FL's mother is upstairs making gnocchi- succulent, soft, sweet gnocchi, with a variety of sauces. FL can hardly contain his excitement (his mother physically shooed him out of the kitchen because he kept eating the gnocchi raw, his lips and beard smeared with flour, a wild glaze over his eyes), and the smells wafting in to the garden from the kitchen are making me light-headed with hunger. As a displacement activity, until this miracle of a lunch is ready, I will blog.



The other afternoon I saw a notice for a cooking class being offered at La Subida, which is, in total, an agrotourismo: there are guest houses to rent, a collection of bed-and-breakfast-style rooms, horses to ride and trails to be walked, two restaurants (one a more casual trattoria, the other an upscale osteria), tennis courts, geese, and a pool. All of this is set on two sides of a beautiful road that cuts through Collio, forests and hills as the backdrop. The osteria is called Sirk, and it is one of the best restaurants in all of Collio. The food is typical for this area- Slovenian/Friulian- yet particular, artsy almost. The chef is renowned, but also local. FL's mother cuts his hair. Though FL and I (and Angela, once!) eat every now and then on the beautiful outdoor patio of the trattoria, the osteria has always been sort of off-limits. The prices for individual dishes are not staggering, but we like our wine, and our desserts, and our appetizers, and we are not silly enough to think that we can go to this place and eat how we want (i.e. as much as we want) without throwing down enough money for a weekend in Paris. I saw the advertisement for this course, and the price (only 15 euro!) and figured that this was my shot.



The experience turned out to be me and a woman from Slovenia sitting on plush white chairs drinking sparkly water, watching the gorgeous chef, named Michele, make us a 3-course meal. Everything he made was so simple, taking less than 10 minutes to put together. All the ingredients were fresh, the eggs, the mushrooms, the deer; I have about a month left in this season to try these recipes at home, a month left of zucchini flowers, of red bell peppers and garden-harvested kren.

His first dish was an antipasto, a salad of fresh shaved apples and Montasio cheese, ribbons of red pepper blanched in butter (butter! THIS MAN USED BUTTER!), and delicate zucchini flowers that puffed up and shimmered when they touched the hot pan. Over the top, fresh kren (Slovenian for horseradish) was grated. The whole dish was both sweet and bitter, savory and spicy. Extremely light, and so very elegant.



The only way to describe the second dish is to say that it was "scrumptious". The kind of scrumptious that makes one was to lick the plate afterward. Clearly, the chef knew this and had planned ahead for such displays of pathetic commonality. He served the dish is a fish bowl, a gorgeous blue glass fish bowl, atop a white porcelain platter, with a long, silver fork capable of reaching the depths (though not, no matter how desperately I tried, the little crevice at the base).



This dish was a pasta similar to a german spatzle: tiny droplets and knobs of pasta made by whipping up eggs and flour and sifting the dough through a colander into simmering water. These noddles were then added to a warm, buttery pan containing sliced porchini mushrooms, paper-thin slivers of zucchini, and shoe-lace-cut bits of zucchini flower. Oregano was sprinkled, and the pasta was ladled into the fish bowls. Over the top, a hard Grana Padano was shaved with a vegetable peeler, and course sea salt was tossed in order to add, as he put it, a crunch in the mouth.

I asked Chef Michele why the two different cheeses, what exactly was the point in serving the first dish with a fresh Montasio (cows milk), and this with an aged Grana (also cows milk). He explained that obviously the tastes were a huge factor, the flavors. The fresh Montasio is very light, milky, and therefore is a soothing backdrop for the other, harsher flavors of the kren, the sour apple, and the butter-heavy red pepper. This pasta dish was all-around softer, so the Grana was what spiked it up.



At least I think this is what he said. It was during this interlude that I was lost in a daydream of me realizing that in my furor to eat every last bite I had gotten my face suction-cupped into the fish bowl. I could picture myself suffocating, eyes bulging, my tongue reaching as far as it could to just get that last...tiny...noodle. Like a dog with it's snout stuck in a tin can. The very real possibility of this, and the consequent mortification (or death) that would follow when they had to call FL to come get me ("your girlfriend suffered severe brain damage due to pasta", and he would so not even be surprised) gave me shivers. I put the bowl down and re-focused my attention on the next demonstration.

Which was: RAW DEER! Or, more elegantly, and in Italian, Dadolata di Cervo.



