Italian Men and Their Cheese

Italian men love to talk about their local cheese.  Within moments of meeting an Italian man, likely as not, they will wax poetic about the cheese of their particular village, and how it is better there than anywhere else.  Don't get the cheese from the neighboring town, it's not as good.  Their cheese is the REAL one.  They'll tell you how to eat it, what to eat it on, and recount recipes that you can make with their special cheese.  They'll ask if you've ever eaten their cheese, and if not they very well might invite you to come visit so that you can try their local cheesy delicacies. Italian women are just as proud of their cheeses, but they aren't likely to talk to you about it.  Instead they'll invite you over for dinner and feed you.  And while you eat, the men will keep telling you about the cheese. Perhaps stereotypical, but I've found it to be true in my experience.

Local jam on top of local goat/cow toma

Being in an isolated part of Italy, and not having traveled extensively outside of it, I thought this was perhaps a local phenomenon.  People from Valle d'Aosta are very proud of their Fontina.  Proud of their cows.  Proud of the recipes made with their cheese.  Considering that half of my posts have something to do with cows, that probably isn't surprising!  But yes, in Valle d'Aosta, Fontina isn't just a cheese, it is a way of life for many.  Even those who hate eating or smelling cheese (like my husband) are very proud of Fontina.  Real Fontina only comes from Valle d'Aosta, from a certain variety of short legged Alpine cows who eat certain grass and herbs near the tops of snow capped Alps all summer.  We have cheese festivals in castles, a big festival to celebrate when the cows come down the mountain from their mountain herb eating summer holidays, pregnant cow battles to find the queen cow of the region, and a raw milk and Fontina vending machine.  But, as I found out at a wedding last weekend, the cheese obsession isn't just local.  It appears to be everywhere.

At the wedding dinner, I sat next to a man from Gambellara, in the Northeast region of Veneto.  We introduced ourselves, and he immediately asked if I ever tried real Asiago.  I told him I wasn't sure.  He tells me it is so good you can't imagine!  You can get it fresh, and it is like eating a bowl of fresh cream.  You can eat it on everything.  But go 40 km away, isn't not the same, not as good.  You have to eat Asiago in the town of Gambelara, because they have the real one.


I think I need to visit Gambelara.

After I was stuffed silly from the delicious wedding feast, I ended up talking to Antonio, the father of the bride.  He is a gregarious man with a huge personality, and before we were even introduced he had grabbed onto my shoulders and proclaimed, "I come from where they make the REAL mozzarella!" and for the next several hours he told me exactly why Battipaglia, in the region of Campania (in the south of Italy, near Naples) has the best mozzarella of the world.  The mozzarella of Battipaglia is sweeter, he told me, but whatever you do, DO NOT get the mozzarella from Caserta, which is a neighboring town.  They sell a lot, but it's no good.  You need real buffala (water buffalo) mozzarella from Battipaglia.

He told me, "I'm retired.  I work for my family.  I don't smoke, I don't gamble.  What I like is to sit down with a good bottle of red wine and good food.  I make my own wine, and drink a bottle a day, half at lunch and half at dinner.  I come from where they make the real mozzarella.  You have to buy it right when it's made, leave it in its water for a day at room temperature.  Then it is ready to eat.  It is wonderful, you can't get it up here where you live, you can't imagine.

"They come in big balls.  Don't eat them with a knife; it won't taste as good!  You have to dig into the ball with your thumbs and peel it back, break it open and eat it with your fingers.  Like this." As he speak, he is demonstrating exactly how he breaks open the mozzarella and pops it in his mouth.  I could swear that I could taste the sweet cheese melting on my tongue, as he smacked his lips in satisfaction from his imaginary cheese.  The conversation meandered through the subjects of tomatoes and bread, and the obligatory recipes that married the three subjects together, but it always came back to mozzarella.

Antonio already planned out my trip to visit him (and his cheese).  I guess I'm going to Battipaglia!

Those hands!

I'm not generally a person to notice hands. They are useful tools, and the opposable thumb helped humans to get us to where we are. If I want to look at the aspects of someone with respect to how they communicate, I look at their face. Their eyes, their mouth, eyebrows, if they wrinkle their brow.

