what's with all that purple, gold, and green?

Several weeks ago, I began to write a post about tradition and culture surrounding Mardi Gras and quickly realized that I would be unable to do a good job of limiting the scope. So, instead, I've created a list that tells some parts of the story because, let's face it, there are no limits to list making (and no pesky rules of organization, either.)

And so I offer you this longer than long post to visit and revisit over the month of March . . . that's right, I'm taking a self-imposed blogging break . . . See you in April, maybe.

And, yeah, I know it's not exactly about life in Italy . . . but I never really promised that's all you'll find here.

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1. Flashing naked body parts is not really a Mardi Gras tradition. Really. It's not. It's for the tourists and maybe a local intoxicated co-ed or two.

2. With that out of the way, I have to tell you, Mardi Gras is a family affair. I have memories as far back as memories go of being at Mardi Gras with my family. It's as much a part of our tradition as is Mother's Day or Thanksgiving. We aren't even from the city.

It's a Family Affair
Flickr Source

3. Generally, parades are planned by Mardi Gras krewes or social clubs who work all year long.  While membership in some krewes (organizations)  is open to all, many are exclusive, private organizations where membership is by invitation only. It is a very elitest, high society affair in some cases. "Old money" runs deep in New Orleans. On the other hand, less exclusive groups do exist, giving everyone a chance to participate.  Some groups fundraise year round to pay for the one big day. Other groups have an element of philanthropy and service. There is one group that convenes on the day of the parade, only. There are even krewes that are highly secretive and do not reveal membership publically.

4. Krewes often traditionally take names from the Greeks and Romans:  Rex, Bacchus, Endymion, Proteus, and so forth. A list of some krewes.  The Mystic Krewe of Comus is the oldest krewe; it dates back to 1856.

4. In 1993, New Orleans native Harry Connick, Jr. founded a new krewe, Orpheus, with the aim to create an organization open to all genders, races, and ethnicities. (Remember, this is the greatest free show on earth . . . with participants footing the bill.)  It's huge, compared to some of the other krewes. This ball is one open to the public, with tickets available on the website to the public for $135 each this year.  If you ever have a chance, GO to one of these balls as this is as much a part of Mardi Gras as the floats and throws.

5. A "throw" is anything you might catch from a float rider -- beads, dubloons, cups, stuffed animals, silk flowers, etc. Back in the day, some of the beads were individually strung glass Czech beads, now it's plastic from China. Some Krewes do have signature throws. Check out the throws from this year's Krewe of Muses, an all female group. (Cool, no? If you think so, read the story of the shoe throws.)

6. Grand balls with much pomp and circumstance take place during the season, often including debutante "coming out" events. These balls even reach down to the elementary schools where the balls are used as profitable fundraising events, sans parade.

7. Elementary schools across LA also celebrate the holiday with decorated wagon parades and shoe box float decorating contests.  I'm not certain, but I bet that this is one holiday that is still celebrated in the schools the same way it was years ago.

Shoe Box Mardi Gras Float
Flickr Source

8. Rex is the King of Carnival. Yes, we call it "carnival."

King of Carnival, Rex
Flickr Source

9. Much of Mardi Gras does not take place in the French Quarter. Most people I know would not dare venture there at night after a parade. I did a few times (as a co-ed) and likely never will again. It's insane and probably dangerous. Go Uptown, instead.

Uptown Parade
Flickr Source

10. We love the high school marching bands equally: the good, the bad, and the ugly. A parade is not a parade without a marching band. This is also true for the often long-anticipated police car that comes before the parade. Oh, the excitement!

High School Marching Band
Flickr Source

11. People have been known to camp out along the route to ensure a good spot. It is also common to cook-out along the route with groups of friends or, of course, to bring your cooler full of food and drinks. Popeyes gets a lot of Mardi Gras business. If you are fortunate, you have a contact along the route and are invited into their home, at least just to potty.

12. People with young children bring tricked out ladders for the kiddos to have a safe place and clear view. Better to have them up high than risk having them under a float tire.