The deer had been sliced into cubes and kryovaked (spelling? The only option blogger spell-checks offers me is "muckracked", and that can't be right), having been sprinkled with thyme, oregano, black pepper, salt and roughly chopped garlic. After 24 hours, the meat was freed and then pulverized with a table spoon into a gorgeous, red blob. This blob of joy was set atop a bed of shaved fennel (everything's shaved, I know), seasoned with lemon juice and the house balsamic vinegar, and placed on a pretty little china plate.



I don't know what it is, but the sight of raw meat, and knowing that it is there to be eaten raw, makes me feel wild and amorous. Primal, carnal, yet highly sophisticated. The Slovenian woman asked Chef Michele to please only make her a very small portion, and I immediately raised my hand and told him that I would be happy to eat what was left. Just make my blob really big. So he did, and I went into food-coma happy as could be.



I am going to translate and post these recipes in just a bit. Right now FL is chomping at the bit to go upstairs and eat the gnocchi!

Yesterday afternoon I ambled down to the Enoteca di Cormons, a little place in the main piazza that hosts the who's-who Cormonese wine (an enoteca is, by definition, a place that serves wine, be it local or not, decent or "green"). The Enoteca di Cormons is spectacular, and a showcase solely for the wines made in these hills. It is here that the town comes together. One can find postings for cooking lessons and jars of fresh pesto, weekend itineraries and maps of the town, little red dots illuminating the various vineyards; mopeds are for rent, German and Austrian tourists directed out into wild Collio. The walls are lined floor to ceiling with shelves holding bottles, all varietals and blends.

Cormons is a mix of new and old, nature and science. There are those vineyards who stress excellence, the brilliance of newfangled "enology", each grape varietal stressed and monitored and tweaked to produce something complex, something with depth. "Be all that you can be", etc. Then there are those vineyards who hold a rigid respect for tradition, season, honesty. The land and the weather, the care during growth and the solid process of production make these wines. These are the wines the people of Cormons know, the wines that can be- upon sip, sight, smell- called out by name and age, point of origin, by those who understand this area, those who were born here.



My glass for the day was from one of my very favorite vineyards, Livio Felluga. It was years ago that I first tasted a wine from this estate. I was shopping at Whole Foods with my ex. We were going to make some sort of cod cooked in parchment paper, lemongrass and citrus seasonings, if I recall. The bottle cost way too much, but the label was so pretty! A map of some sort, of some place far away, in the depths of Italy. I remember looking at it and thinking that if we substituted steamed white rice for the wild...if we used orange zest instead of buying the fancy citrus oil...we could swing it. And what a Pinot Grigio is was! I kept another blog at the time, the web address for which I have forgotten- it is floating around out there somewhere- and I remember blogging about this wine. My ex and I decided it was the very best wine we had ever had. We asked ourselves, what magical land could create something like this, so sunny, so sweet, so chilled?

I had been in Cormons for about a month when I saw this same bottle downtown, same label at least, and I was thrilled with the heavens to realize that that magical wine was from here. Where I now lived. Full-circle, fate, kismet, etc. Though the wine is of the "enologically improved" variety, and therefore rather pricey (and "froo-froo", as FL puts it), it is still on the my favorites, if not only because it is delicious, because it has a place in my heart. And they make all varietals! Pinot Grigio, Sauvignon, Picolit, Rosenplatz, Chardonnay...you name it. Their Terre Alte is, in fact, considered one of the best white wines in Italy.


The weird thing is, I never saw Livio Felluga for sale at Whole Foods again. It is, though, for sale at the wine expo shop on Barrett Parkway. Possibly for cheaper. So if there's a pretty party to go to, or a nice dinner to accentuate, or just a cool late-summer evening to spice up, go find a bottle. A little bottle of Cormons in Georgia; I dream of such things.

Put on a big new sweater and went for a walk in the woods. The forest here is lovely, especially on cool, grey days like today. The trees hang heavy with fog and dew; mushrooms grow wild, their perfume almost overwhelming and earthy; spiky chestnuts rain down, still green. It's too soon. I took a path I had never been down, and it wound all around the backside of the mountain, over into a neighboring town called Brazzano. There's a castle there, and a church, and not much else. I listened to Niko Case, hopped over puddles.



