Thursday, January 17, 2013

Italian Thanksgiving

After weeks of planning, ordering a turkey and stuffing to be cooked for us, and finally getting my mom in town to help organize, our Italian Thanksgiving became a reality.  I think the children will definitely be confused about what is Thanksgiving and what is Christmas since we waited until Mid-December to celebrate, but it was still wonderful.  Weeks before I had Ricki write out, begrudgingly, the story of the first Thanksgiving in English.  He surprisingly read it with great enthusiasm before our feast, and I later found out it was a trade-off to shorten his grounding. All the same, props to him- he sounded like a native American (pun intended).
La mia famiglia!  My real mom was taking the picture.
A true feast: green beans, turkey, stuffing, cranberries and sweet potato fries.  My stomach is growling.

Verona

Picture taken from the top of L'Arena overlooking the fair.
I had heard a lot about the beauty of L'Arena in Verona, a huge stadium/amphitheater similar to the Colosseum, and it was only ~an hour drive from where I was living, so the Westman + Ricky crew hopped in my car and we made a road trip.  Little did we know that the fair for Saint Lucy (Santa Lucia) was taking place right outside L'Arena.  Jackpot!
Mamma checking out the goods.
La fiera di Santa Lucia takes place in Verona from December 10-13.  Saint Lucy was born in Sicily, and is the patron saint of Syracuse, but she is also popular in Northern Italy where she acts as a sort of pre-Christmas Santa Claus.  On the night of December 12, she brings good little girls and boys presents and dumps coal on the bad ones.  Sound familiar?  In Santa Claus's case, if you stay awake he'll skip your house.  In Santa Lucia's, she'll throw ash in your eyes to blind you from seeing her.  Hardcore.  She also shows up with a plate carrying her eyeballs, which were removed when she was being tortured for being a Christian.  Want to sit on her lap?
The lighting was magical.  See the Arena in the background?
Ryley and Ricky bro-ing out.
SO MUCH FOOD!
Filling cannoli to order, the true Sicilian way!
We paid to enter L'Arena, and we had the inside to ourselves.  Built around 30 A.D., it is still in great shape!
Neat shooting star sculpture coming out of the Arena.
View from the top.
A huge nativity display was showcasing underneath.
They now host concerts here.  Mica had been there a few weeks before; I missed it!
The inspiration families from Romeo and Juliet are from Verona, so we took a detour to see "Juliet's balcony".  This is actually where the Capulet's lived, and there is a balcony, so let your imagination run wild.  Shakespeare's did ;)
They had already closed the gate, so we took a peek from a distance.
The walls were covered in proclamations of love...for graffiti.
Love notes were also stuck to the wall using chewing gum.  ABC gum anyone?
Nothing says romance like a love note written on a band-aid.  Stuck to a wall of chewed gum. 

Wednesday, January 16, 2013

Smithville meets (and eats) Europe

My brother, Mom and a family friend came to town; small town USA meets big town Europe! (Well, not Reggio Emilia, but there were big towns involved.)  They spent the weekend in Rome while I was in the Alps, then we all met up together Sunday evening and headed to my Italian family's favorite local pizza place.  I showed off my Italian a bit by telling the waiter we were meeting the family there, and then I took charge of ordering for my mom and myself.  I chose the Napolian, which sounded delicious with basil and buffalo mozzarella.  However, my show-off Italian self missed a core ingredient on the pizza.  When it came out, they placed it in front of my mom and two six-inch sardines stared up at her.  Her gaze slowly lifted from the plate to meet my eyes in a disgusted, "how-dare-you" accusation.  I apologized and admitted my fault, but even after we scraped the fish to the side the flavor still saturated the pizza.  Welcome to Italy, Ma!