Annoying, but Safe,  Mardi Gras Ladders
Flickr Source

13. There is no open container law in NOLA. (Or so it seems!)

14. The season starts on 3 Kings Day, January 6, and goes until the day before Ash Wednesday. Parades roll with more frequency as Mardi Gras Day approaches, even on school nights. Ahem. The public party ends at midnight on Mardi Gras, when the NOPD clears the streets.

15.  Pay attention, there is lots of political satire associated with the event. You will see it more prevelant with some krewes, but you'll also see it among the locals. You might imagine what it was like the first Mardi Gras after Katrina.

17. Mardi Gras is not limited to New Orleans. Huge events take place in the burbs, even on Mardi Gras Day, and parades roll across the state during the season. There's even a unique Mardi Gras tradition in Cajun Country.

Revelers in Cajun Country Chase Chickens
Flickr Source

18. Schools close for two to five days, depending. (Young One's school in Vicenza is closed for three days.)

19.  We eat King Cakes all season long. Likely, the tradition is from France. Finding the baby does not make you "King for the Day." It means you have to buy the next cake! Cakes are commonly found in bakeries and supermarkets with bakeries throughout South LA.

My Very Own King Cake

20. Purple - justice;  gold - power;   green - faith.  (Though, there is debate about this.)

So much, and I haven't even touched on Flambeaux carriers, or Mardi Gras Indians, or Lundi Gras activities, or  Mardi Gras World, or Pete Fountain's Half Fast Walking Club, or the Zulu Social Aid and Pleasure Club , or truck floats . . . and so much, much more that makes Mardi Gras.

I mean, I haven't even mentioned the famous "Mardi Gras Ordinance" --  New Orleans City Council Member Dorothy Mae Taylor's attempt to intergrate the private clubs in 1992. You can imagine how well that went over with with some people.  Check it out on NPR.

Flambeaux
Flickr Source

Pete Fountain

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But I feel satisfied that if you've read down to here, that you just might believe me when I tell you it's not all about beer, beads, and boobies.
Of courses, the presence of a bit of debauchery is undeniable.
 Hey, it's Louisiana.
And I love it.

Need more?  Check out this great site, where you can watch web cams, get recipes, and even find apps for your iPhone.

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To close this post. . . .

From Phil Johnson's Carnival Editorial:

It's that time again: that wonderful, crazy, colorful, crowded, happy, mixed-up but glorious time when all New Orleans forgets itself for a day, lets its hair down, puts on a rubber nose, a funny hat, and walks around laughing at the silly people in their crazy costumes.

It's a day for contrasts…a day for change.

A day when legions of quiet, timid, introspective little men forsake their cashier's windows and their neat clerk’s desks, put masks across their faces, and suddenly become Don Juan.

A day when a secretary can become Queen of England…a housewife, Annie Oakley.

Mardi Gras is fantasy in a fright wig, reality with a burnt cork on its nose, a dream with a scepter in its hand, and pompousness about to be punctured.

Mardi Gras is fun and laughter, vulgarity and coarseness, color and light, and at the end, quiet.

Mardi Gras is a state of mind, an attitude, a pose, an opinion. But at its most basic…and perhaps satisfying of all, Mardi Gras is the one day in the entire year when New Orleans can tell the world:

"We're going to have fun!" And we do.

cultural conflict in which i send the sick kid back to school too soon

I seriously considered simply bringing the car to a slow crawl in front of the heavy wooden doors and nudging her out of the back seat, over-sized Hello Kitty pack strapped to her back. After all, I have seen some of the older kids enter the doors unaccompanied a time or two, and Young One has requested that she be allowed to do the same. Perhaps Friday could be her big day.

Of course, I knew from the beginning that I would have to gain the courage to go it alone. I pulled the car up on the sidewalk, exited, straightened my coat, stood tall, made sure she was wrapped up well and walked right in with her . . . hoping, praying, wishing that I could just zip in and out, unnoticed by most, with a quick kiss as a send off:  "Be good. I love you. See you at four."