Not in Italy. I've been here about a year now, and I have realized something: It is ALL about the hands. I found myself wondering today exactly how an armless Italian would communicate. Or how someone who was handcuffed behind his back would talk. See, I just don't think they could do it. They would be at a loss for words, because for Italians, their words originate in their hands, and then travel to the mouth, and come out. Sometimes something is lost in that travel, but the message still comes across, clear as day, because it is all about the hands- they say everything. The first couple of times I tried watching American movies dubbed into Italian, I was confused. I should have been able to understand what they were saying, but I couldn't. I was just completely and totally not getting a word, and couldn't follow the story. It was only later that I realized why- they don't move their hands! The expressions were all wrong. Italian language isn't just words, it is movements, which generally all originate in the hands. Now, a 'hand movement' might actually be a whole body movement, with them flailing around and jumping and such, but it is just an extension of their hands moving.

Italians are funny. I see them riding their bicycles through rush hour traffic, cigarette in one hand, mobile in the other. They somehow manage to maneuver through crazy Italian driving, and smoke and talk on the phone. But they aren't just talking into the phone. They are gestering like crazy, somehow managing to smoke, hold the phone, and not fall off the bike or run into a tree, pedestrian, car, or Roman ruin. I get the bajeezus scared out of me sometimes when my husband drives, because he likes to talk on the phone, as he is a bit of a social butterfly. He follows the law and has his mobile in hands free mode, but you know what that means for an Italian? One more hand to gesture with! I often find myself squeeling because of the certain death that will soon befall be because his hands are flying through the air (not at 10 and 2 o'clock on the steering wheel), making wild gestures, unseen but certainly somehow felt by the person on the other end of the phone, to illustrate and punctuate his points. Somehow we haven't died yet.

I do it now, too. I DARE you to try to properly say something in Italian without moving your hands. Or without even imagining moving your hands. Really, try it. You can't do it.
By properly saying something in Italian, I am not even talking mainly about the pronunciation. It's the enunciation. The expression. The emphasis on certain words, and the enjoyment of saying them. A certain... flair, that only someone (in the mind of an American, mind you) with a name like Fabio, Giancarlo, or Massimo can pull off. Savoring certain parts of the word, holding them, round and warm in your mouth like a delicious chocolate truffle, or spewing them out like sharp bits of ice, punctuating the warm fullness. Like a rollar coaster, and adventure, the word building up to a climax before you fall perhaps to your death, or perhaps to another undulating phrase. The more exciting the word, the more important, the more beautiful or fun to say, the bigger the hand movement.

Say 'Spaghetti'. That was the first word I learned to say correctly. I don't mean say 'spagedi' like an American. But, 'Spah-GHETT-ti', with the first syllable building into the next, and ending on a sharp note. Touch your thumb to your middle finger (some touch to the index- you can choose!), moving your hand slowly away from you on the 'spah', and then faster has you get to the 'GH', and punctuating the air sharply as if your connected fingers where plunging deep holes into the atomosphere because the word is just THAT important (as they all are) on the 'ETT', and then gradually coming back towards yourself on the 'ti'. Alternatively on the 'ti', you can puncture the air again, but with slightly less emphasis than the climatic 'ETT'.

Every word has a gesture that goes with it. You take that away, and you've taken away the best part of the language. It isn't even the look of the movements, it is how the movements make the sound come out. Actually, it is about the look. Today, I was in a meeting with my department at work, and instead of calmly discussing things, hands in our laps, like Americans, everyone was throwing their arms up in the air to elaborate on their points, patting each other on the shoulders to say 'I agree', or 'good job' , or 'excuse me, I must go to the bathroom', depending on the kind of pat. with your hands you can say everything. To learn Italian properly, one must also learn their sign language. How else would you say 'this meal is so incredibly delicious I have no words for it!' other than putting your fingertips together on your right hand, kissing it, and then bursting your hand backwards as if the deliciousness from your mouth created an explosion that threw it backwards? Alternatively, how could you properly and concisely put into words, 'I don't care about you because you are a dick, and you can go screw yourself. But, on the other hand, since I don't care, do what you want but get out of my sight. Not like I care,' rather than tilting your chin up and sharply drawing your thumb away from the soft spot behind your chin until it goes into the air and reconnects with your hand? Sure, people usually shout words along with these gestures, but you KNOW what is going on based on these signals!

The hands of an Italian conduct an orchestra of their vocal cords, and put on a symphony for everyone listening, whether they want to listen or not. The hands are the maestro, the director, the genious behind the musical language.

They also knock over a lot of glasses. Take note of who gestures the widest, and with what arm they gesture with, before sitting next to them at dinner. Because trust me, you will end up with wine covering you from head to foot as a part of that symphony. I, for example, know to never ever EVER sit on the right of my maternal (in-law) Nonna Maria. I specify maternal because my husband's other grandmother is also Nonna Maria. But, yes. She is Italian. And I was inducted into the family with a baptism of fine local red wine as she was making a (not so) elequent point, as only an Italian does.

