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).

Che Mi Manca

Up until this week, I had experienced close to zero homesickness. It was actually a little weird how much I hadn't though about my life in Portland, but for some unforeseeable reason, Sunday morning while Skyping my mom, the tears started pouring out. At first, I had no idea why I was upset, which was bad for my poor mother, sitting on the other end of the computer, assuming the worst, but she and I both know that all of the important aspects of my exchange have gone flawlessly. I have been integrated into my family, school, and town with few complaints or mishaps. I really thought I had nothing to be upset about and that I was just being a tired, whiny little baby, who needed to go back to bed and count her blessings.

Maybe that was a little bit true, but upon further reflection and few more hours of sleep, I've realized that it's acceptable and natural to feel deprived as long as I don't feel that way all the time and let it take over my experience. It's okay if I get intense cravings for soy sauce during my 127th bowl of pasta this month. It's okay if during my Latin test I feel like crying because translating the word "silvae," brings to mind the damp, fresh smell of Oregon forests in spring. It's even more okay if I really just want a warm hug from my mom or to spend Sunday grocery shopping with my dad. My desires are fine because I know all of these things will be waiting for me when I get back. Here, I have to appreciate that the 127th bowl of pasta is just as delicious and perfectly al dente as the first and the 401st. The trees smell like citrus and are always covered with yellow and orange fruit. I get hugs from people who are practically strangers just because they felt like hugging me, and on Sunday, I can go to the open air market with my host dad or spend an hour drinking coffee and trying to explain the Easter bunny to my host mom.

Octogenarians

In Italia, I have two sets of grandparents. Now, as a person who generally pieties the elderly and likes to deny the inevitability of old age, it means a lot when I say they are possibly the most darling people I have ever met. A few Sundays ago, my family had the pleasure of hosting a lunch for this gaggle of octogenarians. Despite this being my third and second times meeting them, Roberta had to reintroduce me and explain that I am her American friend, who does not speak good Italian and doesn't really understand much. For the four, especially the two grandmothers, this concept was incredibly difficult to wrap their heads around, so they just went ahead and asked me questions in Italian. Luckily, I comprehended the first one and successfully answered that my name is Brittney. Since the "tttt neeee" is a sound never used in Italian, my name is hard for a lot of people to say, so I'm generally Brit, Bri, or Britty. So for about twenty minutes my host dad and Roberta enjoyed trying to teach the grandmothers how to say my name. All attempts at abbreviation and slow pronunciation ended unsuccessfully. I think to the grandmas my name is currently Bridgetta. Maybe I'll keep it for its Italian ring.

On Socks and Body Temperature.

So far, one of the most obvious differences in Italian culture is the importance of not being cold. If you are cold, it is very, very bad, possibly fatal. Now, in the mindset of most Italians, your body temperature correlates directly with the wetness of your hair and your footwear. Most people know that in Italy, you HAVE to blow dry your hair before you leave the house. It's a very strong superstition that you will catch some disease if you have "capelli bagnati." I don't question it, I just do it. Additionally, it is pertinent that your feet are adequately insulated. On Sunday, I ate lunch at my aunt's house. After at least ten different dishes, my aunt (zia Angela) had a minor heart attack because I wasn't wearing socks with my Tom's. Wide eyed, she announced this to the whole group, and then half of them proceeded to feel my ankles for temperature. Apparently, in Sant Agata, word about socks travels fast, and after school the next day, two of Roberta's friends asked me if I was wearing socks. I was. Thank God. Nonetheless, this concern reflects an incredibly genuine concern for your welfare that most Italians have. People want you to be warm not cold, and they take it upon themselves to make it happen. I like it.

A Collection of Short Stories

Really. This is the hardest thing to do when so much has happened in my life over the past three days. Nothing I write could ever include everything, but I will tell the stories I think best summarizes it all.

First, on our way to the bus station in Rome, we got into a minor car accident. O dio. The driver of our taxi van was driving like an absolute mad man to keep with Italian tradition, but his desire to give us a real taste of Italy came back to bite him when he rear ended some poor woman in a tiny, euro-style car. Despite the flurry of tears and hand motions, nobody was really injured. The lady we hit had minor whiplash or a back injury or something, but I don't think it helped when the EMT's dropped the stretcher they put her on...

All was well until I got off the bus in Benevento. I arrived around 6:40 PM, ten minutes earlier than scheduled, so I got my load of cumbersome suitcases and waited near a bench for my family. By 7:30, no one was there, but as AFS instructed, I "DID NOT PANIC". I meander on over to the pay phone and attempted for literally an hour to make a phone call. That didn't work. I couldn't feel my toes, and I hadn't eaten since one, so I hauled myself into a near by pizzaria and used one of my only Italian phrases, "Parla Inglese?" That worked. I used a cell phone to call my liaison, who called my host family, who showed up at the pizzaria not a minute too soon.