Not.

Richard has been gone for nearly a week, and, in the last few days, Young One has fallen ill. A quick visit to our doctor confirmed that (A) she was sick and (B) she would live through it. (After six years, I still can't determine what is indeed a doctor's-visit-worthy illness.)  Wednesday the good doctor sent us on our way with instructions that as long as the fluids were flowing both ways and she generally felt good, then the kiddo could return to school . . . EVEN if she had a slight fever -- just give her a dose of Motrin before school and send her on her merry way.

The scandal. What was that man thinking? Granted, he's an American, but, give me a break, he's married to a Southern Italian woman. He has been here for years. He has experience with both school systems.  He lives in both worlds. He knows where Young One goes to school. I think he was trying to set me up, evil doctor man.

I've been around enough to know better, so I waited until she had a good night of sleep and was nearly twelve hours fever free. Sure, her throat was still a bit red, her nose a little moister than usual, her eyes a tiny watery, but she spent the better part of an entire day happy, carefree, playing. In my estimation, she was fine and ready to enter the world of the living. She woke in a good mood, and after serving her a healthy breakfast, I dutifully tucked scented Hello Kitty tissues in her pockets, knowing she would have a need for them throughout the day. Hello Kitty was warped into a seemingly natural part of our lives, without effort.

And therein lies the conflict of cultures. Even though I didn't follow the doctor's orders, I also ignored the cultural norm of at least a day, perhaps two of fever-free health before rejoining the party. I decided to risk it, hoping for a stealth, undercover drop off at school.  Just as we turned the corner after the second set of doors, there appeared the heavenly sister, clad entirely in white, descending the marble staircase like a regular St. Catherine sent from the heavens. As she came closer, my courage abandoned me and ran for those wooden doors. Discovered, I stood in front in Clara Barton -- teacher and nurse-woman extraordinaire, but, lucky me, I got the sixty-year-old Italian nun version.

She offered Young One a concerned greeting and then turned her attention directly to me: "Where has she been? Oh, no, not a fever! How can she be back already? It's too soon. Children in the class have been out for eight days. Certainly she isn't well enough to be here. Oh, signora, what must you be thinking? Poor little thing. She needs time to rest, to recover." Young One offered her teacher a pathetic pair of puppy eyes and a perfectly timed lively, productive cough to add to the dramatic effect. (Thanks, kiddo.)

I tried to explain that she visited the doctor, and he said. . . and then I thought it wise just to shut my mouth and take it like a woman. Admitting what the doctor really said would likely cost me a bit of street credit, a bit of parenting credit, a bit of living human being credit. After all, I knew before even going to bed last night that this scene would play out just this way. I created it in my mind almost exactly as it happened. My only hope was to avoid her, which, by the way, is entirely possible as she isn't present in the drop off area every, single morning. Today, the gods were not in my corner. Who am I kidding? God is always in her corner.

Really, I couldn't blame the doctor. I know the difference well enough. They take this stuff seriously, like wearing hats and scarves and appropriate seasonal foot wear and humidity and wind and stress. It's just . . . different.

She scolded me well, and then informed Young One that she would spend the entire day inside the building. I left, somewhat defeated, but at least pleased that Young One was not in the car with me. The kid was at school for the day, ready to fill her little brain. She was in good hands. I can take it. I can play the game. I can swallow my pride. I can respect the cultural norms of my host country (after being discovered not doing so.)

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I found her in her usual spot in the corridor at four when I returned to get her. She's been a regular whiny, demanding, disagreeable pain in the @$$ since then, and as I type this, she has fallen asleep in the big leather chair before seven o'clock on a Friday night, even with the promise of a pizza and movie night. Clearly, not a healthy child.

Thank goodness it's Friday; thank goodness the man will be back tomorrow; thank goodness that I'll be the one out of town Monday, in the event that this little girl may indeed still be ill; thank goodness  -- because I'm quite certain that I would keep her out of school five more days after the way today played out. Certain.



