Monday, January 31, 2011

pizza = love = pizza = love

Our Sunday night regime is pretty rigid: pizza and film, on the couch.  When Bosc di Sot was an option, this regime included also "fireplace, smores".  Sadly, the house is in a continual state of progress, which is a state that, though promising, falls flat.  There is enough dust and debris clogging the air and hallways of Bosc di Sot these days to shut down even the iron-ist of lungs, and face masks and goggles crimp my pizza eating style.  The couch is covered in a tarp, the TV has been moved into storage, the silverware and plates are locked up tight in the cupboard.  Thus, we cleaned ourselves up after a hard days remodeling effort, and went out to eat.
The restaurant was called Leon d'Oro, and is nestled back in the center of a town called Gradisca d'Isonzo.  Drippy wax candles, wooden booths, deep azzure tiles on the walls...our famished tummies led us in to eat at about 6pm, so we were the youngest couple in the joint by about 40 years.  As far as my pizza habits were concerned, I had promised  to change my ways: no more pizza margherita (dependable, delicious), no more "radicchio, salsiccia e melanzana" (a strange combination that is surely a craving led by hormones, not sense; FL winces every time I ask or it), no more "capricciosa" (for the girl who just can't make up her mind).  FL promised that this place was the right place to break the mold, as it was regarded as one of the finest brick-oven pizzerias in Friuli.

"They haven't cleaned the oven in 80 years," he promised.

From the menu- which boasted such beauties as "tuna, onion and red chili", "buffalo mozzarella, basilico e olio" e "profumi del bosco" (wild mushrooms)- I selected one that sounded just strange enough: asparagi, brie e prosciutto cotto.  Immediately after placing my order I was shaken with a wave of buyers remorse.

"Oh, amore!" I cried.  "That sounds like the worst pizza ever!"

FL gave me his best "stay calm and remain seated" hand motion (hands held out at a 45 degree angle, fingers spread wide).  I fretted and clicked my nails (what I do now instead of biting them, brava!), wanting the fantasia- with smoked ricotta, speck and spinach- instead.  I imagined giant stalks of green asparagus, sour and crunchy; hunks of brie, which would fill my stomach and gross me out after three bites; sloppy, floppy bits of prosciutto cotto, which always takes on sort of a weird acidic, processed flavor when baked.  My brow began to sweat.

The waiter advanced, two plates held high, steaming, the moment of truth.

When my pizza was set in front of me, I let out a squeal of delight and clasped my hands.  The pizza was beautiful, it was harmonized, there were no big chunks of anything!  The asparagus- white, not green!- had been shaved, so that it melted into the cheese, sacrificing crunch for surprise hints of fresh, cool flavor.  The brie had been so well integrated into the surrounding mozzarella that there was no sign of one ending and another beginning, just a gentle fade from gold to wheat, from milk to cream, from mildness to tang.  Prosciutto cotto had been laid out under the surface, hidden from the harsh heat of the oven by the protective layer of cheese, spared that curled, yellowed, astringent fate that is in store for most hams laid atop a pizza.  It was still soft, still salty, still pure.

The combination was a knockout.  Rich, elegant, gentle...with a chewy, firm crust to cleanse the palate.  It was my turn to hold up my hands at a 45 degree angle, fingers spread wide.  

FL offered me a slice of his, and I selfishly replied, "No, just a bite.  I don't want to have to give you a whole slice of mine."  I think he understood.

My love for Italy was reinforced, I remembered, I understood again why I had come, why I had fallen in love in the first place.  It is not everywhere in the world that boasts 80-years worth of unwashed pizza ovens, not everywhere that the time is taken to shave locally grown white asparagus over a pizza.  It's a joy to see tables full of old people, clearly happy, clearly well off, out to a nice Sunday dinner with friends and family, all enjoying pizza.  Not steaks, not various cuts of lamb or hams with pineapple chunks poked in- just pizza.  Good enough for everyone, the ultimate comfort food, a destination oven.

I happily ate the last bite, leaned back and loosened my belt.  "I think that deserves a sorbetto," I said.

Sorbetto, btw, is the other best thing about Italy; I believe I've mentioned it before.  Basically, two of the greatest things in the world- prosecco and gelato- are fused together to create an absolutely sublime digestivo.  Lemon is the primary flavor, but others such as baileys, mint and coffee are offered here and there.  A good sorbetto is crucial to the end of a big meal, reinforcing a person with just the right amount of pluck to not want to keel over and die from a full stomach or fall asleep at the table.

