Mamma Mia!!!!

     

     While I have eaten many times with Italian friends in restaurants, one thing that I have wanted to do since coming to Florence is to enjoy a traditional meal in an Italian home.  This opportunity finally came.  With excitement my friend Karen, Libby and I headed on the train to Prato to spend the afternoon and night in the home of an old Italian friend of Karen's.  She warned me to be prepared for all of the food and wine.  We skipped breakfast and lunch wanting to make sure that we were famished when we arrived.

     The trip took an unexpected twist when as we arrived in Prato and Libby began to diarrhea in my Michael Kors purse.  She had been fine the night before, so to say that I was shocked as I dared to look into my purse was an understatement.  Just as we were trying to decide what to do with a dog covered in diarrhea and a purse that smelled....well you can guess...Karen's friend pulled up.  Like a true Italian he did not see it as a big problem.  While Italians are very passionate it really does take a lot to get them upset.  With most things they have a "this is not a problem" attitude, which is probably why they out live us North Americans.  

     As we arrived at Orianno's home I handed Libby over to his wife so that I could deal with what I saw as a molto grande problema - diarrhea all over the lining of my Michael Kors purse.  Purse hanging on the line to dry and Libby bathed it began - the on-slot of food and wine starting with the traditional Italian before dinner drink of prosecco.  I was full after the second course, but the food just kept coming.  After the second course I remember sitting back in my chair trying to breath while thinking to myself you cannot go throw up from being so full; if they think it is an insult to turn down more food they for sure would see it as an insult to go throw up.  Saying I was full was not an acceptable response when I was asked if I wanted yet another serving.  To an Italian you can always make room for more.  In between courses I had to take Libby out as clearly she was not feeling well.  And when she didn't make it outside my gracious hosts did not bat an eye about Libby having accidents in their home.  Thank God Italians love their dogs as much as they love their children.  

     I was up all night with Libby.  As the night passed I became more and more worried about her.  It became clear that something was seriously wrong with her.  As I sat in the bathroom the next morning feeling as though I was having birth contractions it hit me; the chicken.  Libby and I both ate some of the same chicken the previous day before heading out to Prato.  I ran into the kitchen and pulled the zip lock back out the fridge and as soon as I opened the bag it was clear, Libby had food poisoning.  Thank God I had only eaten a very small amount.  When we figured this out Orianno, our kind host, took matters into his hands.  He called his vet at home and explained the situation.  Despite it being Sunday morning the vet insisted on coming into the city and seeing Libby right away.  While I knew it was urgent that Libby see a vet I must admit on the drive to the clinic I was thinking that this was going to cost hundreds of euros.  In Canada it costs $175 just to walk into the door of an emergency veterinary clinic, before a vet has even seen your much loved pet.  

     The vet could not have been kinder.  After a thorough examination he concluded that indeed Libby was victim to the spoiled chicken.  He gave me some shots to give her and some pills, as well as special food to help settle her stomach.  As the vet was getting the medicine together for Libby I expressed my gratitude to Orianno for taking me to this wonderful vet, and my shock that he actually left his family to come into the city on a Sunday morning to see Libby.  Orianno explained that this is normal care for their much loved dogs here in Italy.  I told him that I was worried about the bill, given the cost that I would have been facing in Canada.  Orianno was shocked at what I would have paid in Canada and suggested that we tell the vet.  I said, "Not until he gives us the bill".  We had a chuckle.  After receiving a bill of 45 euros, yes only 45 euros, we explained to the vet what this visit would have cost in Canada.  The vet was shocked and suggested that such fees were robbery, as he gave me his number to call him anytime if Libby did not get better within a few hours.  While Canadian fees may be robbery, I don't know how he makes money with his fees.  But who and I to argue with how Italians love heir dogs.   

     As we arrived back at Orianno's home at about 12:30 pm he looked at his watch and proclaimed, "The crisis is solved so now it is prosecco time".  And then it began again; the food and the wine.  As we were getting ready for lunch Mamma, his 85 year old mother, came out of her room.  She had slept all through the previous night.  Mamma eyed me up and down and even with my bad Italian I could tell that she was shocked by my height.  By Italian standards I am a giraffe at 5 ft. 9".  Mamma may be all of 5 ft and 100 lbs wet.  As we stretched between courses Mamma came up to me and with zest grabbed my breasts with both hands and exclaimed, "Molto bella!".  Seems my height was not the only thing Mamma was eying.  Poor Orianno was mortified and apologized for his mother as she has Alzheimer's and therefore is not always able to filter her thoughts and actions.  Karen and I laughed hysterically about Mamma's admiration of my breasts.  I asked Orianno if this was a case where it would be appropriate to say "Oh, Madonna".  Italians only use this phrase in extreme circumstances as it is considered profane.  He laughed agreeing that his mother grabbing my breasts would be considered such an extreme case where it was permissible to use the phrase.  While we were all laughing I said to Orianno, "If my dog can diarrhea all over your house and you take it in stride, your mother can grab my breasts anytime".  With that we sat down to yet another course of delicious food and another glass of wine.

     While my dream of enjoying a traditional meal in the home of Italians was not quite what I imagined with Libby getting so sick, I will never forget the hospitality shown to me by this wonderful family, and most of all I will never forget dear sweet Mamma.             