BTW: I have the utmost respect for our pediatrician. He has provided care for Young One since she was four months old, and I consider us fortunate to have him, a staying force in the ever-changing world that is a military installation. It's all in jest, kinda anyway.

organic reading

If you follow along my rambling with any regularity, then you know that I have this ongoing obsession  healthy concern about teaching Young One to read in English. It's something I think about, a lot. I've asked friend after friend for advice, paying close attention to the answers of those in similar situations as us, but also listening closely to American elementary school teachers.

Of course, of course of course of course, I've always had a "feeling" of the approach that I wanted to take, but I still felt an intense need to survey others.  Was I looking for validation? Maybe. Probably. Likely. Undoubtedly.  I realize that now.  It wasn't until I heard of a success story from a colleague early this school year, a success story using similar methods I had in mind, that I was at ease with my choice. It's also when I stopped asking others and started focusing a bit more on making it happen.

We are beginning to see the fruits of this labor around here, with Little Miss Sunshine choosing to work her way through beginning reader books in English. It's rough, it's choppy, it's filled with frustrated pauses and requests for clarification . . . it's just as it should be, with her eager to carry on. Observing a child learning to read is a joyous thing -- maybe one of the best things in life. The empowerment is intense.

(Not to mention that Richard and I are feeling a bit proud of our accomplishment . . . I mean, we've collectively taught lots of kids many things, but being responsible for teaching our only one to read by doing what "feels right". . . well, that give us all sorts of good feelings inside. Hey, we do know what we are doing afterall.)

She's got a long way to go, but we are pleased with the recent boost in confidence she's feeling. She is so incredibly pleased with herself, prouder than I've ever seen her.  The reading in Italian? Piece of cake. Top of the class. (For today.) Ironically, she doesn't share the same sense of pride about that -- even though she is much better in Italian.

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Our approach is a multifaceted one based largely on cues from the child, one that has, in many ways, developed organically in our family.  I'll be happy to share my philosophy some time with you.

photo display complete, for now

I was inspired by Emily to use magnet boards to display photos; she found the idea here . . . but really, it's all over the web.  The magnet boards are from IKEA, while the magnets are from both Crate and Barrel and this place. I ordered the prints from MPix, who offers a host of sizes.

And the photos?  They are mine and I'm (finally) proud to display a bit of my "work," imperfect as it may be.

Completing this project makes me all kinds of happy.

It's a perfect way to welcome spring and her rays of sun into our home.

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saturday conversations on the black top

We had an odd, premature taste of spring yesterday with the sun shining brightly in the sky throughout most of the day. Sun and warmth mean many things in the paese, one of which is that the children who have been restricted to finding creative activities indoors finally go outside to play.  For Young One, this is nothing less than heaven on earth. She has learned that if she heads out alone, one kid or the other will inevitably soon join her. This was the case Saturday when three other children appeared shortly after she and I headed out back with our sidewalk chalk.

After a few rounds of hopscotch, I headed to the garden and left her with a same-aged friend for outdoor adventures, likely with an argument or two. After a bit of pruning (don't think I really know what I'm doing in this garden), I noticed that he had captured her attention as he rambled and she sat engaged and speechless. This is not exactly normal behavior for these two, so I decided to move to the other side of the garden and have a listen. What can he possibly be discussing that has her so enthralled?

I was shocked. He was telling stories of World War II.  I'm still unsure of what he said before I began eavesdropping, but when I tuned in, he was describing people being forced onto trains and people being burned alive in ovens. He was confident. He had details. He is six. Finally, Young One, not sure what to say about this, asked him: "How do you know this? Who told you these things?" Evidently, his mathematics teacher is his source of information. Having recently observed Holocaust Remembrance Day at the end of January, this seems plausible that he learned it in school. I distracted them both and changed the direction of the conversation.