Leon d'Oro, naturally, makes a mean sorbetto.  Too thick to suck up a straw or drink straight from the glass, FL and I daintily spooned the chilled lemon loveliness into our mouths, feeling the tingle of citrus and spumante rush through our veins.  We were alive, well fed and prepared to make the frigid, bora-swept walk to the car.

"It's ok that Bosc di Sot isn't finished.  We can go ahead and start on the floors, if you want," I told him in absolute truth, with love, patience and compassion as we walked back to the car.  "It's better just to get it all done in one go, right?  It'll be so beautiful, in the end."

He lifted my hand, kissed it.  "You just want to eat at Leon d'Oro every Sunday, don't you?  Furba, tu."














Wednesday, January 26, 2011

To hell with January.  I haven't left the house during the day at all this week.  My hands are cracked from cold, my hair brittle, my feet stinging, frozen.  Best just to stay in my lovely, warm room, doing wine/import research under my roaming tigers duvet, taking an hour and a half during the afternoon lull for some yoga.  Coffee machine is still plugged in within arms reach...

I'm feeling so very melancholy, dreaming of Rome where the sidewalks even now are steaming, the sun soaking into the red bricks.  That city is one giant clay pot, warm and simmering.

Will probably crack and beg FL to take me away this evening, somewhere out of town, away from Cormons.  To Udine for a movie, to Grado for a plate of spaghetti alle vongole, to Slovenia for a ride through the dark hills.  We don't have to spend any money, just get some breathing room.  I'm easy.

If I thought our house was a construction site before I was clearly exaggerating, albeit unwittingly.  The process of remodeling the bathroom has taken things to a whole new level.  This weekend was spent taking up all of the floor tiles, then jack-hammering through a foot of cement, then busting down all of the bricks and plaster in the ceiling.  The sound of shattering ceramic is possibly the most excruciating sound that I have ever been forced to listen to for 5 hours straight.  The hairs on my arms were standing straight up, my neck and back muscles were seized with tension, I winced with every crash.  Eventually I ran out into the neighboring vineyard and slumped against a giant tree, holding my hands over my ears and wondering what kind of stuff it is that I am truly made of.  Something far too soft for this kind of work, I reckon.  All of the chunks had to be shoveled into buckets and carried down the stairs and out to the side of the house, where they were dumped into a huge pile (or, when it was up to me, just sort of spilled alongside).  As of now the bathroom is ready to be put back together, but the entire house is covered in a thick layer of dust and powder.  It hurts to breath.

I am holding out for February.  Even is it's still cold, at least there's Valentine's day, which has always been a favorite of mine regardless of my relationship status.  Pink dresses, lollipops, confetti and sugar cookies, red roses, messages of love and friendship.  And dinner at Sale e Pepe, for sure.  February also means Carnivale, and I am going to make it a point to ride in to Venice for some of the festivities.

Beh, niente.  It's time to start calling importers.  I found an amazing website that lists all of the Italian wine import companies state by state, and I have vowed to systematically contact each and every one until something happens.  Alessio and I are going to get together next week and put together packets to mail out, nothing too weighty, just brouchures that will hopefully land themselves on the desks of the right people.

Onward and upward, my friends.




Friday, January 21, 2011

middle-of-the-night snack

my clock is totally screwed up.  i keep thinking that i have my body on straight, then i hit a sleepy pocket at 1pm or worse...hit an energy pocket at 1am.

last night the plan was to make it an early one.  FL is so exhausted from work and house remodeling that we both agreed an evening of pizza and film would be best.  11pm rolled around and he was out cold, with me not too far behind...

about two hours later (i could tell cause the TV was still playing softly upstairs, and FLs dad usually has it on till 1 or 2) my eyes flew open.  I had been having a weird nightmare about my friend Jacqui and being hauled off from a trucker bar by some guy with a gun.  In the end I defeated him, but it left me startled, my heart racing.

For the next couple of hours I just laid there, wide awake, afraid to move for fear of waking poor FL, who was snoring so softly.  After a while though, the thought of our left over pizza started to worm its way into my brain...

Italians do not refrigerate their left over pizza.  they leave it out overnight and consume it for breakfast.  the first couple of times i saw this i thought it was gross, but it's actually unbelievably delicious.  the flavors meld and the crust becomes more chewy.  when we had come home from Bosc di Sot, FL had lain the pizza box next to our coffee maker (which is next to our bed, ha!) in anticipation of colazione.  but i had other ideas...

3:30am and i had pizza on the brain.  i decided to risk it.

slowly, i made my way out of bed.  each step i took caused a tiny creak on the floorboards, and i would freeze as FL's breathing became less regular.  when he let out another snore, i would take another step.  the room was pitch black.  i was traveling by scent, feel.

just when i could tell that i was directly over the pizza box, just as i crouched, fingers wide, ready to abscond with the pizza box (my plan was to steal it and go eat in the bathroom)...