Alpine folks try to be Appalachians, and it rocked my socks

'Baby girl, don't worry, we are going home,' I whispered to Genepy, the bunny.

You see, I was driving the car on the second most curvy road in the mountainous region where I live, Valle d'Aosta. Which means that it is so curvy that when you come around the bend you just about run into yourself coming the other way! Genepy was in her new pet carrier, that I wrote about in the previous post, and she is a giant bunny so she pretty much filled up the whole thing. And she wasn't too happy to be in the car, in a slippery plastic carrier, on a curvy road. But, she was going to the village where she was born, in Valgrisenche, which is in a very narrow valley which ends in a giant dam. The story of how Genepy the bunny was adopted from the 'Guardian of the Dam' (no kidding!) in the middle of a snowy November night, to save her from the fate of her siblings which surely ended in many stomachs, will be told another time.



I was going up there, and toting the rabbit with me, because I was staying up there for the weekend, at the en of a three week traditional music camp called 'strada blu' (blue road) held by the local CenTrad organization (they teach people traditional music from around the world), which this year was all about TRADITIONAL AMERICAN MUSIC! Which of course meant that my very talented father, Wayne Erbsen, was teaching the final week, for the advanced students. He is a 'jack of all trades, master of all' kind of guy when it comes to American history, folklore, and traditional music, and he's been teaching, literally, for 50 years, so he was the perfect guy for the job. Somehow I ended up teaching dance workshops, for two weeks up there. Taught them flatfooting and even some contra dancing! I had never called before these weeks (I'm a contra dance musician and dancer...not a caller), but I did pretty well considering it was my first try.


Italians discover contra dancing:


flatfooting battle:

Anyhow, I had obviously been up there a number of times over the three week camp to hang out, teach dance classes, play music, and visit with my dad, but hadn't yet spent the night, which just about everyone else both working and taking classes there does. It's at an ancient fort that was converted into a WWII military base, and is now a restaurant, bar, B&B, and community center. It is in an incredibly gorgeous place. So, I made it up there with the bunny and as soon as I parked the car, I heard the unmistakable sound of my dad playing music, which is as recognizable to me as his voice- if not more so. I jumped out of the car with my fiddle and Genepy, and ran over to where he was playing with a group of students. I whipped out my fiddle and joined in. The bunny made a ruckus, so I took her out and she sat on my lap while I played. It was a little bit more difficult when I played the banjo, but as she is a spoiled brat who loves old time music she gets what she wants!



It was awesome. The group split up into six bands or so, and they were all practicing for something that evening, which turned out to be incredible, and I don't think I could possibly put it into words. We were hoarded into a bus with our instruments, and taken to a village where each of the bands (I was in one with my dad and some other great musicians, including an incredible singer) were given a place to play in the town, along the pedestrian walkway. I assume it is pedestrian, anyhow, because the streets are too narrow to imagine any kind of car driving down them. My group was placed on top of a who-knows-how-old arch over the walkway that led into a really cool barn that would be a potentially great place to have a dance.



It turned out that we were the last on the 'tour'; all the townspeople basically went from one band the the other, down the street, 'til they got to us. There was local wine flowing freely, as well as nachos and salsa, because that is obviously American to them. And straw cowboy hats. We played and played and eventually ended up under the arch, playing and dancing at the same time. After a bit, once it started to get dark, we were herded once more up the hill with our instruments, where there was a big cookout (no attempt at American food here... this was pure Valdostano fare), a big bonfire in the middle of the street, and perhaps the biggest music jam I've ever been a part of. About 30 of us were playing American old time music, by the bonfire, with Alpine townsfolk milling around and dancing, and it was beyond words. I was there in that moment, playing my guts out on music from my homeland, belly full of good food and wine, sweating from the fire, surrounded by family and friends and I thought, 'THIS is as cool as it gets'.

And it just kept getting better. Those of you who have seen me play music, especially for a contra dance, know that sometimes I get a little wild and shake my head and jump up and down and wiggle my hips and basically throw myself around like a crazy woman when I get really into the music while playing my fiddle. I've seen videos of me doing that, and it can get pretty crazy, but I took it to a whole new level this night, and the Italians, who are not inhibited at all, decided that it would be a good idea to dance around like crazy people as well while they played their fiddles, mandolins, guitars, harps, drums, clarinets, flutes, and accordions. So, if you can imagine, it was the middle a summer night in a small Italian village in the Alps, thirty musicians are playing American music with all their mite, jumping around, hootin' and hollerin', sweating from the exertion and from the fire, with village folks getting into it too. I think my dad took a video and I'll have to post it at some point.