Wow. These children are six-years-old. What good can possibly come of explaining the horrid details of a concentration camp to a six-year-old child? I don't get it. I believe in being honest with children, but how can a six-year-old possibly process, possibly understand, possibly conceive these horrors without understanding the context? I don't believe in avoiding tough topics with children, but I do believe adults are responsible to have an understanding of what is age-appropriate, and in my humble opinion, gory details of concentration camps are not appropriate for first graders. My opinion is supported by the US Holocaust Memorial Museum, by the way.

Later that day his mom stopped by for a visit. I described the exchange to her, and she confirmed that he has indeed been obsessed with the topic since hearing it at school. He has also become extremely worried and fearful.

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I wish people would think more, I really do.

wood & work in the paese

The wood truck arrived early Saturday morning with the delivery of next year's wood.  A couple of local families then had a date with a table saw to get it just the right size for the pile where it will sit, covered until next winter when it will be used to feed the large furnaces that heat their homes. It's a great deal of manual labor, moving and cutting this amount of wood, and the entire family will pitch in until it is done. As a result, their gas bills will be virtually nonexistent.

I feel a little guilty as I watch them from my kitchen window while preparing a chocolate chip cookie pie for the evening's social call, lamenting the fact that I'll be forced to use walnuts over my favored pecans.

They work hard to avoid the gas bill.
We work hard to pay the gas bill.

So why do I feel guilty that they are out there busting there backsides on a Saturday morning while I'm playing Betty Crocker and dreaming of summer trips to Puglia and New York City?  Though we don't say a word to each other as we observe the spectacle, I know Richard shares the feeling when he decides to bring out a couple of freshly prepared Belgian waffles to offer. He is sent home with a crumpled paper bag filled with fresh eggs. The gift of eggs erases the guilt, for now.

There is a lot to be learned from living in the paese.

love notes

the love fest continues this february morning

"Mamma, I love you very much because you gave me life.  I've drawn myself in the square." 

Feb. 2011, Young One, six-years-old

It's a very loose translation of one in a series of love note treasures that I have received after school. Needless to say, I love being the object of her desire and reaping the benefits of her new-found literacy confidence.  And, yes, her teacher has already taught them cursive, in first grade. So far, I'm liking her high expectations of the little people. I think it's also the teacher who plants ideas about reasons to love your mother above everyone in their little minds. No complaints here. Another note that I received said very much the same thing, followed with "And Dad, thank you for marrying Mamma." (Shhh. . . don't tell the good suora that it wasn't in the church. The shame.)

less is more

The older I get, the more I believe that less is indeed more.

But. . . try telling that to a couple of six-year-old girls who have been given carte blanche (and lots of sprinkles) to decorate sugar cookies.

 

Hope you had a sugar-filled love fest yesterday!
I did :)

♥ love in your heart ♥



A Valentine's heart garland created with absolutely no hidden "learning" agenda. I promise.




may there be
love in your heart
♥
with love
all else is possible

on being a tiger mom, or not

Following a recent discussion with friends about the Tiger Mom phenomenon, a friend leaned into me and whispered, "Face it, you're a Tiger Mom." She was joking, of course, mostly.  While I haven't read the book and don't plan to really, I have read the excerpt, seen the good professor interviewed, and have read tons of opinion pieces on the subject, both by those actually being paid to write and women like you and me, as well as by women who were raised by Tiger Mothers.

No, dear friend, I'm no Tiger Mom.  While I don't expect my daughter to be the best, I do expect her to do her best. Every. Single. Time. Admittedly, my expectations of what that means are fairly high.  Why shouldn't they be, really? I believe in her more than anyone on this planet; I know her strengths and weaknesses. As her mother, her number one cheerleader for life, I owe it to her to expect much from her.  I do assume strength, not fragility -- the fundamental concept of this parenting style. She can do it AND she can do it well. When she's not doing so well, it is my responsibility to intervene, to encourage, to guide. It's called parenting. It's the commitment I make to her and anything else is not acceptable.

As I type on this foggy Veneto Saturday morning, she is nestled on the couch watching cartoons waiting for the neighbor to arrive for a play date.  Last night she and I went to a movie, and later today a few of her friends will arrive followed by their much-loved teen babysitter (who, btw, has a quasi Tiger Mom). Not exactly Tiger Mom behavior on my part, is it?

