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.