Lets just say it was a hellofa time.

An encounter with a little boy and an empty cage

I just finished work after a long week, and had walked to the pet store to buy a carrier for the bunny Genepy, so that she is more easily portable. I was walking back across town when I was stopped by someone. A very young, waist high someone who came in the form of a curious little Italian boy, probably about 3 or 4 years old. He looks up at me and latches onto the pet carrier. We had a conversion something like the following, roughly translated into English:

'what's in there'

'nothing! It is empty. But it is for my rabbit.'

(he grabs onto the carrier again, this time sticking his nose against the door and sticking his tongue through)

'rabbit? Where is the rabbit?'

'She is at home! She is waiting for me.'

'oh no! Is she alone?'

'yes. But I will be home soon to play with her'

'are you her mommy? does she have a daddy?'

'yes, I am like the bunny's mommy! And she has a very nice daddy'

'will she get a snack? I want to go in the cage.'

'uhh... I don't think you will fit in the cage. It is too small for you.'

'no, it's ok. let me in! I want to go inside! Where is the bunny?'

'well, we will just have to get a bigger cage for you! But I really need to get going home so that my bunny isn't alone....'

'Is the daddy Italian? What language do you speak?'

'Well, I am American so I speak English'

'But what language do you speak? I want to go inside with the bunny.'

(he grabs onto the cage and tries to open it, peers inside, and licks it again. I am wondering where is parents are. Just then a woman comes up)

'mommy! there is a rabbit in there!'

_______________________

After some more time of me convincing him to stop licking my damned rabbit cage, he let go and I came home. Now I have the bunny on my lap. Little Italian boys are funny!

Glaciers and Druids and Fiddles, oh my!

It has been an unusually long time since I posted. But, there is much to be caught up on, and I intend on having more adventures soon, so there will be even more to write in the future! These months have been insane; started my job (finally), wedding planning, lots of guests, gettin' hitched, hospitalized, and such things.

But first, I had a kickass adventure last night. One of those that you don't expect to have, but are eternally grateful for and quite possibly change your life. One where you set out to go to something that you are thinking will be pretty cool but possibly nothing special and then you get blown out of the water because you are listening to the best Irish bands in the world under a giant glacier in an Alpine forest, drinking mead, and surrounded by cloaked druids. That pretty much sums it up, but I feel like I should provide a few more details! Although no photos to speak of, because my camera is unfortunately broken and I didn't think to bring my husband's (oh! that word! husband! did you notice? It is because I am married now, you see).

The event that I am speaking of is called Celtica. I saw that Lunasa was playing, which is mostly why I wanted to go. They are an incredibly kickass Irish band that I am certain you have heard of, and if you somehow haven't, please stop reading this blog and listen to something of theirs right now. I didn't recognize the other bands, and actually thought that it looked like it might be quite a cheesy festival that I, a lifetime attender of many amazing festivals, would likely scoff at. Oh boy, I was wrong.

It spans 4 days, and takes places primarily in a really old evergreen forest right at the base of Mont Blanc (the tallest mountain in Europe). It's at a high enough elevation at the damned base that there was still some snow around. And it was directly beneith the biggest glacier I ever laid eyes on. One of those that you see and go, 'HOLY CRAP! That is a REAL glacier! EKKKKKKKKKKKK!', and can't take your eyes off it, except when you get distracted by the roaring glacial melt river at your feet (which is grey, because it comes from the glaciers, which are... grey), or one of countless waterfalls cascading from the tip top of the alps, or the giant centuries old evergreen trees, or the biggest mountain on the continent towering over your head. With all that, it is hard to keep your eyes off the glacier. It is pretty cool, and sad actually, you can see the path of the glacier as it has gradually retreated. It is such a strange thing, and it difficult to imagine that it was created purely by nature, but it would be difficult for man to create something of that scale. It leaves behind a trail of pulverized mountain and it's basically a crumbled mountain in a path in front of the glacier. Natures construction zone!

So that was overhead, in addition to Mont Blanc. There is the forest, and the river. And a very strange sound, exactly like nearby thunder, but it couldn't have been because the skies were totally clear. We eventually realized that it was the sound of the river moving boulders.