Also, she is the child of an excellent K-12 certified, experienced music educator, and at six-years-old hasn't started formal music lessons. She didn't read or write early, nor could she perform odd tasks like identifying pictures of a stream of American presidents when she was three. She's not the best in the pool or at the gym, nor was she a standout on the slopes in January when she was left behind while her best friend progressed to a more advanced class.  My message to that teary-eyed, disappointed  face: "Hard work, Young One, that's how you'll get there, too. It's up to you. Are you doing your very best?" This was followed by hugs and hand holding and words of encouragement, but it was important that she understand that it's all up to her, and her alone, and that I believed that she could do it. No, she wasn't good enough.  No, I wouldn't ask to have her moved with her friend.  No, it wasn't the instructor's fault, the friend's fault, the snow's fault. Yes, she could change that.

However . . .

I am not among that 70% of American mothers who believe that stressing academic success is not good for children or that learning should be fun. I believe it's important to teach children that good things are worth working for, worth waiting for, worth striving long and hard to achieve. It's not always going to be fun, especially not in the classroom.  Academic success is important; expecting it to magically happen solely as a result of what happens at school is just plain ignorant. (On a side note -- kids don't always want this fun either.  After a semester of getting to know her first grade teacher, I can tell you that this woman's objective is not at all related to fun, quite the opposite, in fact. My girl loves, loves, loves her school, even without daily doses of teacher-created learning fun. You can likely surmise that this expectation of fun in the classroom creates a lively discussion among my colleagues . . . but I digress.) Kids need routines, clear expectations, and the opportunity to do well. They need to know that you believe in them and that you are honest about that.

However . . .

Richard and I do (very) systematically and routinely provide opportunities for learning, in ways that she considers fun. Again, we see it as our role as her parents. We drill her, often. On the 30 minute drive to school for the past several weeks, he and Young One quiz each other with complex mathematical word problems:  "If Matteo has 11 cookies, and he shares three with Daniele, while Yama steals one, but then Rosy gives him two more. . . .then how many cookies does Matteo have?" Over and over. She loves the mental math. It's fun. She and I have created a "Word Book" where we have an ongoing collection of similar words in English, all in my master plan to teacher her to read in English without a prescribed program. Fun. Baking together is to teach her measurements. Planting seeds together is for beginning botany. Fun, I tell you. Richard's iPad is loaded with carefully selected apps for, you guessed it, fun. Some nights, the reading routine is switched for time on a music app . . . it's no accident. . . but it's also no pressure . . . and she's learning alongside her father, even without expensive formal lessons and arguments about practicing.  Fun.  Most importantly, we play a key role in her education and don't expect it to develop solely from fun times at school.  Give me a break.  As a result, we do have high expectations for success.

She gets a lot of down time, but she also gets one of us -- one who assumes strength and not fragility -- ready to read, create, inspire, learn, challenge, and, most importantly, to just BE WITH, just as frequently. My hope is that her confidence will stem from her feelings of success from her achievements, her true achievements -- not some artificial sense of worth created by dishonest praise by parents afraid to wreck self esteem.  And, yes, I expect that academic success will be a part of that. Why should I expect or accept anything less?

So, if that makes me a Tiger Mom. . . all I can say is  ROOAARRR!

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Note - -

1. This confident parenting post comes on the heels of an excellent first report card (translated to straight "A's" with a smattering of "A+'s") for Young One.
2. This confident attitude of mine is subject to change at moment's notice.
3. I will always believe: Kids of all ages need routines, clear expectations, and the opportunity to do well, backed by people who care and believe in them honestly.

bizzaro afternoon

Young One attended a classmate's Carnevale-themed birthday party as "Mulan," wearing her kimono from Okinawa, in a church parish recreation room where she had her face painted by heavily tattooed Italian clowns hired as animatori. The only other dad present besides Richard was another foreigner, who matched Richard's 6'2" stature exactly. The 20 or so moms chatted, the kids ran free and wild. Inside. I zoned in and out of conversations, mostly about the teacher, the school, the upcoming distribution of report cards. Being "on" in Italian in this environment for three hours straight is difficult. 