Besides those two minor bumps in the road, everything has been fabulous. Sant Agata is one of the most charming places I've experienced. It's a medieval town on the edge of a cliff just like Google Images suggested. So far, the sun hasn't stopped shining, which makes it nearly freezing, but surreally beautiful. We live in the modern part of town which is somehow only five blocks from downtown Sant Agata (centro di historica). My new house is much more modern than the one in Portland. It looks like an Ikea catalog. Our kitchen is orange with a bright yellow espresso machine. The bathroom I share with Roberta (host sister/sorella ospitate) is violet with monogrammed toilet paper and a heater and towel rack all in one. Warm towels and a warm bathroom! I enjoy it immensely. We also have a cook/maid, Nadia, who is from the Ukraine, and doesn't speak very good Italian, which is funny because I understand what she says better than anyone else.

I have been to school twice already. I think it shouldn't be too hard. I probably feel that way now because I don't have any books, and I haven't done any homework. In class, I feel like a bit of a nuisance. The kids pay more attention to me than the teacher, and we waste a lot of time making sure I understand, which is good for me, but I feel a little guilty. It probably won't last long because their show must go on, and hopefully I will understand enough Italian to not need everyone holding my hand.

I don't think I have eaten so much in my entire life. For lunch today, I had a generous bowl of meat tortellini with broth, a green salad, breaded and pan fried chicken, french fries, an apple, and coffee. Bread was also an option, but I decided to forego it. That was just lunch. I can't imagine what's for dinner. Roberta and I are off to the gym for some sort of aerobics class in an hour, so hopefully that will make up for some of my recent indulgences. Ciao for now!

I've Arrived.

Oh my. There is so much to be said. Well, I am currently in Rome, killing time in a hotel until I leave to meet my host family. The last few days have been an absolute whirlwind. We arrived in New York for an orientation, flew to Rome, got here on Friday in a state of exhaustion, ate, slept, visited the Vatican including the Pieta and Sistine Chapel, ate, got an Italian language crash course, and slept. The whole experience has been incredible so far.

Italian has been a bit overwhelming, but surprisingly I know a lot more than most of the exchange students, who seriously didn't know how to say hello. There are a total of 21 American students in Italy for a semester. They're all so easy to bond with because we're all in the same boat. We share everything. Unfortunately, most people are going north not south like me, but I get to see them in five months for an end of the year orientation and there's always facebook/email/blogging.

I have officially decided to only write on my blog and write letters for the first month, so I would love to get a letter from you, and I can tell you everything you want to know and more. My address is Viale Giannelli snc, Sant' Agata dei goti, Italy, 82100. Ciao for now!

Preparation City

Well, any speculation that I will have difficulty updating this blog has been confirmed. I haven't even gotten to Italy yet, and this baby is already being neglected. Nonetheless, I am here now.

Last weekend, I went to a "Post Departure Orientation" for AFS, where we basically ate lots of interesting Japanese candy while talking about rules, culture shock, packing, safety, etc. There were only seven other kids going on exchanges this spring. Two were going to Japan, two to Argentina, one to Portugal, one to Australia, and one to China. They were all very sociable and seemed as eager to start their experiences as me. I got super lucky and an exchange student from Italy actually stopped by the orientation to talk to us. Saying the first thing that came to my mind, I asked him what kids wear to school there. He basically answered clothes but in a good way. It sounds like Italian kids dress like kids at my school but without the sweatpants and hoodies. I feel a need to confess that, although I leave in less than ten days, I have yet to begin packing. I did make a list of what I'm theoretically going to pack but haven't physically put anything into a suitcase. Hopefully I will get to that part before the 27th or else we might be in for some trouble.

Also last weekend, I got a letter and pictures from my host family, providing me with lots of little tid bits about them. For example, both of my parents work full time. Marino, dad, is very passionate about his motorcycle. Giulio, brother, "plays basketball and has no other interests," and on sundays, we go to eat at an aunt's house more regularly than we attend mass.

Words cannot express how hard it is for me to wait to get this show on the road. Ugh. It's incredibly daunting to think that I have to suffer through final exams before I leave. Three of which I have to pay to take. They're actually making me give them twenty five dollars for each of the three finals I have to take early. Basically, I've begun to pay for torture, but it'll all be worth it when I get on that plane to a magical land of mozzarella and aqueducts.

Salve, Ciao, e Benvenuto!

Hello There! For those who don't know me, I'm Brittney de Alicante, and I'm planning on spending the spring semester of my junior year in Italy, specifically Sant Agata. To my slight understanding, it's a quaint little town outside of Naples, but that's about the extent of my knowledge. Goggle Image has also filled my imagination with pictures of a beautifully aged town happily teetering on a cliff edge, but they have yet to be verified. In S. Agata, I will be living with a host family and attending an Italian high school. I will have a host dad, Marino, mom, Maria, older brother, Giulio, and slightly younger sister, Roberta. I have finally been able to talk to Roberta via Facebook. Funnily enough, she has fallen under the impression that I speak almost perfect Italian. Boy is she in for a surprise when I show up! After I responded to her email in Italian for the sake of practice, she replied with a page long Q and A email all in Italian, congratulating me on my foreign language skills. Little does she know those simple five sentences took me no less than three hours to "perfect." No parlo Italiano. Uso il dizionario. Immediately after receiving this email, I went to Powell's and got an Italian workbook, which I have actually started and plan to continue using for at least ten minutes each day. With or without my broken Italian, Roberta seems like an absolute sweet heart, who is as excited for my arrival as me. I cannot wait to find out more about her and her family. A Happy and Prosperous Belated New Years to Everyone!