"Piccola?  Cosa fai?"

"um.  nothing."

"are you looking for water?"

"no."

"are you dreaming?"

"no."

"would you like to turn on the light and read?"

"no, no.  no."  I pattered back to bed, climbed under the covers, tried to play it off.

"piccola."

"ugh!  i just wanted maybe a little pizza."

"mmmm," he purred, amused.  "i have been thinking the exact same thing."

He plugged in the twinkly lights next to our bed, sweet red plastic hearts, and went over to scoop up the pizza box.  In silence, we propped up our pillows and settled in to eat our slices, munching slowly.  his eyes were closed.

when the pizza had been devoured and fullness had returned to our bellies he put the box away, unplugged the lights, and threw his arm over me.

"I love eating snacks with you," he said sleepily, as he drifted off.














Thursday, January 20, 2011

ben tornata...

I love this town.  Its size gives everyone the ability to know, if not the sordid details, enough to keep each other afloat and abreast.  Bonelli, the butcher, greeted my return with a wide grin and open arms. 

“Benvenuti, bellissima!  Ben tornata!” he cried, as I entered his tiny shop yesterday morning in search of sausages.  “Pippo sure did miss you!  How was America?”

The greetings have been thus these days, as I make the rounds from shop to cafĂ© to the houses of friends.  FL was taken good care of in my absence, I have been assured.  Got his ya-yas out a bit, too, so I gather.

Airport pick-up was par for the course: far more traumatic and straining than necessary.  For some reason, every single time I return to this country I go through some sort of delayed second-thought-panic process, which originally had me hiding in airport bathroom stalls talking myself out of boarding the next flight straight back to wherever I came from.  These days, both in August and now, FL was there to work as a kind, understanding buffer to my hysteria.

“Just so you know,” I told him between gasping sobs, “one day I am going to live in America again, ok?  So just brace yourself.  I’ll come help you paint the walls and play house, but it’s not permanent.”

To his credit (isn’t everything always to his credit?) he did not spit on me, or kick me out of the car, or hand me a bill for the house he purchased for us because I just loveditloveditlovedit.  Instead he sat calmly with the most heartbreaking look of acceptance on his face and waited patiently for me to get my cry out.  I cried about Parker and Cooper, about missing more time with them; my heart ached so bad I hunched over like I had a bad case of heart burn.  I cried for my godson Jack, whose mere utterance of “boo boo” makes my entire life worthwhile.  I cried about Mimi, about not being able to pop in and give her a hug whenever the urge hit me.  I cried for my friends, all dancing and throwing confetti and growing up and having funfunfriend clubs that I have alienated myself from.  I cried for more trees being cut down in Marietta daily, trees that I am not there to chain myself to, to save.  I cried for sushi at Thaicoon and Tuesday night dance parties in Athens and running into Aunt Alice at Kroger and Kroger.  In short, I mourned; for a life I know and love and have purposely removed myself from.  It had nothing to do with FL (thank God he’s smart enough to know that), and nothing to do with my unbelievably blessed, romantic life in Italy.  It was just a home-body Georgia-girl’s mourning period before putting on her game face for life in a land that is void of fried chicken and hip hop.

After the tears dried it was like a switch flipped in my heart.  I sniffed a few times, blinked my eyes clear, shook the fears out of my head and saw FL for the first time.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey, piccola.”  He took my hand.

Relief and security flooded my chilled body, and we decided to stop immediately at an appliance store to get me a real “American” coffee maker.  From that point on, I was good to go.

The past few nights we’ve been cooking dinner over at Bosc di Sot.  Sleeping there is not currently possible because the bathroom is under severe construction and I, for one, at least in January, require an indoor toilet.  We go over there after he gets off work, however, and cook in our wonderful kitchen and light fires in our gorgeous fireplace and I practice Vinyasa yoga while he does scary-boy-work upstairs.  Poor angel is beat to hell by shards of ceramic shrapnel that whoosh-fizz onto his skin as he shatters tile from the walls.  Tiny cuts sting his body and I have taken to carrying a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, ever the worry-wart girlfriend.  A wall has been knocked out, making the space for the bathroom twice as large and offering two windows, one facing north, the other east.  He has an inkling that if we take down the ceiling we can leave the exposed wooden beams from the roof.  I am all for this, and have in fact decided that finally, for once in my life, I am in no rush.