The portable CD player blared children's songs like "Cocodrillo Come Fa?" and "Il Cuoco Pasticcione,"  loudly, louder, really, than the tinny speakers could handle. The clowns were overwhelmed with the number of children. I saw a boy agressively smack Young One several times on her head, just out of the blue as she sat on the floor during the grand gift opening event. She cried. She screamed with indignation. The festeggiata was perturbed by the interruption. The short clown consoled her with a giant hug and spoke sternly to Spider Man (so I didn't have to), while his mother continued to gossip, unaware of her son.

Afterwards, we went for sushi at a restaurant run by Chinese people and packed with American diners only, none of whom I recognized . . . except for one distant acquaintance who shared a long story of unrequited love while she waited for her take-out. He dumped her several years ago; she spoke like it was yesterday. I don't really know her that well. Richard ordered a Thai dish. The hired help at the party was a Thai woman. The mood music at the Japanese/Chinese/Thai place was Kenny G-ish. We brought our six-year-old there dressed in a kimono and a bad face painting.

Disjointed writing, I know.

Bizzaro Day.

Glad that it is over.

I'm watching you, Spidey.

corsa di cucina - round 2

This second visit to Trattoria all'Angelo was for a fish-themed lesson. (The details of the first visit are here.) After only a few hours with Chef Mauro, I can now confidently select fresh fish from the fish monger and clean and fillet both round and flat fish. Seriously, confidently, totally. 

We worked with orata (sea bream) and sogliola (Dover sole.)

Of all the things he taught me, by far my favorite was the method of cooking a whole fish covered in salt. I first tasted this at my favorite local restaurant and was immediately in culinary heaven. Now I know exactly how to do it, including a secret trick to check for doneness.  And, no, the fish is not at all salty. In my humble culinary opinion, this method best captures the delicate flavor of the fish.

We've since replicated this recipe in our kitchen. Perfect fish.

I was also taught how to properly handle the mysterious (at least to me) artichoke. This type is in season now and was used for the risotto but can easily be combined with a few other ingredients for a refreshing salad.

Not only does it look incredible, it also tastes incredible as well. Truly delectable. Simple & fresh.

Elements of Our Day
1. Quality Check
2. Preparation Before Cooking
(Clean & Fillet)
3. Anatomy of Two Types of Fish
4. Recipe: "Fumet" Fish Stock
5. Recipe: Velvety Fish Sauce
6. Recipe: Baked Sole Filet in "Papillote" (French -- parchment paper)
7. Recipe: Artichoke and Saffron Risotto with Sea Bream Filet
*Fish cooked with the salt method was also added.

 

More images of our day can be found on Flickr.

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Trattoria all'Angelo

Mauro and Bari

Via dell'Angelo, 105

Piovene Rocchette (VI)

0445-651181

(Closed Sunday night and Monday)

the Italian me on Wednesdays

As I was standing in the locker room after the shower this week, wishing she would hurry while watching Young One chat comfortably with two of the boys, all three of them completely nude, it occured to me: Wednesday's have been good for me this year, good for Young One, too.

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I join the same cast of characters each Wednesday as we usher our little people through the locker room and then take our seats at the bar above the pool until the end of the lesson. I wish I could tell you that we are glued to the window, observing in awe every spectacular splash and stroke, but that wouldn’t be true at all. When we do gather together behind the row of those parents fixed in seats at the window, we usually share a laugh at the awkwardness of one or the other of our children as they attempt to move their little bodies in the water as instructed.

Should one child exhibit a bit of prowess, we duly congratulate each other with exaggerated commendations: “Wow.  Che brava, Cristina! She gets it all from you.” I like that there is no feeling of competition in this crowd of friends at the pool; we are all in this together. Our same-aged children have varied abilities, and it just doesn’t matter: all for one, one for all.

