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!