Upon paying and entering the festival, we walked through a forest path and then before us we came to a market in the twilight. Kind of like at the LEAF festival in Black Mountain, NC, if you've ever been to it, but more Celtic and less overpriced. It was pretty interesting; basically a street formed by two rows of vendors in the forest hawking their Celtic and Druid wares, ending with a stand that sold mead (idomiele in Italian). I've drunk a lot of mead in my days, and it is usually pretty nasty, but this was extremely tasty. And appropriate for the situation. At the end of the market, there was the main stage, where I heard something that sounded like harp music, but... not quite. It turned out it was a guy who is apparently far beyond the level of kickass that one usually stumbles upon in an alpine forest in Magic Storybook Land (AKA Valle d'Aosta, the region I live in) and was playing two giant harps at once in an incredibly complicated and gorgeous manner. It blew me away, and I am not easily impressed with regards to music.

Now, as for the people. They were dressed strangely. Not 'hippie festival in the woods' strangely, exactly. Well, yeah like this, but with woolen cloaks. Almost everyone. Also, just about everyone had floral wreaths on their heads. And a number of them carried ornate wooden staffs around. It was pretty strange, really. It turns out that many of them are Druids. Like, real Druids. Or at least the modern day interpretation. Celts obviously inhabited much of Europe before more recent empires (like the Romans and Ottomans) conquired it. I think my region here in Aosta was actually a purely celtic region until about only 2000 years ago. And druids are celtic high priests, or something like that. There is a modern day order of them that is apparently quite active in Europe.... kind of like how Native Americans are in the US, in some ways. Not culturally, because I don't think there are surviving celts who have continuously preserved their culture and lifestyles, but in the way that they were the 'native' inhabitants.

There were also lots of fires, and fire spinners, and such things. And a small creek that seemed to be used exclusively as a beer cooler. And really really great french fries and only Irish beer.

Lunasa kicked ass. A group of Irish dancers performed and their fiddlers, I swear, were playing mostly New English contra dance music. I swear to you! I actually yelped when I heard them play from a distance and ran to see if I knew them (but did not). I don't know what the deal was, but they sounded like it, and I can't think of another option. Except maybe they are Scottish and listen to a lot of contra dance music. That's the only other thing I can really think of, cause I kind of doubt they were American (as in, I'm quite certain I was the only American there in the whole festival).

It was amazing. I was inspired. I am now ready to jump back on the playing the fiddle horse and ply my guts out! And next time this festival happens (either in one or two years), I will be there camping in that druid forest for the whole weekend like the true festival girl that I am.

Now I am off to teach flatfooting to Italian teenagers for an old time music workshop week up in another high Aosta valley!

The Prosecco Ladies

As per usual, I haven't been keeping up with this thing. There are a number of exciting adventures to write about but lets just skip to the most recent one. My mom just dubbed them the 'Prosecco Ladies.'

We are in the middle of wedding planning. No, not the middle. Approaching the finish line, at least with regards to time, but with way too much left to do! Yesterday Gianluca dropped me in town (he was doing other errands) and I was going to get photos developed, go to the organic food coop, check in on the progress of my wedding dress alterations, and stop by the ring maker's shop. Conveniently, all of these things are on the same street.

I went and made my order for the photos, and it would be about a 15 minute wait. Next stop was going to be seamstress. However, I noticed I was only across the street from the ring maker, and I thought that while I was waiting for the photos, I can stop in and talk with him (he's the same guy who Gianluca had make my gorgeous engagement ring). Two birds with one stone! At least with regards to time. Oh, little did I know what would happen next.

So, I went into the little crooked ancient ally way where the ring maker's shop was. You wouldn't know it was there, well, unless you knew it was there. But luckily I did, so all's well. I had a nice chat with Giancarlo (ring maker) about wedding rings, and told him what we were thinking, and he said that would be no problem. I told him that before he made them, maybe double checking with Gianluca would be good, just to make sure we are all on the same page. But I didn't know how long he would be, so maybe another day. Well Giancarlo decided that we should wait for him, and drink a glass of wine until he arrived. Hm. A little strange, right? At least by American standards. Maybe in Italy it is perfectly normal to drink wine with Giancarlo the goldsmith while waiting for your fiance to call.

He led me into the back room where he makes the rings, and there were two ladies in there with a bottle of prosecco. I guess he had some other customers to deal with, so I introduced myself to these Italian Prosecco Ladies, they poured me a big glass, sat me down with them, and instantly were my best friends. They didn't speak a lick of English, which is fine, because when the wine flows so does my tongue in Italian! They are the hootin' and hollerin', talking about dirty things with everyone kind of women. In their fifties but don't look a day over 40. Dressed much more stylish than me, with hair (and haircuts) and figures that I was envious of. Giancarlo the ring maker wandered in and out, and at one point he dialed a number on his phone and handed it to me. Apparently I was supposed to talk in English with the random Italian guy on the phone. However, at that moment, Gianluca called to say he was done, and was coming to the ring shop. Everyone then made a toast at that. Oh, and they were making toasts to everything in the world about every five minutes before that. Gianluca showed up and the Prosecco Ladies were very excited to meet him. Giancarlo the ring maker then brought out several more bottles of prosecco and opened them up, and then a older, round man walked in and sat down with us for the drinkin' and whatever else kind of ruckus was going on in that back room where we were. He seemed quite fascinated that I was American, and asked me about the house prices in Miami, Florida. I of course don't know a lick about Miami, but asked him if he wanted a house there. He said that he was too poor for that, and was also afraid of flying.

