The stockings are hung by the chimney with care

Sorry I've been the absent blogger the past week other than that last waaaaaaaaaaay too wordy diatribe. Seriously, playing chief elf has left me empty of witty observations, much less time to record them.

T-minus fourteen hours til arrivals, and we're pretty well good to go...

* Cleaned sheets and towels (dried with my imported, scent-free Bounce dryer sheets.)
* Bought snow chains for Simon. (Are you KIDDING me?!?! I live somewhere that I need SNOW CHAINS?)
* Called to order more GPL fuel for the bombolone. (Cold is bad.)
* Crossing my fingers that the quarter tank I have left will not die on Christmas day.
* Did Laura Ingalls proud by hauling and stacking firewood.
* Gleefully filled my steel 10 L container with olive oil from the farm next door. (How Italian did THAT feel!?!)
* Stocked enough alcohol to pickle ourselves.
* Hand stuffed blue cheese olives for UBlend. (It's the little things that make it feel like home.)
* Have Tombola and 'Urn of Fate' (apparently real Italian) games at the ready.
* The stockings that are now hung by the chimney with care were imported from a friendly saint in The Netherlands because all the ones I found here were reeeeeealllly cheap and cheezy. And as I've always said, I may be easy, but I'm not cheap.
* Ordered the filets for beef wellington.
* Bought a backup turkey when it was only 6 Euros at Esselunga today. Good to pick at for sandwiches even if the beef wellington turns out okay.
* Chucked batch number three of ruined homemade christmas toffee and spent $70 at the most luscious, expensive chocolatier in town. Which is what I should have done to begin with. Julia f***ing Child I am not.
* As a result of the experience above, asked a real Italian to make the Tiramisu for Christmas dessert.

And so, despite the mountains of year-end work to be done, I am actually taking vacation. I have more than 5 weeks currently unused, how very un-European of me(!), and I need to shut my brain down for a while.

Let the festivity begin!

To all of you ... friends out there in blogland, lurkers and commenters, thanks for being here. It's a whole heck of a lot more fun writing knowing people are reading. I wish you all the merriest, happiest, solsticey, smiley, shiny-happy-people wonderful end-of-2005.

Santa, baby, slip a martini under the tree for me. I'm seriously looking forward to that Christmas day nap.

Losing by an inch

I was raised in a crusading culture of sorts. My mother had a sit-down once upon a time with the executives of General Mills about food labeling. Then she had a sit - in on a street corner near our elementary school that needed a stop light.

Everywhere you turn there's a cause these days: Starving children in foreign countries (not to mention the US!??!), 'just pennies a day' campaigns a-la-Sally Struthers. UNICEF. Blood donation. Save-the-endangered animal/natural resource. The world, natural-disaster-o-rama recently, with relief funds tugging at heartstrings and wallets. The ribbon-of-the-month folks (breast cancer, troop support, AIDS), with the rubber wristband brigade close behind. (To the extent that everyone loves a hopeless cause to throw money at, there's always our political parties.) Then we've got the homeless. Anti-gang, anti-drug coalitions. People who do/don't breastfeed infants. Opening the medical door, start with finding for cures for the biggies ... Cancer (how is it that we live in a world that hasn't been able to fix that yet?!?!), AIDS, Alzheimers ... and moving through to those diseases most have never heard of but are no less devastating to the people affected. Things like Sudan: that make you want to quit your life and do something, not able to sleep at night if you think too much about them, so it's easier not to.

It's not the money so much as its the dizzying emotional energy. How on earth can you choose?

All that being said (and of course my year-end tax deductible contributions duly made to at least a few of the above), my unchampioned cause of the day is one that has fallen off of everyone's radar screen, no doubt because all of the aforementioned things are consuming so much daily time/energy/money/media attention that this ole' dying horse just lays there.

Don't look now, but the United States is the only industrialized country in the world that does not use the metric system as its predominant form of measurement. THIRTY YEARS AGO, the Metric Conversion Act was passed. After seven years of implementation, congress killed it.

"It was just too hard" (I can imagine whiny voices saying).

Motorists rebelled at the idea of highway signs in kilometers, weather watchers blanched at the notion of reading a forecast in Celsius, and consumers balked at the prospect of buying poultry by the kilogram. Some even cautioned that metrication was a communist plot (the fear being that Russian tanks would have an easier time finding their way around if highway signs were in kilometers)?!?!?!. Officials at the National Cowboy Hall of Fame and Western Heritage Center actually sued the government, claiming that "the West was won by the inch, foot, yard, and mile." Perhaps more significantly, organized labor opposed the conversion, worried that workers would have to learn a whole new system of weights and measures. By 1982, the anti-metric forces had clearly won the battle. Ronald Reagan eliminated the Metric Board, officially putting metrication on the back burner, where it has remained ever since.

Okay. My little sister was born in 1975 and just turned 30. In that time, we have gone from rotary dial phones, "take a memo, Stella" dictaphones, turntables and vinyl, 13 channels of UHF/VHF TV with rabbit ears to having a phone/email/camera/personalassistant all in one in your pocket, 1000 channels of mindless drivel in 50 languages if you want it, through 8tracks and cassettes to CD/DVDs, and the worldwideweb at our fingertips (certainly in the majority of households in the US if not quite yet in the rest of the world.) We as consumers have learned not just a few new habits but - if you think about it - entire new technical languages in that time. Had the Metric Board kept at its work, the learning of metric would have fallen just before 'how to use a computer' in my sister's school curriculum. And, gee, we seemed to have gotten the hang of THAT part. Today, the average person is aware of, if not proficient in, file downloads, http, ftp, virus protection software, spamblockers,.jpg/.gif/.tif/, HTML, IM, VOIP ... blah blah blah. We're worried a few meters, kilometers, grams, and centimeters will bring 'American' culture to a screeching halt?