The mother of my Italian family organized a tour of a local balsamic vinegar plant for us all to attend (in the middle of her crazy work week; I swear that woman is superhuman!)  The tour was fantastic, and we all had a good time tasting the differences in quality and age afterward.  Here's a brief pictorial tour:

Our guide explaining the process of cooking grape skins to glean ingredients for vinegar.
The barrel room.
Each set of 5 barrels made a bateria (or drum) of a vinegar.  Each year they take out what they need from each barrel (the smalles barrel being the oldest), then refill if from the larger barrel next to it in the line.
Artwork in the barrel room depicting how nature affects the aging of acete balsamico (balsamic vinegar).


Balsamic Vinegar must be 12 years aged before it is quality enough to bottle and pass inspection.   The newest, minimun quality vinegars receive a red label.  Silver label is the next step, usually for vinegars up to 25 years-aged.  Gold label is 25+ years and the highest quality, these small bottles sell for over 100 euros.  You can really taste the complexity as the years go on.
The entire vinegar plant: the tasting room is to the left and the barrel house in on the right.

My mother and I, later in the week, toured a Parmigiano Reggiano cheese production plant.  It amazed me at each of these plants how little interest the workers had in obtaining our money, and how dedicated they were to helping us understand how their product was made.  Each of them is part of a consortium for their respective products, so if they educate people it does good for the consortium on the whole.  But there was still a blatant lack of money hunger, which impressed me very much.  For example, my mom and I arranged a tour for ourselves for which we were expecting to pay, although at the end they never asked for a dime (or a centesimo).  So the tour was free, and the woman spent a considerable amount of time with us, letting us sample whatever we pleased and explaining the process in detail.  I feel that there is a stark difference if you walk into a shop in the U.S.  I'm mainly using a winery as an analogy, in which you almost feel obligated to buy a bottle at the end of a tasting, and it is certainly known that the person in the room wants you to.  Maybe the lack of intense capitalism in Italy runs deeper to financial support employees receive from the government, so they don't have the motivation to earn money as we do.  Or, maybe it is spurred from the genteel culture of the country.  I don't know, but I appreciated it.

Tanks heating the milk with starter whey added, which will later become cheese.
He later stuck his bare hand in the tank and grabbed us a sample of flavorless cheese to try.  That's sanitary, right?
Before this stage they added a yellow, yeasty bacteria which was skimmed from a tank the previous day.  These curds will settle into the bottom of the tank, then they will be removed and placed in a mold to form a round.
Said yellow, yeasty bacteria in the buckets sitting on the floor.
After they pour the thickened milk into molds and let them harden, they remove the molds and let the cheese soak in a sea-saltwater bath. This is where the cheese gets a lot of its flavor. 
Each cheese round will soak here for thirty days, before which it will reach a point where it can no longer absorb the salt.
Holding the fresh, raw milk.
So much cheese!!
Our wonderful tour guide.

The oldest cheeses, going back to 2008.  Generally after three years they don't sell the cheese publicly because the flavor changes so much, but there are special buyers who are searching for that taste. 
Cheese gone wrong.  Cheeses with defects are not allowed to have the Parmiggiano Reggiano label, per the consortium.  The consortium comes to test every month, doing everything from smelling and tasting to tapping on the cheese with a special hammer to listen to the density.  Only the best get the label!
In order to be considered Parmiggiano Reggiano all elements of the process must take place within this region, including where the cows eat and produce milk.



Sunday, January 13, 2013

The Alps

View from my hotel window.
I skied in the Alps!!  Or, more aptly said, I learned to ski this weekend in Alps.  My Italian host family invited me on holiday to the mountains, and they had previously asked if I knew how to ski.  It's like riding a bike, right?  I skied 12 years ago, so I answered, "Yes."  

The first day, coming off the ski lift I was immediately on my butt.  I slowly gained vertical balance and followed our train of skiers down the slope.  My calf started intensely cramping, but I kept going out of sheer embarrassment that my physical condition was not good enough to ski!  Finally, I had to stop.  Turns out that my boot was on too tight, and once we loosened it I was good to go.  Novice.  