I found out later that while his fear of flying and travel might be true, he ain't poor. Apparently he is the richest guy in the region, and very well known. He owns most of the land, and whole mountains even! So that was was kind of amusing to find out.

Then a pie got brought out. Rather, a crostata, because they don't have pie here. A crostata is more like a tart, with a crust that is more cookie like, and they are always open faced. It had a creamy base, with strawberries on top. we licked the tasty crostata off paper towels, passed around the continuously full glasses of prosecco, and the Prosecco ladies kept the party alive!

By this point, the whole afternoon had passed, all the shops that I intended to go to were closed, and we had a hard time walking in a straight line. So, time to get down to business, obviously, with the rings. And so we did.

And apparently I've promised to make pie for all, for another backroom prosecco and pie party in the back room of Giancarlo the ring maker, in three weeks.

Oh, and The Prosecco Ladies said they'd be my Italian mommas if I need them!

This is why life in Italy is great. You never know, when you stop by a respected goldsmith's shop, when you will end up drinking away the afternoon and eating crostata with new friends in the back room where rings are made.

A Friday Night Out

A summary of tonight:

Traditional music session in a small village. In a room above the library. Beer in plastic cups and ten musicians playing music from ten different countries. I got my permisso di soggiorno today, which means I am OFFICIALLY a legal and able to work and such resident of Italy and Aosta. Playing for 4 hours with fantastic young musicians. Drive back to town. Eat fresh baked cream filled croissants at 1 am from the back door of a bakery in a sketchy alleyway behind the supermarket. Go to ArtCafe. Drink beer, traditional instruments decorate the walls. Ancient mandolins and girondas. Also a mountain dulcimer (yes, as in Appalachian mountain dulcimer). Obscure 70's and 80's music pulsing. Punks, goths, anarchists, a hippie chick, and a very drunk guy who looks just like 'Shrek' in a striped pullover. Someone has a hand drum that they are pounding away on to the music while dancing. A guy who looks like he escaped from a mental institution is drumming on Shrek's head as well. Hippie chick dances on the table, and all the guys are mesmerized. There is a sparkly red hat, and someone being carried upside down so that their feet are nearly at the ceiling. We dance around, drink our beers, and try to ignore Shrek, who keeps trying to grab at us. Herve drove me home and we arrived exactly on my birthday, at 2 am on March 27. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!

That sums it up.

Bringin' on the Swing

I have a lot of catching up to do. Every day things happen that I think, 'oh, I must write about this!!!' but then I get distracted. So for write now I will write about one recent adventure, and then catch you up on other exciting things!

So, upon moving to Aosta, I came here with a goal of starting a swing dance scene here. I have been an avid swing dancer for going on 9 years now, and have had the good fortune of not only dancing in many parts of the world. I miss dancing. I haven't gotten to do it so much in the past three years due to a collision of unfortunate circumstances, but I am desperate to jump back on the lindy hop wagon. Years ago I started teaching Gianluca to swing dance, and he picked it up very quickly and even though I haven't taught him much lately, he somehow manages to not forget how to do anything. We started telling our friends here about lindy hop, and showing them great videos that tend to inspire people to want to start this dance. Aw heck, I'll post links to them here, too, because they are just that much fun.
Hellzapoppin

ALHC 2005 Skye & Frida

ULHS 2006 "Liberation" Fast Finals

We got a group of 3 couples together this past week in the house of our friend Herve's parents. Now, teaching to Italians is a VERY different experience. I've taught classes in the US, Sweden, and Ireland, and they all tend to listen and concentrate and not cause too much ruckus. Now, one thing I've learned about Italians is that when you get a group of them together is that they cause ruckus. Lots of it. It is nearly impossible to have anything but total chaos at any given moment. However, despite this, we managed to teach them a huge amount and they did very well! I had to completely drop my usual teaching methods, since having people quietly listen, watch, and do things together was out of the question. Basically I taught and then everyone did what they wanted and then we danced with them and said if they basically had it or not, and then they continued to do what they wanted. But somehow it worked. And during all of this, Herve's dad escaped away for a minute and then as I was proclaiming, 'This is the most important thing! Please watch and listen for just a moment,' he appeared with glasses of wine that he offered us while we were dancing/teaching, because that was obviously (to an Italian, anyways), the best moment to drink wine.