Just as I had made it back to civilization, the sky burst open. Rain came in clamorous sheets, and I scrambled to stick my Ipod under my shirt. I had barely uttered an "oh, hell", when I heard, "Mereca'n"!

Looked to my right, and there was Fabio, Porchis proprietor and entrepreneur extraordinaire. Savior, also, apparently. He waved me into the big, metal gate that sheltered a garden I had often admired in passing. Even in the pouring rain the roses stood tall and proud, their colors not the least bit dulled.

I followed him and Simona, his girlfriend, into a gorgeous old villa. It had been in Fabio's distant family somehow, and just this year he has turned it into an agrotourismo, a bed and breakfast. Antique cherubs and oil paintings lined the stone walls, and the marble floor was etched with glistening golden details, olive branches and paisleys, a scene of a well; the type of decorating that people don't take the time for anymore. they had stopped in just to change a few light bulbs in the chandeliers, they said, and would be happy to give me a lift home.

The conversation on the ride home turned to my on-going job search, a search which is both open-ended and terrifyingly clogged, depending on how I decide to look at it. Fabio said he had meant to tell me, marketing! He could name several vineyards off the top of his head that are looking to expand their exports into America and the like.

Was funny he mentioned this, because just yesterday evening FL's dad came home and said the longest string of words to me that I have ever had the pleasure of receiving. He said, "Angoris wants to sell wine in America". FL took it from there, explaining that one of the larger vineyards in Cormons, Angoris, mentioned to his father (during a routine heater check-up or something, I imagine) that they wanted to begin selling their wine in America, and were looking for ways and people to help market. Obviously, I would be the perfect candidate.

So this morning I woke up bright and early-ish and began to write cover letters for my resume'. I found a template online, and was sure to write each one individually, personalizing them and stressing my qualifications for each post specifically.
Wish me luck!

My goal for the day is to find a proper coat. I have promised myself that this autumn, and indeed winter, will not be like the last two. I will not "wait out" the cold in converse all-stars and a flimsy fleece, suffering from a running case of pneumonia for 5 solid months, thawing my frozen, icy-rain sodden body in a hot bath every evening, while my days are spent coughing up tadpoles and harboring wet squirrels in my lungs. This year will be different. I will find something substantial and thermal, while maintaining a sense of style. I imagine that something like this cannot be too hard to find in Italy. Also, I will buy boots. Or at least something closed-toed. Am too terrified to look at my bank account, though I am sure I have enough at least for a nice sweater.
The nights are getting cold here. I worked this weekend at the festival downtown. What an easy gig! Though the weather was iffy people turned out, to hear the music, sample food and wine from the booths, and to see one super adorable girl in particular. Her name was Eleanor and she was the best beer-pourer this town had ever seen. Cormons is carmingly small, in a way that a festival like this brings into one place absolutely everyone you know; Bonelli, my favorite butcher, Chiara from the Enoteca (she makes me a delicious Cafe' Americano on those days when I feel I just can't take it anymore), all of FL's friends and the porchis crew.

Sunday there was a parade, full of gigantic floats from each of the vineyards. Everyone lined the streets of the town to watch, eating gelato and sipping hot chocolates intermittently, depending on whether the sun was out or clouds were overhead. FL and I ate at a little booth, roasted chicken and sausages, polenta. The wine was wonderful, as always, and it seemed that everyone was in a good mood. All of FL's family was out, his cousins, aunts, great uncles. They all gave me huge hugs when they saw me, exclaiming how happy they were either to meet me or that I had returned. Paola has said so many nice things, and how pretty I am! And they heard about the house, how wonderful! Such nice people.

Perhaps we tired ourselves out, because by the time 11pm rolled around FL was out like a light, and me not far behind him. Today, though, I am feeling refreshed. Ready for a run up the mountain and a shopping trip to Udine. Also, today I am going to make little fliers offering my services as an English tutor, post them all over town and await those interested in learning to call and offer me MONEY.