I was still the slowest one in the pack, and, probably because I work for an active travel company and I told them I knew how to ski, we were undertaking some intense slopes.  Standing at the top of each steep, icy section of mountain, my chest tightened.  I was petrified.  Flashbacks of breaking my wrist snowboarding a year ago coupled with visions of once again losing control led to an impressively slow ski to the base of the mountain (some prayers might have been involved, as well).  In fact, I arrived at the parking lot about a half an hour behind the head of our group.  I felt TERRIBLE!  I was holding back even the kids!  But everyone was extremely kind and patient.  In fact, the son of the family Ricki defended me, even though he was the most vocal complainer of having to wait.  He blamed it on a family friend, another slow girl, who was skiing in my section of the pack.  I tried to explain to him that she still finished in front of me, but he said she'd been skiing for years so there was no excuse. He, like his parents, is a very generous human being.  
My hotel room :)
We stayed in a small town in the Alto Adige region of Italy (about as far north as you can go before hitting Austria).  It was a gorgeous little ski community with rental shops, hot chocolate booths and warm restaurants surrounding the base of the peaks (all of which we explored).  

After the end of the first day, I solemnly promised myself that I would never have to go skiing again.  But then the next day game, with glorious sunshine and easy beginner slopes, and I felt like a little kid on the playground.  I had a BLAST!  We stopped for lunch at a popular restaurant at the top, with an outdoor fire and party music blaring.  We shared champagne and oysters, and I devoured a delicious, hot lobster spaghetti dish.  All was right in the world, and my mind frame about skiing was reversed.  I felt like I was getting the hang of it, so the future winter sport trips I had written myself out of started creeping back into view.  However, I will always have to choose skiing companions with a flare for patience.  And in the future I'll remember that skiing, at least for me, is NOT like riding a bike. 

A castle on the mountainside.  

Modena Fiera

A nearby city (Modena) in the Emilia-Romagna province hosted its annual Christmas fair in the beginning of December.  My Italian class organized to meet there and walk through together.  It was humongous!  There was a hall specifically for hand-crafted art, one for food and wine and one for Christmas gift ideas.  I was blown away by the arts section; from wood carvings to paintings the creativity was astonishing:
Wood carvings up front, paintings in the background.
I fell in love with these simple prints.  Glitter was added over the lights, which looked trashy up close, but from a few feet away the city came to life!
More glitter lights.  I want one!
Here are some photos from the food section:


I had heard many times about the Emilia-Romagna regional dessert called zuppa inglese (meaning English soup, which traditionally contains everything but the kitchen sink), and I imagined a pudding with many additions.  I finally ordered it at the above bake stand at the Modena fair, and realized my imagination was off the mark.  Zuppa Inglese is actually a layered dessert, reminiscent of tiramisu, with striations of egg custard and chocolate cream between layers of magenta sponge cake.  I think lady fingers are typically involved as well.  I was a little startled at the color of the cake, which I found out is caused by Alchermes, a bright red herb liquor.  Alchermes also has a pungent odor and flavor, and really sets the tone for the dessert.  The flavor did not knock my socks off, but I could see how others would enjoy it.
Zuppa Inglese
Cakes made by a local confectioner.
Almost makes me want to get married.
Fruit flowers!
When we had finally wore ourselves out shopping, we five girls sat down for a coffee break.  I started chatting with one of my favorites, who had been introduced to me as Irlandese, or Irish.  I was befuddled by her accent, and I found her one of the most difficult to understand in Italian.  Also, her English was not native, so I assumed she came from a very rural area where Gaelic was spoken.  We were talking about places we all wanted to visit, and I told her that after seeing "P.S. I Love You" I felt that I must visit Ireland to meet my husband.  At first she looked shocked, and asked to verify that I was married (remember this entire conversation is in Italian, so we have some things lost in translation).  When I finally made my point clear, she seemed nonplussed and confused at why I was directing this conversation toward her.  Then finally she said, "You know I'm Olandese, right?" Meaning she is from Holland, NOT Ireland.  For over a month I had believed what I had misheard as Irlandese.  And for a brief moment she had thought I was married.  We had a nice chuckle, then reintroduced ourselves to each other.  Good times.