My plan of attack for this new phase of life in Italy is to drop as much Americanism as I can without becoming entirely complacent (as in, i guess, dropping any "plan of attack").  I will not be in a rush.  Instead, I will feel the flow of life here, and understand that things will get done when they will.  In the meantime, there is plenty of wine to drink and writing to do and long lunches to take.  I will learn, therefore, to take real pleasure in afternoon wine breaks and writing and long lunches.  No more anxious pauses, no more feigning enjoyment while the back of my head spins.  I will let my thoughts and to-do lists slide and find peace and relaxation.  They say that for Italians days last weeks, and that is something I want to experience, that I am going to have to experience if I am going to make it here, if I am truly going to learn to live life, which is short enough already without docking the hours.  If I am tired, I will sleep.  If it is sunny, I will take a walk.  I will study viticulture and write my book and when it gets warm (…) I will go and sit in my garden and do just that.  Sit.  The American in me feels so guilty about such things.  If I am not producing, or encouraging, or making money, or moving then it is time wasted, it is time spent slovenly.  Not so, the Italians say, who have much longer life spans and lower cases of cancer.  The economy and state of things over here is certainly something to consider in the argument for forward momentum, but that is not something that I can change.  As an anthropologist, I am (har har) allowed and encouraged to do as the locals do.  It is my new goal to do just that and do it well.

So far so good.  Vinyasa yoga, new recipes, hours of happy wine work and blessed, dreamy naps have made these past few days wonderful for me.  But, oh, those wintry nights…FL came downstairs last night after three straight hours of knocking out tile and asked if we had any chilled pink champagne.  This is love.

A good bit of news is this: I have (I assume at the urging and string-pulling of Condor and FotoModelo, who adore me) been offered a tiny position at EventualMente, the communist bar.  How this offer came about was totally bizarre.  FL and I went in yesterday evening about 11pm.  My weird time-warp schedule has me in and out of sleepy/energy pockets, and last night I was wired.  We took the deck of Sicilian playing cards that mama got me in my x-mas stocking and walked around the corner to the bar.  Condor wasn’t there, but LucaBello wrapped me up in a giant hug as though he hadn’t seen me in a month.  Antonio, the proprietor, who is a good friend of all the boys but not one of my personal favorites, gave me a swift cheek-peck and a moderately warm “ciao”.  

It’s not that I don’t like Antonio, it’s just that I have had my suspicions for a long time now that he is, well, a misogynist.  He’s married to a beautiful Hungarian girl named Erica, who, at the age of 21, bore him two babies back to back and now spends her days drivers license-less and alone in their apartment in a neighboring town while Antonio not only works all day in Cormons but spends his evenings hanging with the bros at various bars.  It’s certainly not my business, and FL has pointed out rather aptly that Erica doesn’t seem to argue much (in fact, she is thrilled with her life: hot Italian husband, financial support, not in Hungary anymore, etc), but it just creeps me out.  I imagine her there, alone all day, wanting so badly to talk to her man, to sit on the couch with him and make him dinner and just have him there.  God knows, my heart races like drugs are being pumped into my veins when I hear FL arrive home for lunch, and this is my life of leisurely rose-pettled baths and mountains hikes- not two children under the age of 4 and no grocery store within walking distance.  On top of this, he never ever speaks to me unless I initiate conversation, and even then will hardly look me in the eye.  I’ve watched him with other women and have found it to be sort of the same; little to know recognition or regard. 

At a certain point last night both LucaBello and Antonio came over to our table.  Antonio started talking to FL in a serious, business-style voice, and initially I zoned out, until I actually considered what he was saying.  I looked up and FL had a confused expression as well. 

“Wait, you want me to work weekends?  For 12 euro an hour?”  FL balked amusedly.

“No, no.”  Antonio continued, addressing FL and explaining that they need someone to work days over the weekends and they thought that maybe I would like the position.

FL’s mouth dropped open. 

“Oh, so this is a question for me,” I said, rather bluntly.  “I’m right here.”

“Well, we just wanted to make sure it was ok with Pippo,” Antonio said, and FL let out a hoot.

“Whoo!  That’s her business, you can ask her directly”, he said.

“My God,” I laughed, “What year is this?  We aren’t in Sardegnia, Anti (Antonio’s from Sardegnia), I don’t need permission to work.”

Antonio shrugged, and instead of ranting and raving I said quickly, “I’d love to work here.  Thank you.”

I am constantly reminded and amazed at FL, how so not italian he is, how he has somehow taken all of the amazing qualities and left those archaic, unnecessary social and emotional hookups behind.  

So lalala, it’ll be a tad of soldi in my pocket, and I’ll get to hang with Condor and Luca.

I’ll take photos on the progress of the house, I promise.