So yeah, it was chaos. People dancing randomly. Drinking wine. Playing with a baby. Laughing and shouting. Basically, it was a blast and we had a tremendous amount of fun, and despite all of the distractions, everyone did fantastically and learned a lot and I think they all have the potential to become good lindy hoppers. Totally not what I'm used to, but a lot of fun.

Mission: Bring Lindy Hop to Aosta, potentially successful in the future :)

Baking Pies and Bagels and How a Mountain Medicine Man Cured Me

Ok, first comes food, because, well, I love food. Since the Palindrome party a week ago, I've been on a big of a baking kick. I baked...5? pies this week. And bagels. Yes, bagels! I think maybe when I am homesick I want to bake food that reminds me of home. Do you know they don't have bagels over here in Italy? They haven't even heard of them. So, like pie, I made it my mission this week to introduce the Italians to yet another delicious American baked good. I think next on my list will be peanut butter cookies and banana bread.

Here is the requested picture of the lemon cake pie. Now, it isn't such a beautiful looking pie, but it sure is delicious. Somehow, the ingredients separate in the oven so that there is a creme resembling lemon curd in pretty much every way (yum!), and on the top is a fluffy lemon cake. Gianluca has declared it is his favorite pie in the world, which he generally declares for every pie, but I think that he really means it for this one.



I also discovered a fantastic kind of cheese I didn't know about before in a local cheese shop. It is made from cow milk and apparently it spends some of its life maturing in hay. You are supposed to cook it up in a skillet.... i did this with wedges of it, warming it up on both sides until the outside began to caramelize and the inside was gooey and warm, and ate it with a nice salad, OHHH BOY was it good.

In that same cheese shop, I found some very tasty smoked scamorza. It's like a slightly aged, drier mozzarella than is usually found here, and it is shaped kind of like a pear and is amazing. It is also eaten after being cooked a little bit on both sides (after it is sliced). I made a tasty dinner of quinoa and vegetable stuffed peppers topped with some of this delicious cheese, and with a balsamic reduction.



Now for the bagels! I, like most Americans, like bagels. However, I also grew up hearing stories from my grandfather about the bagels of his childhood in Queens, New York. He is a first generation American, with Orthodox Jew parents from Eastern Europe. Naturally they lived in a community of Jews after arriving in NYC, and when my grandaddy was a child he would go walk and get the bagels on a regular basis. Apparently there were old Russian guys making these bagels in underground bakeries, the same way these same men made them back in the Old World. And, from what I've heard, the bagels were absolutely divine, and my grandaddy says that he's never had bagels since that could remotely approach their quality. It seems that when these old bagel makers passed on, their secrets died with them. So it has become one of my grandaddy's current missions in life to rediscover their secrets and bring kickass bagels back to the world. I think he's got it down, and he recently gave the recipe to me. I made these divine little breads and my goodness, they were amazing. I took a bite, and closed my eyes in my Alpine kitchen, and for a moment felt like I was back home.

Here is the recipe, as my grandaddy wrote it... they aren't so difficult to make, and they are far better than anything you could possibly buy in a shop nowadays.

2 cups warm water
one packet of active yeast or 2 1/2 teaspoons
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 tablespoons barley malt ( preferred) or sugar
1 table spoon salt
6 to 8 cups bread flour

Add yeast to warm water and stir to dissolve
add oil, malt or sugar
add flour and salt and stir till comes away from side of bowl.
knead 12 to 15 minutes and add flour as needed, bagels do best with stiff dough
so work in flour till stiff. knead until dough is smooth
place dough in oiled bowl and let rise till doubled in warm place
Prepare oiled baking sheet with cornmeal
punch dough down. divide into 3 pieces and then each piece into 4 pieces (total of 12 pieces
roll each piece between fingers into a rope and then around fingers to produce donut shape.
place on baking sheet. spray lightly with oil and let rise till puffy ( 30 minutes+)

boiling
Place 2 to 3 quarts water in a pan and add one tablespoon barley malt or sugar bring water to boil
dunk 2 to 3 bagels at time into the water. time 30 seconds per side and remove with slotted spoon and place back on sheet. The longer they are in water the more chewy they will be.
brush with beaten egg and then add toppings (caraway seed, poppy seed, sesame seed, and a little kosher salt
bake at 450 degrees with steam (add ice cubes to pan on bottom of oven) for about 20 minutes then remove sheet
turn bagels over and bake for an additional 5 to 10 minutes till brown or till they appear done.

to make onion bagels add one cup of diced onions during kneading

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OK, enough of food. Before I write about how this mountain guy cured me, you gotta know about the weather here. We got about a foot of snow the other day, and even when it stopped snowing, a fog had descended and I couldn't see very far, except to see that there was a lot of snow. And because it doesn't look like it... the photograph below is the driveway!