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28 Years of Love and Laughter

  

     As I set out for university 28 years ago I had no idea that I would meet the most incredible women. While I thought about the classes that I would be taking, and yes the parties, as a teenager I did not foresee what would be the most meaningful experience of my days at Trent University; forming life long friendships.  Together we grew from teenagers into women.  Over the course of 3 years we went from carefree teenagers cramming together for tests, and supporting one another to get that paper in on time (which no doubt was neglected because of the nights that we shared together at the pubs or the "purple Jesus" parties), to women with goals.  As graduation neared, and each of us having dreams that would take us on very different journeys, we did not know at that time what we know today; that despite what path we took one thing would remain constant - our love for one another. 

     Over the course of 28 years we have shared great joy together and weathered many storms together.  As friends we have been there to laugh so hard together that a few of us have peed our pants (one's body is never quite the same after childbirth), have provided words of support to one another when needed, and yes even wiped away tears.  We have come to know one another like no one else knows us because of the history that we share, and we still deeply love one another anyways.  

     While we have shared great happiness together, it is through the storms of life that we learned that we can always count on one another for love and support, without judgement.  A true gift.  Many years ago when we all dressed up as hula dancers, with skirts made of of garbage bags, we danced the night away together having no idea at that time that we would hold each others' hands through life for the next 28 years, but that is indeed what has happened.  

     While our lives have at times not permitted us to spend as much time together as we would like, time is not a barrier to our special friendship.  No matter how many weeks or months may pass between when we can see or talk to one another, it does not matter as when we reconnect all time is erased. That only happens between dear friends who have craddled one anothers' hearts for so many years through the rainbows and storms of life.  

     This past summer we had the great joy of spending 2 weeks together here in Florence as I begin a new chapter in my life.  While we know our friendship will be different in that I am not going to be an hour away from them, my friends being who they are were excited to celerate and share in where my journey has taken me.

     While we now have children that are as old as we were when we first met, and we have careers that keep us busy, for a moment in time we stepped away from our responsibilities and just enjoyed being together.  While we did not make hula skirts out of garbage bags, there was a night where we did find ourselves out on the streets of Florence (some of us in our pajamas) once again laughing like we did as teenagers without a care about what others thought.  As we drove through the hills of tuscany, swam in the sea and ate together on the terrace we did what only cherished friends can do; thought out loud about the small and big things in life, without worry about what one another would think.  It is only with true friends that you dare to share your thoughts.  Although we did at times break into a sweat when Joanne would proclaim, "I have a question".  Joanne's thinking goes to places that none of us have gone, but because of our bond we knew we were safe in answering honestly.    

 

     Over the course of 28 years we have created many cherished memories together.  As we shed tears saying good-bye to one another after making so many wonderful new memories together, we took comfort in knowing that while we have taken different journeys on our quest to grow as individuals we have not, and never will, grow apart.  I think on the 40th anniversary of our friendship we should once again don hula skirts made out of garbage bags, but instead of toasting exams being over we need to toast the precious gift that we have given one another that truly is priceless; our friendship.  I say 40 years because I know with confidence that we will still be the best of friends then.   

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I'm The Living Proof.....I Can Start Flying Now

      As I was returning back into Florence today, after a 12 km run through the countryside, I felt grateful for my life here.  While taking in the extraordinary cityscape, and thinking about all that brings me joy here in Florence, I thought of a song that I heard this week on the show Private Practice - The Living Proof by Mary J. Blige.  On Private Practice the character Amelia was fighting an uphill battle to recover from drug addiction.  While that was her journey, many of us have fought our own uphill battles and are living proof that not only can nothing keep us down, but we are determined to once again fly.  I know many inspirational women that are indeed THE LIVING PROOF.  In our own ways we are all flying again.  I ran through the streets of Florence with a smile on my face knowing that my best days are right in front of me 'cause I'm the living proof'.      

It's gonna be a long, long journey
It's gonna be an uphill climb
It's gonna be a tough fight
It's gonna be some lonely nights
But I'm ready to carry on.

I'm so glad the worst is over ('cause it almost took me down)
I can start living now
I feel like I can do anything, yeah
And finally I'm not afraid to breathe.

Anything you say to me,
And everything you do,
You can't deny the truth,
'Cause I'm the living proof!
So many don't survive,
They just don't make it through
But look at me
I'm the living proof! Oh, yes I am.

Thinking 'bout life's been painful. Yes it was.
Took a lot to learn how to smile,
So now I am gonna talk to my people about the storm -- about the storm.
Oh, so glad the worst is over ('cause it almost took me down)
I can start flying now
My best days are right in front of me
And I'm almost there
'Cause now I'm free!

Anything you say to me
And everything you do
You can't deny the truth
'Cause I'm the living proof.
So many don't survive.
They just don't make it through.
But look at me
I'm the living proof!

I know where I'm going
'Cause I know where I've been
I'm gonna feel strong, that's showin'
I'm gonna be strong, keep growin'
That's the way that I will.

Anything you say to me
And everything you do
You can't deny the truth
'Cause I'm the living proof.
So many don't survive,
They just don't make it through
But look at me - yeah yeah
I'm the living proof!

Nothing about my life has been easy, no.
But nothin's gonna keep me down, no - down.
'Cause I know a lot more today
Than I knew yesterday, now
So, I'm ready to carry on,
Oh, Lordy. Mmmmmm. Mmmmmmm

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My Summer Vacation.....Diarrhea, Distress and Denzel Washington

     

     During the month of August most italians flock to the sea to escape the heat of the city and the tourists.  Many shopkeepers close their stores for the entire month of August.  The stores that remain open are closed most afternoons, so that those that cannot go away for a month can at least take day trips to the beach.  My friend Alanna and I decided to live like the italians and escape to Positano for a few days.  We were very excited when an italian friend of mine kindly offered us her car to use.  The excitement poured out of our bodies when as she handed over the keys to us she casually mentioned that the air conditioning was not working.  Italians are not big on details.  Alanna and I looked at each other with slight panic as we knew the 6 hour drive to the sea without air conditioning was going to be a challenge to say the least.
     Just driving along side italians is a challenge as "rules of the road" is a concept that they just don't seem to have grasped.  Italians tend to completely ignore a stop sign, they feel free to drive anywhere on the road even if it means taking up two lanes, they drive at lightning speed, and rather than passing you they get so close to your rear end that they are almost touching your bumper as an indication to get out of their way.  Worst of all, when driving around a bend they without fear will come into your lane and just when you are sure that you are going to have a head on collision they dart back over to their side of the road.  The highways are not monitored by the police.  Instead they have speed cameras, but in big flashing lights your are warned when one is coming up.  Italian drivers slow down for the camera and then quickly accelerate back to what seems like their normal 150 km an hour speed on the autostrada.  I, going 130 km an hour, was driving at what was very apparent an irritatingly slow speed to the italians.  I am not sure what was worse; having to be so alert every minute, or the sweat that was pouring down my body from the lack of air conditioning.

Libby, happy on my lap at the beginning of the drive.

     We did have the windows part way down, but not all the way in an attempt to control the noise which was giving me a headache.  The noise was so loud that I felt like I was standing in front of a speaker at a concert.  For hours all I heard was this pounding bass like sound.  I didn't realize at first that the windows only part way down meant that Libby was not getting air down on her as she laid across my lap.  As she got hotter and hotter we tried to get water into her.  Then she looked at me like she was feeling really sick and that we needed to stop, but there was no place to pull over on the side of the autostrada.  Over to Alanna's lap she went, I think hoping to convince her that we needed to stop immediately.  I became very concerned as I could see in her eyes that she was not feeling well and then it started....diarrhea on Alanna's shorts.  She quickly grabbed a plastic bag and put Libby in the bag so that the mess could be contained.  I was of no help as I could not take my eyes off the road and the crazy italian drivers speeding past me darting in and out.  I just kept thinking that I had to get as fast as I could to the next rest stop.  Alanna seemed surprisingly calm during the diarrhea crisis, but then all of a sudden she turned tomato red.  I have never seen anyone get as red as her.  Just when I thought things could not get any worse, they did.  Alanna started to heave.  I thought that for sure she was going to be sick and if she did the vomit was for sure going to head my way with the wind.  I could not help but burst out into laughter.   Neither of us planned on this kind of moment being part of our adventure.

Libby looking a little queazy.

     Finally at a rest stop I took Libby into the bathroom, and with shampoo from my suitcase, I gave her a bath in the sink.  Poor Libby looked at me like what the hell are you doing to me now.  But then she seemed to quickly feel better as the cold water cooled her body.  Libby cleaned, and having drank a lot of water, off we went again.  I wet a shirt with cold water for her to lay on for the rest of the trip.  While Libby is loved by my many friends here in Italy, I have officially appointed Alanna as her godmother after this drive.  We laughed about our driving nightmare the rest of the way to Positano.  Alanna said that if she was sick her plan was to vomit in the bag with Libby in it.  Poor Libby would have for sure been traumatized if that had happened.  

My poor baby in a plastic bag.  

     Positano is breathtakingly beautiful.  There is just something about being by the sea that makes me instantly relax.  At the sea is the only place that I am quite happy doing absolutely nothing all day.  Libby was an angel down at the beach.  While she was very happy laying in the cool sand under the lounge chair, every once in a while she would insist on switching to the lay on well lets just say a more cushiony surface.  

Alanna and Libby

       The sea at Positano is refreshingly cool and the most amazing turquoise colour.  As I floated in the water it took my breath away as I looked at the beauty of the coast.  

  

           

     About an hour by water is the island of Capri.  On the way one cannot help but look in awe at the many yachts.  Positano and Capri are known to attract the rich and famous because for the most part celebrities have anonymity there.  When your mouth is not dropping by the sheer size of the yachts, it is dropping in awe at the beauty of the many grottos.

Coast of Capri

                                                                                         

                                          

 

     As our boat came to a stop the captain announced that he was giving us time to jump off the boat and enjoy a swim in the sea by a grotto.  While I wanted to go for a swim, I immediately thought about how was I going to get into the water because there was no way that I was jumping off the side of the boat.  I have such a fear of heights that I do not get up on a chair.  I could feel panic start to sneak in, but I did not want to miss this experience.  So up on the rail of the boat I climbed.  As I stood there I told myself not to panic as I looked down.  This was a very large boat so it was quite a jump down; a treacherous jump overboard in my fear of heights mind.  (Alanna later said it was about 6ft.)  I just kept telling myself that I could not miss out of this life experience.  After a deep breath, and a count to three, I jumped.  It felt so exhilarating.  As I surfaced I was so proud of myself.  I did it!!

      

     I did not know when I was up at 7am to straighten my hair, and put on make-up, for a day trip to Capri that I would end up challenging myself to face one of my fears.  Instead, I envisioned casually looking in shops and admiring beautiful architecture.  As I stood on the railing of the boat my hair and make-up no longer mattered.   Instead what became important was living life to the fullest and seizing this opportunity to experience something that I had never experienced before.  With that came the courage to jump. 

     After our day on the island of Capri, and at sea, we celebrated our adventure with prosecco and a panini on the terrace of our bed and breakfast.  A simple celebration seemed more fitting than getting out the hair straightener and make-up once again to go out for dinner.  Sometimes it is good to just be. 

Prosecco, a panini and jammies.
What more does a girl need for a good celebration?

Enjoying the view from the top of Capri.

Strolling through Capri.

When Libby gets tired in my bag she happily goes.

     Positano is built into the side of a very steep mountain.  You don't have to worry about what you eat while there because you burn off every calorie climbing up and down the steep roads and the many steps to the beach; so many steps that you can actually feel it in your thighs as you climb them.  One evening we decided to eat up near the top of the town so that we could experience the view, and we had heard of a restaurant where the food was well worth the trek up.  I decided to leave Libby in our room because she seemed so tired.  I mistakenly didn't think about that while I leave her at home alone without any problems, I had never left her in a hotel room before on her own.  Just as we entered the restaurant, huffing and puffing a bit, I was told that the owner of the B & B where we were staying had called because Libby was so distressed being left alone that he was worried and we had to go back.  Down the hill we went to get her.  Alanna up until this point had always affectionately called Libby by the nickname "little girl" or "little princess", but as we trekked up the hill a second time to return to the restaurant for dinner Libby's nickname became "little bitch".  She slept on my lap for the entire dinner very content, and the next morning all was forgotten and Alanna was back to calling her "little girl". 

         

Dinner out.  Libby is asleep on my lap.

Each day a restaurant, with pleasure, cooked Libby grilled chicken breast.
Nothing but the best for my little princess.

Alanna enjoyed the fresh seafood.  I, on the other hand,
don't eat food that is staring back at me.

     Every day we enjoyed laying at the beach.  I felt like I was in heaven basking in the sun and listening to the sound of the sea hitting the coast as I dozed off and on.  Just when I didn't think that life could get any better it happened; I heard the voice of the most beautiful black god from above - Denzel Washington.  I opened my eyes and there he was walking past me as I lay in my lounge chair.  I truly was in heaven.  I was told that Denzel comes to Positano every year with his family.  We were lucky enough to see him other times in town and each time his handsome looks made my heart skip a beat.  

     On our last day in Positano I went into the most wonderful little shop where everything in it is related to lemons.  Positano is well known for its limoncello.  The delightful shopkeeper said that she had seen Libby and I walking around town and she could not help but notice how many people stopped me to take pictures of Libby.  We chatted for quite a while about Libby and our visit to Positano.  She then went on to say, "Denzel Washington may be in town, but the real celebrity here is Libby".  We chuckled how a dog was getting more attention than him.  Italians don't seem to be starstruck, but they are sure struck by my sweet little Libby.
     Just before leaving Positano I spun a sailor's wheel of fortune, of sorts.  It said that I was going to get married next summer.  I immediately uttered, "No way".  The gentleman looked at me with surprise at my adamance and said, "Yes, it is very possible".  Alanna then spun the wheel and it said that she was going to be very touchy next summer.  She figures that she will be helping me plan the details of my wedding and I will drive her crazy with my OCD attention to detail.   I don't know what the future holds for me ladies, but those of you who would like to lose a few pounds before my wedding pictures I am giving you fair warning that you may only have until next summer.  I figure if the friendship between Alanna and I survived this trip to Positano, it can survive planning a wedding.  

Lemons in Positano are like no other lemons.  Look at the size!

Libby enjoying her day on the boat.
She seems to prefer boats to hot cars.

A day at sea is exhausting.

Alanna told me at 7 am that there was no point in
straightening my hair and putting on make-up.
Clearly she was right!!

   

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A Laptop....Okay, Not Good For Romance

     Learning italian continues to be a challenge, although in the past couple of weeks my friend Alanna almost fell off her chair twice when she heard me semi-competently communicating my thoughts in italian.  She is much more fluent than I, and usually teases me about my attempts to speak the language.

     When I first arrived in Florence I put a lot of effort into studying italian each week, and then I just got lazier and lazier.  The language is just so hard to learn that I can easily come up with something else to do that is much more enjoyable.  I have heard from so many people that it took them years to be able to speak italian fluently, so I figured what is the rush.  Going to another beautiful italian museum still counts as immersing myself in the culture, doesn't it?

     My plan to take a more relaxed approach to learning italian went to hell and a handbag when I met a special friend who is fluent in both french and italian, but speaks very little english.  When I said I was from Canada he got excited thinking that I spoke French.  I had to explain to him that many Canadians, including me, in fact don't speak fluent French.  I could see the excitement in his eyes shift to puzzlement.  I could tell he was thinking about how he would be able to communicate with me.  It has been a challenge.  When he sends me a text in italian I am able to refer to my trusty Google translate if I am not sure what he is saying, but I cannot have Google translate at my side at all times.  

     I remember the first time he picked me up I felt like I was an unsure 16 year old again.  I was talking to my friend Laura on Skype about what I thought were our plans for him to take me up to Piazza Michelangelo in his car, but I was not really sure because of the language barrier.  Laura and I made the plan that I would Skype her when I got home to let her know that I got home safe.  Like a caring friend she sat up waiting for the "I am home safe" Skype call.  I gave her his identifying information just in case she did not get the call.  It is weird because with having a language barrier I just did not feel quite as safe as I usually do.  I had never given thought to the fact that our ability to use language is so strongly tied to one's self confidence and sense of safety.  At home I had pepper spray in my purse as a safety precaution.  The best I could do here on short notice was to put a small bottle of room spray in my purse.  Laura and I laughed as I suggested that spraying the air freshener in a person's eyes would at least give me a few minutes to get away if needed.  Looking back my fear was ridiculous.  My friend was a perfect gentleman and we went to a beautiful spot where we, and hundreds of other people, enjoyed the night view of Florence.

     My friend and I continue to work on being able to better communicate with one another.  Sometimes I find myself starting off a sentence in italian, and then I slip into french in desperation to try and convey a thought.  While my friend does speak some english he for the most part insists that I speak italian as after all that is the only way I am going to truly learn the language; being forced to speak it.  There have been times when we have had to take out the english/italian dictionary.  The problem is at our age our eyes are so bad that we have trouble reading the small print.  It is far too early in this friendship for me to bring out the granny reading glasses. 

     The other night my friend was over for the evening.  We were actually getting by pretty well in our communication and then it happened;  I had to communicate a thought and I knew that there was no way that I would find the words in either italian or french.  So I left his warm arms and went to the living room and got my laptop.  It seemed reasonable to me to use Google translate at this moment.  My friend patiently read the translation of what I wrote, and then laughed and told me to put the laptop away.  He once again told me that I will never learn italian if I don't force myself to learn it.  Of course he said this all in italian.  The next morning I got my italian books out again. 

     A few evenings later Alanna and I met up with my friend.  He knows that she speaks more fluent italian than me.  We weren't together two minutes and even with my horrible italian I could tell that he was telling Alanna about me bringing the laptop to bed.  I had to sit back and listen to the two of them in fluent italian make fun of me.  We all did have a good laugh though.  I did end up conceding that a laptop is a romance killer.  While Carrie's Mr. Big was tolerant of her laptop, it is abundantly clear that my Mr. Big is not.  I sent my italian teacher an email signing back up for italian class in September.            

      

        

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Inside An Italian Kitchen

    

     I think that the only thing that rivals Italian mens' love of women is their love of food.  I am convinced that the saying "The way to a man's heart is through their stomach" originated in Italy as no where else in the world have I been witness to the love affair between man and food as exists in Italy.  Yes North Americans love food, but in an overindulgent kind of way.  For North Americans it is more about the quantity of food, than the quality.  In North America one often hears someone proclaim that the meal was so good that they wanted to throw up because they ate so much.  A meal usually eaten in 20 minutes or less.  For Italians it is all about the taste.  It is about respecting every ingredient that goes into a dish, making sure that each one explodes on your palate.  It is about nurturing the flavours out of the ingredients.  It is about creating a dish with such love that one has a visceral reaction when the food hits your mouth.  It is about taking the time to enjoy each and every bite, and just as important, taking the time to enjoy the company of the people that you are sharing your meal with.  A good Italian meal does not last twenty minutes.  On the contrary, it last hours.  I have come to learn that a truly good Italian meal has three vital components, each as equally important as the other - good food, good wine and good conversation between the people who happen to be fortunate enough to come together to share the good food and good wine.

     Knowing this I could not turn down an invitation to attend the home of an Italian friend who was willing to share with us "the art of creating an Italian meal".  Italian cooking truly is, in my opinion, an art form.  A painter starts with a blank canvass and paints before him.  He puts layer upon layer of paint to create a masterpiece.  In many ways Italian cooking is a similar creative process.  An Italian meal starts off with ingredients from the garden, or the market, and good wine.  In layering the flavours of the ingredients on top of one another to create a dish, and then adding the addition of good wine, the people gathered together to share in the meal enjoy a gastronomic masterpiece much like one would enjoy a finished painting.  While I may be thrown into the Arno for saying this in a city that is world renowned for its great art, I will be so bold as to say that many times I have thought that a meal before me here in Florence has impressed me as being more of a work of art than some of the paintings in the famed Uffizi gallery.

     Excited to have a glimpse of the inner workings of a home-cooked Italian meal, off five North American women went to the countryside.  While we are of varying ages, it did not matter as we all share a love of food; oh and love of good wine.  It was not without trepidation that I got onto the tram for this day of cooking.  Because I shop at the markets I know what can go into an Italian meal.  Knowing that it was just as likely that cow stomach or brains be on the menu as pasta, I did ask my friend Jennifer if she made sure that there would be no what I call weird animal parts on the menu.  With her reassurance it was with a deep sigh of relief that we went off for an afternoon cooking class in the country.

     After ensuring that our wine glasses were full, Carlotta began to share with us the secrets of Italian cooking that her grandmother taught her.  She did not follow a recipe and there were no measuring cups. It was all about the feel and smell of how the ingredients were coming together.  Something she learned watching her grandmother cook as a little girl.  I could not help but think about my grandmother and how we spent many summer days at her kitchen table with her teaching me how to cook and to bake.  While Carlotta was learning how to make pasta, I was learning how to make apple pie.  Nevertheless our experience with our grandmothers was much the same even though we came from two very different cultures.  

     The first dish that Carlotta showed us how to make can only be described as an Italian version of matzah ball soup.  No Campbell's in a carton chicken broth as the base.  Instead Carlotta had on the stove homemade broth that had been simmering for hours.  She removed the ingredients of the broth to show us what gave it flavour.  Out came the carrots, the onions and the potatoes.  Then she pulled out what she explained gave the real flavour to the broth; a cow's tongue.  I could not contain my gasp.  Without even thinking I exclaimed, as I looked at Jennifer, "You told me that there was not going to be any weird animal parts".  Jennifer realizing the bottle of wine was empty, and that I was going to need more wine to be able to face true Italian cooking, she  was like super woman opening up a bottle of wine faster than the speed of light.  Carlotta then began to talk about how tomorrow they would eat the tongue sliced up on sandwiches and how tasty it would be.  Wine, and only wine, was going to make this situation better.

     Having removed the cow's tongue from the broth, Carlotta began to show us how one makes pasta from scratch; the secret being to use quality flour.  As she kneaded the pasta she shared with us wonderful stories from her childhood.  Early on she learned the significance that food plays in the life on an Italian.  With a matter of factness in her tone she stated that at an early age she realized that as an Italian woman it was "less of a problem for a man to come home to find his wife in bed with another man, than for him to come home and his dinner not be ready".  With her grandmother's rolling in hand, she learned to be a "good" Italian wife. 

Carlotta getting out her grandmother's rolling pin to roll the dough out for pasta.

     As the wine flowed, and we learned to perfect the art of making homemade bow tie pasta, we heard about how Carlotta lovingly makes homemade pasta several times a week for her husband.  As Sue sketched Carlotta rolling out the dough, she commented about her her own husband.  With a reflective tone she stated, "I now feel great humanity for my husband".  Very quickly Janet interjected, "That is because he is dead".  More than one of us almost spit out our mouthful of wine as laughter overtook the kitchen. There we were 6 very different women each with our own stories about our relationships with men, but all at a place where we could laugh about where we came from, and happy to be sharing where we are at today with one another.

     I did eat the soup, even though it was made in part with a cow's tongue.  I must admit, it was delicious.  I am starting to understand why Italians often say that in Italy some things are best left unsaid.  I don't think I agree in entirety with this motto, but I am thinking that my love affair with Italian food would best be served if I applied it at least to Italian cooking.

          

        

                 

         

       

                        

                         

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BBrreeeaaatthhee

  
     I find myself doing a lot of deep breathing here in Florence.  Sometimes it is when I am trying to talk to someone on the telephone who does not speak english.  My italian, while a work in progress, is still very poor.  Sometimes it is as I wait over 30 minutes at the post office to buy stamps as I look at the long line up of people and only two employees are working the postal section.  Sometimes it is as I make my way through the 10s of thousands of tourists in the streets.  Sometimes it is when I look at the bottoms of my feet at night and they are filthy black from walking around the city in flip flops.  Sometimes it is after realizing that it will take me over an hour to walk to purchase an item and back, when in Canada I would have quickly driven to the store and been back in minutes.           

     In the spring I did a lot of deep breathing as literally hundreds of little red spiders were crawling on my terrace.  No matter how many times I sprayed they would come back in droves in a couple of days.  I have never seen anything like it.  I do not do well with bugs.  When I would come in after laying in the sun, or tending to my plants, the bottoms of my feet would literally be orange because as you step on these little pests they release a dye.  Every night I would scrub the orange off my feet before going to bed.  In frustration, I asked my italian friends about these pests.  I was told, "Do not worry Elizabet, they will go as the heat comes.  They will only last three weeks, be patient".  So every day I just kept telling myself this will pass, breathe deep.  Three weeks later they disappeared.
     As the hot summer temperatures have come I have needed to have my windows open wide at night to catch a breeze.  I love the windows here because they are so big.  They go from hip height all the way up to the ceiling.  One night as I laid in bed, and was enjoying the cool breeze on my face, I came to realize that the mosquitos enjoyed the open windows as much as me.  I wonder if they all gathered outside of my window with one of them yelling, "Here we go boys, we have got a tourist who does not know to keep the windows closed".  In the morning I woke up to 17 (I counted them) mosquito bites on my face.  The mosquitos had enjoyed a buffet on my face and arms.  At first I thought they were spider bites because there were just so many of them, and I had never experienced mosqutio bites like this before.  I took apart my bed and vacuumed it and washed all the sheets.  I went to the store to get insect spray and was told by a very kind woman that they were mosquito bites, not spider bites, and I needed to  buy a little device called "vape".  It looks like a plug-in air freshener.  She told me to buy one for each room.  I wondered how they could possibly work, but I listened to her advise.  I now enjoy my windows open and there is not one mosquito in my apartment.  I have since learned that everyone has vapes in their apartments.  Even hotel rooms have them.  I am left wondering why they do not have them in Canada, especially in cottage country where the mosquitos are so big they could carry you away.  I just breathe deep telling myself that maybe I don't want to know what is in the vapes that make them work so well because if I knew maybe I would not use them, and I certainly do not want to wake up to a face covered in bites again.

     Just as I was enjoying my mosquito free apartment, and spider free terrace, along came these little green flying bugs.  I have never seen a bug like this before.  Every night they would swarm into the apartment, drawn to the light.  As I sat at my computer I would have to shoo them away from the  screen.  Evening after evening I sat and watched my coffee table and dining room table become covered in literally hundreds of these little green flying bugs.  I wondered what I would do as I could not keep my windows closed, but I also dreaded that every morning I had to vacuum up the hundreds of little corpses off of my tables.  While I have been to Italy before, I had never experienced these swarms of green flying bugs.  As I sat looking over at my coffee table covered in bugs I took a deep breathe and hoped that they would be like the little red spiders and suddenly disappear as quickly as they appeared.  Sure enough the past three nights there has not been a bug on my table.  All bad things here in Florence seem to pass, if I just have patience, breathe deep,  and wait it out.

     Yesterday I escaped the heat of the city and went to the little town of Fiesole, which is located in the hills above Florence.  The views of Florence are spectacular.  With a cool breeze blowing in my hair I sat on a bench in awe of what I was looking out at.  On the bus on the way back to Florence two American couples travelling together asked me what I thought they had to absolutely see in the few days that they were in Florence, and where they should go for the very best food.  As I talked about the treasures of Florence there was a moment when I was struck by the excitement in my voice.  While I have been fortunate to travel to many places in the world, never have I so passionately loved a city as I do Florence; although New York is a close second.
     My best friend here in Florence, Laura, thinks that I am a "clean freak" and have a touch of OCD.  Obviously she has come to know me well.    I  tell her that this is the new "relaxed" me.  She jokes that if she knew me before we would have had a friendship divorce.  I don't understand why she does not see the logic in colour co-ordinatting a closet.  She doesn't understand why one has to vacuum every other day.  Lets just say that Laura does not mind a little clutter and doesn't rush to do dishes.  There are also very good reasons why we affectionately call her "late Laura".  Okay I may still be a little OCD, but I now can garden on a terrace ignoring spiders crawling at my feet, I can now sit and watch television on the computer with bugs swarming the screen, I can now deal with filthy black feet from city pollution, I can now leave my dishes for two days without doing them, I now wear wrinkled clothes because I don't have a dryer and walking, lots of walking, has just simply become a way of life for me......all after taking a deep breathe telling my crazy brain that these little things don't matter given how lucky I am to live in such a wonderful city.
     As my friend Marcial was looking out my window today he said, "I love Florence in the summer".  When I first arrived in Florence his advise to me was to let go of my North American way of life and expectations, because it is only when one does that can you come to love life in Florence.  I now realize how right he was.  It has taken a lot of deep breathing, and a lot of conscious letting go, but the end result is a passionate love affair with one of the most magnificent cities in the world.          
  
                            

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The Holy Grail......Sour Cream

     

     When I get together with my friends here in Florence we often end up talking about things that we miss from North America.  With the advent of super centre grocery and home stores whatever we wanted was usually just an aisle or two away.
     When I first arrived here in Florence I had trouble adjusting to actually having to source out what I thought were essential items.  It turns out that what we North Americans think are essential items, and what Italians think are essential items, are two very different things.  I remember a good friend telling me, when I first moved here, that I had to get my head around the spoiled North American way of focusing on convenience.  He then went on to ask me to make him pumpkin soup; something he very much missed from home.  I laughed about the irony of his request given his advice.  Canned pure pumpkin was not something that I would be able to just go pick up at the corner grocery store.  I thought that there was no way that we would find canned pure pumpkin here in Florence.  After a  few days of both he and I going to every shop that we possibly thought would have it, and I had given up, he called to say that he found a store that had it.  A little Asian market that I have come to appreciate for having unusual ethnic items that the typical markets do not carry.  While I have never thought of pumpkin as an ethnic item, I suppose North American (Canadians and Americans) is an ethnicity of sorts.  Certainly Thanksgiving, and all the yummy foods associated with Thanksgiving, is a cultural celebration that is unique to North America.  I guess I think of food associated with an ethnicity as a little more exotic than pumpkin, hence why I never thought to go to a store that specializes in ethnic items,  but there was the pumpkin just down the aisle from the Mexican and Asian items.   Pumpkin found, my good friend was able to enjoy a little bit of North America; homemade pumpkin soup.

     There is one item that I have time and time again heard North Americans literally yearning to find - sour cream.  Get a group of North Americans together here in Florence and inevitably someone will ask, "Where can you buy sour cream?".  The response has always been moans of wishing they knew.  Scores of people have gone out in search of sour cream, as if it were sacred treasure, with no success.  Sour cream is just not something that Italians cook with.  I have always kept a bended ear to these conversations as I have often cooked with sour cream.  While I hadn't needed it yet, I could see the day coming when I would want some.  

     That day came.  With the warm weather has come friends gathering on my terrace.  I can't think of a time when I have hosted friends and I have not made "slop".  Slop being a yummy Mexican dip.  I am not sure how it got the unappetizing name "slop", but for years I have been asked to make it.  I have taken it to just about every party that I have attended.  If I had a dollar for how many times I have made slop for teenagers gathering at my house I would be a very rich woman.  Women often pass down very special recipes from generation to generation. While slop may not be by fine dining standards be seen as a special recipe, it is nevertheless the one recipe that I know my daughter will be making long after I am gone.  While she does not share my love of cooking, she does share a love for slop and as such has mastered this one recipe.    

     Those that know me know that when I set my mind to do something I make it happen.  I was determined to find sour cream and make slop for my friends.  I figured that if there was any hope for finding sour cream it would be in one of the two very large grocery stores that are out of the centre of Florence.  Each is about a 3 km walk.  I headed out to the one store.  When I asked for sour cream I was looked at like I had three heads.  The grocery manager had no idea what I was talking about.  A chef who happened to be in the store overheard my request.  He said that as a chef he occasionally needs sour cream, but because he can never find it he has to make it by hand mixing together lemon and whipping cream.  Well, that was not going to happen.  Disappointed I walked back to the centre and headed in another direction approximately 3 kms.  Now I have walked about 9 kms for a container of sour cream.  Walking I could not help but think to myself that I am either crazy or determined.  Perhaps a little of both.  Calves sore, I entered the grocery store.  I quickly became optimistic as I looked around at the wide selection of food.  I almost jumped for joy when the sour cream was pointed out to me.  I bought 8 small containers so that I would not have to make the trek again in the near future.

     12 kms later I returned home sour cream in hand.  I was able to make my slop, and it was enjoyed by all.  Of course I had to make the salsa topping from scratch as quality jarred salsa is evidently not on the essential item list either here in Florence.  Through what may be said is crazy determination I was able to carry on my tradition of serving slop at a gathering.  I was a happy woman.  I did what many thought I would not be able to do.  Okay I will concede it was not quite as significant as putting man on the moon, but nevertheless I succeeded in what many people before me here in Florence have not been successful in; finding and cooking with sour cream.          

  

               

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Montepulciano....Before The Tourists Came

  
     It seems like a switch was flipped in Florence in the past week and summer is all of a sudden here.  It is hot and humid, much like in July in Canada.  Rather than complaining, I am thinking about how wonderful it is going to be to have several months of hot summer like weather, rather than the few short weeks that Canadians get teased with.  It seems like we just get thawed out in Canada, and then once again we are faced with the cold weather and snow.  I do not miss the cold.  

     I think the heat is here to stay as it is no longer cooling down at night.  The duvet is off my bed and packed away in the closet.  My much loved flannel jammies are officially put away.  The neighbours that see me walking Libby in the morning may be glad of that.

     With the heat has come the tourists.  The streets are full of people from all over the world trying to  find their way with their maps in hand.  When I look at them I am reminded of when I first arrived here in Florence.  It is hard to believe that I have been here six months now. While it was love at first sight, it feels like my love affair with Florence is growing the more time that I spend here.  Maybe this is because I have become more comfortable here.  I equate it to the beginning of a wonderful relationship with a man where you love the initial passion, but you also enjoy easing into when you can just be you and still feel the love.  It is interesting because many tourists stop me and ask for directions, or advice about what to see and where to eat.  Perhaps they are picking up on the ease that I feel in this city.  

     While I am loving the warm weather, I am now understanding what the locals mean when they say that they enjoy when the cooler weather comes and they get their city back.  With the crowds one is not able to see things from the same perspective.  Florence, and the surrounding smaller towns, take on a whole other look and feel when it is so busy that it is difficult to make your way through the streets.  With the crowds you miss some of the hidden treasures.

     I am glad that I was able to visit Montepulciano before the crowds took it over.  I was able to see how the italians truly live day to day when their town is theirs.  I was able to experience just what a treasure this small Tuscan town, which is known for wine and Pecorino cheese, is because the beauty was not blocked by the hoards of people.
     I was first introduced to Pecorino cheese in Montepulciano.  It is one of the finest cheeses that you can find here in Italy.  I choose to be in denial that it comes from a sheep, rather than a cow.  I don't know why, but it bothers me that it is from a sheep.   But in the interest of being more open minded I do not let that fact stop me from enjoying it.  The best Pecorino cheese that I have had has been from Montepulciano.  While one can certainly find it in the markets here, it is just not quite the same.  I am not sure why that it.  Perhaps because it is aged differently.  In Montepulciano the finest of the Pecorino cheeses is covered by the ashes of wood.  Yes OCD me who hates dirt actually loves a cheese that is aged in dirt.  If that isn't growth I don't know what is.

     One of the wonderful things about living in Florence is that you can enjoy all that a city has to offer, but you are just a short distance away from a quieter life.  With a short train ride one can take a day and enjoy just slowing down.    Even a city girl like me enjoys the country every once in a while.  As long as I don't have to smell cow manure.    

          

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