I have a bit of a love / hate relationship with this Wednesday date at the pool. All things associated with preparing for the lesson and those that come after the lesson – packing the bag, rushing to the pool after school in enough time to sneak in unnoticed (to avoid harassment about potential cramps) so that I can give Young One a quick snack @ the bar before swimming (gasp!), the locker room business – especially the post-swim antics in the steamy locker room full of naked bodies wrangling for a spot in line for the showers– all of this, I loathe.  

I do love the time with my friends in the bar, both as a participant with and observer of them. This is where I had the exchange about the furs in Asiago. This is where I gather info about summer camps and clarify homework assignments. It’s where I learn of hip, usually useless apps for my iPhone and discuss appropriate pay outs by the Tooth Fairy. It's the place for tips on summer seaside destinations and the place for gossip. This is where I hold a welcomed spot at the same table week after week. Living in a forgein culture can be lonesome, even with a load of ex-pat friends. Having a place at the table with locals means something.

It’s also where I’ve learned that for all of our differences, we are fundamentally the same, with the same hopes, fears, insecurities and dreams. Most importantly, it’s where I feel most comfortable with my Italian and where I feel comfortable not saying a word at all. It’s not the me I am in the English-speaking world, but it’s the me they know, accept and include – the Italian me.

It’s not easy to break into a group of Italians, socially speaking, in this part of Italy. My closest Italian friend who is also a colleague circles herself closely with friends that she first met in high school; they are all beyond 40. No one has yet to penetrate that circle; I would never expect to do so. I wish I could explain how this is so different from the dear relationships with neighbors in the paese, but I'm afraid I can't without being misunderstood. It's just . . . different.

The first few years I had contact with this group, I barely conjured a “Ciao” from some of them. Even the more formal “Salve” didn’t flow freely.  Over time, they discovered that despite my lack of fashion sense and my general silence in most social situations, that I was an okay kinda gal. The fact that I managed to form friendships without talking much is an admirable feat. Our children frequented the same child care facility, which had many of us in prolonged daily contact. Finally, I gained approval, especially after the dreaded overnight field trip. I don’t know that I was searching so much for it after the first year, but I was happy to embrace it once offered. Everyone seeks acceptance on some level.

Now we are cool with each other. Cool. I like it like that. I can count on them, they can count on me. One of the children is in Young One's Prima B class, but the others have dispersed to other schools throughout the city. We gather together occassionally outside of our Wednesday pool dates, and when they organize something solely for the children, someone calls or texts me, Young One is included. 

When Angelica organized what has turned into my year-long recurring Wednesday date, she insisted that Young One participate. She even went so far to sign her up, pay her fees -- we could pay her back later. She called while I was at work and she was already in the line to register, speaking in rapid, frantic Italian on the other end of my phone: there was no time to spare, the three other kids were signing up, only 3 spots remained,  it would be a beautiful thing for them . . .  she refused to accept “no” as an answer. I was essentially left without a choice.

Lucky me.
Yep, Wednesday's have proven to be good for me this year. Remind of that in September when it's time to enroll in swimming again and all I can think of is the steamy locker room.
 

apparently, i know nothing



Rollers & Root Beer



The after-school conversation went like this . . .

Young One (oddly eager to talk about her day):  Mamma, it's never okay to say "NOOOO!" to someone. Right?

Me: Not exactly. It can, at times, be. . .

Young One (interrupts, frustrated & indignant): No.  My teacher says it is never okay to say "No!" If someone offers you something, you should take it.

Me: I think what she means is . . .

Young One (again interrupting & suddenly at her wit's end, voice raised, now angry): Mamma!!! My teacher is a nun. She knows more than you do. You can never say "No." It's not polite!

Just as the word "polite" sprang from her gut, she stomped away with grand fanfare, preventing further discussion of the matter and robbing me of my role as the premier omniscient being in her world. Just. Like. That.


HolyMotherofGod
It was all so quick. Obviously, I have a lot to learn.


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