Then, the next morning (which would be yesterday) I woke up and looked out the bedroom window and had to cover my eyes immediately because it was so BRIGHT! Crystal clear blue skies, and the towering and sharply angled Alps were glistening as if made of diamonds. I've never seen anything so bright in my life, it was incredible. To see something so bright, and a clear blue sky, is amazing after weeks of the world looking entirely like I am viewing an old black and white film, or on a good day, with everything in muted sepia tones. No colors...don't get me wrong, it is simply gorgeous here, even when everything is in shades of white, black, gray, and the occasion brown tone. Beautiful in a devastatingly austere and overwhelming and gorgeous way.



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One of the things I love so much about living in another culture is just how different it can be sometimes. I know that sounds obvious, but it can really change your perspective on things. An experience I had yesterday was.... well, an experience. One I wasn't expecting. Because who expects to be sitting around with no pants on in a stranger's apartment with your family around you?

What led to this was an injured hip. Gianluca and I were on holiday in the Canary Islands a few weeks ago (an escape to warm weather!), and we decided to go for a run. I used to be quite the runner, but not in about 9 years, but I am still reasonably fit. I was enjoying the run so much that perhaps I overdid it (running 10 km or so), considering that I haven't gone on a run that long in... erm... not sure how many years, but closer to 10 than 5. And, you guessed it, I ended up injured. So, for the past two weeks I have been hobbling around like a little old lady who needs a hip replacement. I told Gianluca I wanted to go to a doctor, and he said, 'ok, I know someone we can go to.' I thought that meant a doctor, but no, no it wasn't. A few days ago I found out that this 'someone' was an ex-construction worker who has no medical degree, or any formal training, who you just go to in his apartment and he 'fixes' you. This sounded horribly suspicious to me, and being in the medical profession myself and not being someone to just trust anyone to try to fix me, I was NOT happy to hear that this, and not a doctor, was the plan.

But, Gianluca insisted, and we made an agreement that if this guy couldn't make me feel better (and I was certain he couldn't), I would then go to a normal doctor, with normal medical training. So, with this agreement, I reluctantly hobbled to Dominico the Healer's apartment on the outskirts of Aosta with Gianluca and his sister Valeria. A very short, very round, very gray haired man with very few teeth greeted us kindly at the door, along with his equally friendly wife. They had a smallish apartment with worn furnishings and and depictions of Jesus and various saints were peering down at us from the walls and cabinets, as the five of us crowded into the sitting room. He worked on Valeria first, to fix her leg circulation, and then it was my turn. In Italian he told me to take off my pants and lie down on the little couch. This seemed like a very particular, and somewhat sketchy, thing to in an older stranger's living room, but considering that there were five of us in the room, I figured I was safe. I did as he said, and he declared that my problem wasn't my hip, at all. It was my knee and my back. he poked at my knee and rubbed some blue stuff into it and said that there was a block in my knee and that it was now better. He then prodded at my lower back and said my back was crooked, and apparently he fixed that, too, though I didn't feel him to anything. He rubbed some more blue stuff on my leg and moved my leg around some, and said I was healed and if I took it easy for a couple of days, I'd be perfectly fine. I was inwardly rolling my eyes, thinking 'yeah, right. I've been in excrutiating pain for more than two weeks... no way that prodding and rubbing a little bit at my knee and back is going to make me feel better.' Then I stood up. And there was no pain. NO PAIN! He actually fixed me. He honest to God fixed me. I don't know how, but I can now walk without help, and even my back feels better. I can walk normally. On the walk back to the car, which I did unassisted, Gianluca explained to me that Dominico has a gift that is passed through his family's blood, every other generation. It has been this way for a long, long time. Dominico was the next in line for 'the gift' after his grandfather. The gift of being able to feel where people need help, to be able to heal with his hands, and a natural strong intuition about the human body. He learned healing techniques from his grandfather as well, but most of it he was just born with.

I'm a natural skeptic; I'm a physicist, a scientist. I don't generally believe things that I can't find proof of, and I am not the type of person to place the well being of my body into the hands of an old carpenter. But I'm telling you, the next time I have something wrong with me, I'm going to see Dominico first, because that man has some magic in him.