Wish I had a big, black MasterCard...that would solve my visa issues

All the ex-pat websites say the same thing: unless you're pulling up to Italy in your yacht, expect your plight for living in Italy long-term to be the same plight as all the other immigrants. A difficult, arduous road. Bureaucracy! I have 80 days left on the countdown clock of being here "legally". During that time I hope to find someone willing to hire me, fill out a huge mound of costly paperwork vouching for my employment, and agree to let me return to the US for X-number of days (one month? two? ...three?) in order to file the papers there at the Embassy in Washington DC, where I may have to go personally. Then, and only then, can I return to Italy with a work visa. Or, as everyone and their brother has suggested, I could just get married.
My mother seems to think this is not a big deal. So I will keep a look out and try my hardest to find a job, though I won't stress over it. Worse comes to worst, I'll get FL drunk and drag him to the courthouse. And would that be the worst?
Che palle, it's pouring down rain. I hope this does not jeopardize my evening. Yours truly has been offered a very prestigious position, offered only to those with a capacity for hard-work, fluent Italian, and years worth of prior experience. This weekend Cormons is hosting La Festa dell'Uva, Festival of the grape. There used to be all sorts of hoopla, a parade and costumes, etc. Now a days it's pretty much just bands playing and wine drinking. I will be working one of the kiosks, selling wine and beer for the masses. They said they'd pay me 50euro, which will make up for the cost of my ticket to Sicily. Also, networking! It should be fun (if it happens), and FL and Condor, surely, will be my two primary customers.
I have purchased Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone in Italian, and I am beyond proud to say that I can read it! There are a lot of words that I don't know, of course, but the bulk of the story is crystal clear (and not only because I have read it in English- this version is completely different!). The words I don't know I write down on little flash cards. Growth and Learning.

The house is INCREDIBLE!!! Needs some fresh paint, new tiles, the kitchen and bathroom need to be updated, but it is perfect. And the garden! What in the world do I do with a garden that huge?! We have every type of tree, shrub, herb, flower, fruit...even olive trees!
Here's a link to some photos for those without a FB account.
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2754988&id=4913936&l=d6632a80e4

Aunt Gwynn!!!! Come help me landscape!!!!

Well, I am alive. Which is a huge improvement from whatever state it was I was in this morning. Must remember in future that I am not a Friulian man, and therefore I cannot drink like one. My first rule, after a previous near death experience, is Do Not Drink the Grappa. Lesson learned. A new rule, after last night, is that when one is told, "this wine is green", it is best to translate it to, "this wine is poison". FL took me to a frasca, which is a traditional Friulian pub that is opened out of the side of a cantina in someone's home, or any other place that, in season, produces wine. I believe (and I will ask FL for the full history again when I see him) that frascas (frasca = 'branch' in friulano) came about in a time when it was illegal for bars or pubs to be opened (or perhaps it was a time of complete prohibition, I am not sure). Some people, therefore, when they acquired booze, would hang a branch outside of their home, letting others know that it was safe to come in and drink. The tradition continues today, though the idea of prohibition in these parts is laughable. A friend of FL's has a winery, and called FL yesterday evening to let him know that the frasca was opened. This is a very exciting deal, apparently, because real frascas are only opened a handful of days out of the year. We drove out to an area of Cormons that I had never seen before, like this hidden, I don't know, collection of houses around a tiny town square, v. v. medieval, all made of the same type of dark stone, the roads, the houses, the walls surrounding people's gardens. At the end of the lane there was a huge, gorgeous house with a cardboard sign hanging on the gate that read, "frasca aperta", and a drawing of a branch. We rode around back and, sure enough, tucked into a tiny room with its doors thrown wide, there was a frasca. Tiny makeshift bar, handwritten sign with prices (.50 a glass, 1 euro a liter), a group of old men cackling and "dio boi"-ing and drinking wine out of tiny little glasses. This is when FL said, "be careful- this wine is green", but I was too enamored with the scene to take heed.

We went in and had a seat, heads obviously turning as a young girl is a rare sight in a place like that. We ordered a small glass of wine, and FL's friend came over to chat with us. I don't know how long we were there, maybe an hour, and I was having such fun listening to the men talk. For the most part I can't understand much Friulano- but I know the curse words. Which is pretty much the bulk of what came out of these guy's mouths, so I was cracking up continuously (it's funny when old people cuss, isn't it?).

FL and I drank maybe a liter of wine between us, absolutely nothing crazy...but then i began to tug on his shirt sleeve and mumble, "maybe it's time you took me home". 15 minutes later I was half dead, sick as a dog, voices pounding in my head speaking unintelligible Friulano...


Once again, lesson learned.

Ooooh! FL is here and we are going to go see the house! I will take lots of photos!