it here just fine. Happy Big 4-0 to me.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider

Flurries

No, not snow flurries, though the night-time temperatures have signaled that fall has arrived in le Marche. Leaves are changing color into brilliant yellows and reds in the nearby mountains but day-time temps are still pleasantly warm (thought we did have a few days of raining chill in Umbria and here in Ascoli). What we've been experiencing instead is quite a flurry of activity.

My two cousins, previously unknown to me, arrived a couple weeks ago for a trip south into the wilds of Basilicata in search of our family ties and heritage. We had an incredible, almost unbelievable, trip that I'll detail further later. We had a wonderful time and before the week was up I felt I'd known them all my life instead of having only met them recently. A wonderful experience! We also shared a beautiful villa overlooking the Gulf of Salerno that we didn't want to leave.

The day we departed from Agropoli, my sister and uncle arrived in Rome and we high-tailed it to the Eternal City to meet up with them. We spent a few days bopping around Rome before heading to Umbria for a few days in a lovely agriturismo house, sight-seeing around Citta della Pieve, Assisi and Todi. Malfunctioning car parts prevented our planned round of Orvieto, truly an adventure in the rain to lose one's windshield wipers whilst driving on the Autostrada, then try to find a meccanico to fix it. Turned out the car was too new for them to have it in stock (if it's so new one questions the maintanence by the rental car company, no?) and finally, after one meccanico rigged the driver-side wiper to function un po', we made it back to Citta della Pieve where the wonderful Fiat dealer took the wipers off a new car in the showroom and fixed our broken car.

Other than that adventure with various mechanics (I described the wiper as "being broken and going away" because I didn't know the words for "the dang thing broke and flew off while driving at 120 in the pouring rain") we enjoyed Umbria, and especially the lovely town of Assisi. We drove them to Ascoli for several days of hanging around, exploring our region, eating a lot, laughing a lot, and taking a day trip to San Marino. It's the nutshell version, of course. We returned them to Roma for their last night, where wonderful Uncle Dean, always having connections and brilliant ideas, set up rooms as the plush Hotel Intercontinental for the night, where we were treated in a manner to which we'd like to become accostomed (but cannot afford to!). Dinner with friends and family rounded out the evening and we regretted saying goodbye yesterday as they left for the airport. It was fabulous seeing them.

In the midst of all this touring about, I'm also trying to work on three articles, outline articles for my newest project of writing a newsletter for a vacation rental company, and still outlining with Giorgio the cookbook project. This is in addition to the mountain of laundry to tackle, the nearly-bare cupboards to fill and the floors to mop (always a chore here, as you have read in previous posts). All I can say is, it's a really good thing I don't have "a real job". Who has time?!

copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider

Purple Rain

All over town the stores have been busily changing their displays to highlight the fall and winter styles and I have noticed that purple is the hot color this season. All shades, from iced, muted tones tending toward mauve to vibrant, warm rich violet, the color is raining down upon us from the shop windows.

I mention this not because I am a fashion maven, nor because I am overly fond of purple, but because it is somewhat of a relief that I will blend into the season’s color scheme. Not my wardrobe, mind you, as I possess precious few items in the purple spectrum. No, no…my hair.

The continuing saga of hair adventures, if you are a habitual reader of this blog and have followed the travails of bad haircuts I’ve obtained, has carried over to my life in Italia. Yesterday I purchased a semi-permanent hair color kit to cover the increasing gray sprouts that insist on forcing their way upon my head. Nothing new, as I have had this problem since I was about 18, following my grandmother and mother into the realm of prematurely gray women. I found the brand I normally used at home and perused the shades. I noticed that colorings here, while bearing the same brand and logo, have different tints that I am used to (definitely more vibrant and “fake”, usually tending toward reds), but I consulted the side panel where it shows, “if your hair color is thus, the result will be so”. Nowhere did it foretell the color that my locks currently brandish.

I didn’t even leave it on for the full recommended time (meno male for that, as they say here), and when I rinsed and towel-dried I was greeted by the mirror’s reflection of bad tidings…a purple hue in the magenta range.

For his part, Bryan is amused and thinks it looks good, as many women around here sport unusual hair colorings that are very unnatural shades of red or even black that tends to look blue. He says it is one more step toward becoming a local. With the fall colors in the storefront windows, I guess I’ll have to grin (or grit my teeth) and agree. For my part, I'm hoping it fades as quickly as the fall leaves.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider

The Bunnies Beneath My Feet

There is a phenomenon in Italy that is unexplainable whereby dust accumulates faster than the speed of sound, or at least faster than the normal rate of accumulation in every other corner of the globe, thus leaving the floors in need of sweeping on an all-too-regular basis. While leaving the windows open is common and would explain dome input of dust, it doesn’t explain the rapid flow into the house. No matter how frequently I sweep, the broom gathers together a large pile of matter including large, clumpy dust bunnies which seem to multiply faster than…well, rabbits.

We had an issue with sand leaving a layer on the windowsills and beneath the entry doors in New Mexico, but that was different. It was rather localized. Here the dust is apartment-wide and is constant. A flow beneath my feet.

Speaking of "beneath my feet", everything here is tiled, which is actually a relief in that if there were carpets I’d be worrying about the accumulating dirt getting trapped within its fibers and how gross that is (in addition to the hundreds of chemicals I’d be inhaling, but that is another story). Tile is easy to sweep and mop and so really it’s a practical floor covering (except that I’ve not yet purchased the much-needed steam cleaner for mopping and must continue with the wring-out-the-rag-and-mop method previously noted in the blog archives)

The drawback, of course, is that tile is cold. During the summer when the temperature and humidity had me swooning and whining the tile floors were a blessedly cool relief. Now that the weather is normal and the mornings are a bit cool, my feet are always cold. And before you think me a simpleton, yes, I wear socks but that cold seeps right on through them. Shoes track more dirt through the house. My slippers need to be replaced for while they are cute, all the stuffing has been scrunched down to such an extent that makes them rather useless and they swish off my feet. (“Cute” because my mom gave them to me as a gift; when she saw them she laughed as they bore the banner “Baci” boldly and came stuffed with the Baci candies.)

The other issue with tile is that, when coupled with the plaster walls, the stone floors create echos and even our conversations over the dinner table have a bit of a repeat factor. We need an area rug to absorb sound but it’s been difficult to find a natural fiber at a reasonable price; something to hang on the walls would probably help give some echo relief as well. But really, how much do we want to spend to decorate a home when we don’t know how long we’ll be here? A conundrum for I do like to be comfortable (and I prefer to have warm feet).

Meanwhile, I’m sweeping the floor like I’m training for the winter Olympics curling games and trying to keep my tootsies warm. If you come across some nice, thick wool socks or cute, comfy slippers, let me know. And if you come for a visit, bring along a broom. We can have curling championships in the living room.

copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider