Avoidance and Uno Per Tutto

Now that my exchange is careening to a rapid end (I leave in 10 days), this poor blog has become neglected. I think I've been avoiding it because I seriously don't have a clue what to write. I've been feeling like I should reflect on my "esperienza" and not just jot down silly information on mozzarella. No words or food stories or witty anecdote could summarize these last few months, giving me two options: quit this blog altogether or write that post about "The Bimby" I've been meaning to write for months.

Well, I say the show must go on! Get out the confetti and fireworks because this blog will not end with my exchange. When I get home (in 10 short days), my blog can be one of the many things I take from this experience. I'm sure I'll find plenty of inspiration in the world of real life even if there are fewer pizzas and more college applications. Let's get this show on the road then.

The upper-middle class Italian kitchen would not be the same without the addition of a little friend, named "The Bimby." I haven't really seen anything like it before. It's most comparable to the Kitchen Aid Mixer in the States. However, I doubt the market for it would exist in the US because the D.I.Y. American mentality would get in the way of how this contraption makes everything so ridiculously easy. It chops, stirs, weighs, cooks, steams, kneads, swirls, freezes, times, and does about anything else you can think of. It might be easier if I made a list of things it doesn't do.... Here's one, it doesn't magically make my exchange time longer even if it is called "il robot della cucina."

According to the Bimby's website, the Bimby is a German product, invented in the 70s by two fellows who previously spent their time making carpets and vacuum cleaners. Even though I have never seen them anywhere else in the world, they are claimed to be distributed throughout the USA, Canada, Europe, and China, where the Bimby is more commonly known as the "Thermomix." (Leave it to the English speakers to give the Bimby a robo-name when the word "bimby" most closely resembles the Italian word "bimbo," meaning baby.)

Despite the number of distribution locations, the Bimby is not an easy thing to get your hands on. Basically, you have to know someone who knows someone who is hosting a Bimby party or who will help you host one. Then, you can finally buy it, but the price still remains a bit of a mystery. All the websites I've checked have kept it a secret, but my host mom did let it slip, that our family paid around a thousand euros for it. Unfortunately, you really do pay for all that amazingness.

When I leave my host family, I will also have to leave behind my little Bimby. As much as I will miss the mindless manner of cooking, my arms have started getting a little flabby from the lack of mixing and measuring. I will just have to frame the picture I have of my bimbo buddy and await the return of my biceps.

Cravings...

Before I had been separated from my home for a significant amount of time, I never realized how important comfort food was to me. When I thought of traditional comfort food, it conjured images of cheddary mac n’ cheese, fluffy, buttery mashed potatoes, or a fat piece of layered chocolate cake. Because those types of foods have never played a big role in my diet or comfort for that matter, it didn’t really cross my mind that I would be craving foods like I am now. Although I still don’t miss those American mashers, it’s disgraceful to think about what I would do right now for a grilled veggie burrito or a salad roll with extra peanut sauce. In fact, I’ve been planning my first meal home for quite sometime, but unfortunately, my arrival time was postponed a few hours, and those great plans for Laughing Planet and Sweet Basil have gone out the window, which brings us the moral of our story. I was wondering if any of my five, oh-so-dedicated followers knew of a Mexican and/or Thai restaurant in Portland open late on Fridays (I’m thinkin’ I could make it if they’re open until midnight). If not, I’m sure could get my mommy to pick some up before she comes to the airport, but I think I’ll be wanting the stuff right out of the oven.

Mission Accomplished

Besides images of gondoliers, leaning towers, and big, round pizzas, the word Italy tends to conjure up images of plates overflowing with pasta. This musing seems to be right on target with what I've experienced. It's not at all weird for someone to eat pasta twice a day. On the contrary, it's considered weird if you haven't eaten your daily portion of pasta. That's why I've found it quite strange that in Italy homemade pasta is such a dying art. Of course, everyone here knows how to boil some water and dump the noodles into it. It's as natural to Italians as bowling a bowl of cereal is to us. I'm talkin' the fresh, dough-made-this-morning kind of stuff. I think it would take heavy bribery to get my host mom to whip up some linguine, and from what my friends have said, only their grandmas will make pasta for big occasions. That was why after three months of living the Italian life, I was disappointed to say I had never made pasta. After complaining about this to a wide variety of people, I discovered that the other exchange student in my region (Fiona) has a host mom who makes pasta almost every Sunday. This got me thinking about just how long it had been since we had had an AFS get together, and how I am just dying to meet Fiona's family...

Without much more talking, Fiona got the hint, and yesterday, my host sister Roberta and I were off to the little town of Moiano "per fare la pasta in casa." I had politely requested gnocchi, and because gnocchi takes a little extra time to cut and form, they had mostly finished the dough by the time we got there, but no harm done. I think I got the gist of how to make it. There is definitely no official recipe for the dough, however. I was told it depends on how watery your potatoes are, but for the most part, it goes one part flour to one part potato. I don't know how accurate that is because Fiona's host mom told me she used one kilo of potatoes, implying she also used one kilo of flour. There's a good chance she was talking about volume and not weight (From other recipes I looked up, they said 300 g flour for every kilo of potatoes) ....Anyhow, the potatoes were peeled, boiled, and pureed in the food processor, kitchen aid type, Italian contraption called the Bimby. The flour was added, and "Ecco!" we had a dough.

With the help of some more flour, we rolled the dough into long, skinny-ish snakes, which were then cut into little rectangles.

Next came what I think was the hardest part, forming the classic conch shells. Using two fingers and a bit of conviction, we gave the dough cute little stripes with a handy little wooden tool. You can also use a fork or go without the stripes altogether, but I found them quite charming.

Handy Little Line Tool

Because of the freshness, you only cook the pasta for three or four minutes, until the gnocchi float to the top and look more or less like this.

Then, you are free to serve them how you like with pesto or a simple red sauce. We went all out and made them "alla taglia," which implies in a pan and baked. We mixed them with a simple ragu of tomato sauce and ground meat, scooped them into individual pots similar to Ramekins, topped them with fresh buffalo mozzarella and parmesan, and baked them at 200 C for about 30 min. They came out with a crunchy, golden cheese crust and soft, warm gnocchi in the middle. Maybe my opinion was a bit biased, but I could seriously taste the difference between our gnocchi and the store bought gnocchi we eat normally. I think it's time for a little pasta Renaissance here in Italy or at least in my kitchen.

Taaaaa Duhhhh

Like a Big Pizza Pie...

In my opinion, when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, you are obligated to eat the whole dang thing. The "amore" is just too complicated. Even my Italian friends would agree that lovely latin lovers come and go, but in Italy (specifically in the same region as Naples), la pizza is securely immortal.

Even here in Sant'Agata exists an extreme pizza pride. Everyone has their own opinion on what toppings are best, how the pizza should be cut, how it should be eaten, what type of oven it should be cooked in, who makes it best, and if it's acceptable to eat it more than 100 kilometers outside of Naples. As a foreigner, these various opinions were overwhelming because frankly all the pizza tasted good to me, but after three solid months of eating pizza at least once or twice a week, I've begun to develop my own narrow minded habits.

First off, the whole, personal pizza is much better than the "American" pizza slices. Maybe it's because it would never be socially acceptable in America to order a pizza the size of a large platter and eat the whole thing without an ounce of guilt, but here that's the beautiful norm. Don’t worry, your stomach magically adjusts to eating that much at once. Secondly, pizza is much better when cooked in a wood-fired oven. You can taste the difference in the vague smokiness, and the heat of the wood gives the crust a slightly burnt, crunchy edge. When your whopper of a pizza comes out of the fire and the waiter at Il Barbaro (my favorite pizza place) gives it to you, it’s necessary to immediately cut it into quarters, leaving four pieces, that are to be folded in half and eaten like a sandwich. Finally, no….no you should not eat pizza outside of the Naples region let alone outside of Italy. I, the American, found pizza in Florence, Italy unappealing, which leaves little hope for my return to America.

Toppings deserve their own paragraph because they can truly make a good pizza. The universal favorite is the basic margarita. Here that entails only tomato sauce, mozzarella cheese, and frequently a piece of basil or two. It’s hard to go wrong with this classic, but it is always made better “buffala” style with buffalo mozzarella. Another good one is a pizza bianca (cheese without sauce) with French fries and occasionally a sausage similar to a hot dog, but really how can you go wrong with carb on carb action. However, in my calm, objective opinion, the perfection of prosciutto crudo, arugula, and parmegiano reggianno over a pizza bianca can never, ever be beaten.

My First Real Pizza: Look at the Pizza and Look at My Face...

The World Could Not Be Happier

Baking like an American with a Bunch of Italians

Last week, I must have taken a dive off the deep end because I invited a bunch of Italian friends over to make an apple crisp with me. Now, this wasn’t the first time they had eaten an oh-so foreign American sweet of mine. Previously, I brought a bunch of Mexican Wedding Cakes to a friend for her birthday. I thought their simplicity would appeal to Italian tastes, and I was fortunately right. I think that helped everybody’s willingness levels because I managed to wrangle up four other girls to help with the cooking and an additional three to help with the eating. Italian cooking abilities can be put into two categories. Either you have difficulty boiling a pot of water, or you could give Giada di Laurentiis a run for her money. These categories made themselves clear again when we assigned the jobs. Aleissia opted to be the D.J., Catia was the photographer, and Carmen and Agata decided to test their skills and help me cut apples. Apparent in her cutting abilities, Agata could be a candidate for Italia’s Next Food Network Star (which does not actually exist), and Carmen, well, Carmen got a boo-boo.

Mad Cutting Skills from Both Girls

The Boo Boo

All minor injuries aside, we got the crisp in and out of the oven successfully. The first group of girls had to go to English classes (hahahaha) before the crisp was ready, so another three friends came over to give it the taste test. One thing I really love about the way Italians eat is how they criticize every little thing about the meal but rarely mean it. As Francesca, Eva, and Giorgia seriously told me “This is way to sweet” and “You probably added too much water,” they happily finished their generous portions of crisp and asked for the recipe.

A Happily Eating Francesca and a Happily Eaten Crisp

Times They Are a-Changin

When I read food blogs, I get a very strange feeling. I really cannot tell if it’s the spark of young passion, awe, fear, my stomach growling, or simple jealousy. It’s probably a pinch of all those things. Today for me has been filled with this sensation because, in Italian fashion, I didn’t go to school, slept in, and spent too many hours reading food blogs. This got me thinking. Reviewing my blog, I realized that I have yet to really talk about food. How unlike me! Maybe it’s because there are so many things about Italy I want to write about, or maybe it’s because I don’t have the time to really sit down and do it all justice. Nonetheless, the epicurean inspiration has returned, and I think I am going to slowly but surely take my blog in a foodie direction... But not right this second. I’m hungry and need my afternoon snack of an apple with plume marmalade and parmigiano reggiano.

Insieme

Today, I experienced mild surprise when none of my friends insisted on walking home with me. Well, they never really walk me home. They always walk me to the end of the street that we hangout on after school then turn around and go back to where they were sitting. We don’t really have a word for this sort of thing in English, but in Italian it’s called “compagnare,” and I guess most closely means “to accompany.” It exemplifies one of many Italian habits that result in almost no solitude. A typical Italian goes likes this: first, you wake up. For me, I share a room with my host sister, so this is done together. Then, I use the bathroom, wash my face, etc. This is usually done alone in the morning, but often times, the girls all go to the bathroom together. We eat breakfast as a family. I walk to school with Roberta. I attend all my classes with the same twenty something kids. After school, we go walk around the bridge for about an hour. I go home, usually accompanied by Roberta or one of my friends. We eat lunch as a family. Then, everybody gets on Facebook and chats with the friends they just left. O, and I forgot to mention that throughout the entire day, the average Italian teenager is sending and receiving millions of text messages. Really, the only time I spend alone is when I study.

This constant companionship, like many things I have come to observe, has both positive and negative aspects. It can get a bit annoying always feeling obligated to interact with people. It’s weird to watch my independence level regress, and sometimes I want to give a good, long lecture on the importance of respecting personal bubbles. On the other hand, it’s nice to have people there for you all the time. I can get a hug whenever I do and don’t want. My friends and family are sincerely concerned about my feelings and emotions. I am never without support. In the words of my stepmom, if I was looking to hold myself up and walk alone in the rain, I should have gone to a Scandinavian country (No offense Ellie). For now, I'm in the Latin world, where everyone is always "insieme" (together).