We've learned, collectively, to change our habits. Holy crap, my GRANDMOTHER knows how to email! We taught CEOs (well, a lot of 'em, anyhow) how to make their own photocopies and type their own memos. We averted "impending doom" with the Y2K computer code recognition disaster that wasn't. Most of us have changed our area codes, or learned new ones around us, or now have to dial 10 numbers instead of the old 7. All of those changes required a shift in culture; learning new ways or unlearning old ones. And we think we can't convert our system of measurement?

Sure, old habits will die hard. And it won't be an inexpensive conversion. Not just the physical stuff, but the PR drama that goes with it, like a 'Metric Man' cartoon for Saturday mornings...

But, seriously, America. If I've learned one thing even living so briefly outside the US, it is that we are raising children who are without skills to cope in the 'rest of the world' (arguably more important now that the world IS getting smaller.) Our kids are already behind in Math & Science internationally. Their global history is dismal. Our foreign-language requirements are a JOKE compared to most other developed countries. Not to mention our (ahem) politics and this pesky developing hatred the rest of the world seems to have for us. Yup, don't look now, but we're looking more seriously isolationist by the moment; the crazy old uncle who was 'once upon a time' really cool. (Apropos of nothing, it is a collection of those crazy old uncles ... congress, living in a fantasy world... who made this decision to stop the conversion. They probably couldn't imagine calling it the '45.72 meter line' instead of the 50 yard line. If we - pardon the pun - grandfather in football fields, do we have a deal?)

It would be a giant step in the right direction if we at least spoke a common language of numbers, weights and measures. We claim to be a world leader. They're all (slowly) converting to our language. The least we can do is speak their measurements. Sometimes, to lead, ya gotta know how to follow.

Let's not underestimate ourselves here. Bite the bullet, America. It's time to give an inch.

(The excerpt is from a fascinating old article on the 'Waits and Measures' situation. And if you're wondering what got me started on all of this; I've ruined two batches of Christmas candy because I can't get my #&@%*! measurements and temperatures converted right. Yeah - problems, and solutions, start at home.

I didn't see it coming.

I have spent ample time observing ‘The Gays’ in their natural habitat.
(That’s a big broad-brush statement, but go with me for a minute, from a cultural anthropology perspective.)

I lived happily for many years in what some call the ‘Gay Ghetto’. I’ve (both affectionately and cattily) proudly been called the crude-and-tacky-yet-still-somehow-appropriate “Fag Hag.” My mother has often teasingly mused that my dating status might improve if I, every now and again, brought a guy home who liked kissing girls. (A friend mused just the other day that my conversion talents are, um, lacking.) To be sure. Clearly, it's 'nature' not nurture, I say.

All this is to say, imitating the wacky parlance of Sean my blogdaddy, “I knows me the Gays.” I presume it’s a bit like birdwatching. It takes a little time, but eventually, training your eyes and ears, and they’re easy to spot even when they believe they are relatively well camouflaged.

It’s been humorously called “Gay-dar,” for those of you looking for a little '90s streetlingo enlightenment. And mine has almost always been 20/20 (occasionally even before someone sees, or admits, it themselves.)

Yesterday night, my Gaydar got the 'blue screen of death' .

In a nutshell, I had done some business this fall with a guy. Without going into too many identifying characteristics, suffice it to say we had a legitimate reason to work together, and it went off relatively well (though they were at their end particularly inexperienced in what I needed them to do, so he relied rather heavily on my guidance.) I was happy to give it; it’s all about the connections, and I knew that it would be helpful to have him as a contact in the future.
He doesn’t seem to be a particularly pleasant man. Not nasty, just sort of … perpetually cranky. Uncomfortably abrupt. Not a lot of nice things to say about most people or situations. Really, an odd duck in many ways. My perception, the few times we had occasion to meet, was that he was one of those ‘crabby, sour, aging hippy, flip-flop wearing queens.’ And, living here in the middle of nowhere with a distinct lack of a kindred spirit social circle, who could blame him? I am famous for being able to determinedly charm these types of folks.

He is also one of the few people in my neck of the woods who speak English. And his business will be useful to me in the future. I suspect he thinks I will be useful to him as well. I can’t decide if he’s threatened by my presence here or not, but that’s a possibility. So when he called last week – after the end of the busy season - to follow up on a dinner invitation (he had repeatedly mentioned this great local restaurant that I had not been to), I decided it was both polite and good business to accept.

It was supposed to be for Wednesday, or so I thought. He called Wednesday to see if Friday would work for me. As much as it was not my idea of a ragingly fun Friday night, I knew that coming into the holiday weeks, I wouldn’t have another chance for a while (and, truthfully, I just wanted to get it over with.)

I met him at a bar near town (we were coming from opposite directions – though he had originally offered to pick me up, which would have made sense – he has to pass my house to get to town.) I got there early; ordered a glass of wine and sat with my laptop, finishing a few items of work. He arrived. We kibitzed with the locals, and then, before I knew it, he had paid the bill (already I’m feeling uncomfortable!) and we were out the door.

The early part of the evening had a familiar ‘businessy meet and greet’ feeling to it. Obviously he knows the restaurant and its owners well, telling me the stories of the place, the handmade chandelier, etc. He went out of his way to introduce me around, show me the different spaces available for events both inside and out; it is well located for group lunches/dinners. (It should be said that this is one of two ‘nicer’ restaurants in town … the other, owned by the company that this guy works for. He kept telling me that I shouldn’t mention to the boss that he brought me here.) Huh?? My ‘oddness’ meter went zing.

And then, the evening took an almost imperceptible turn. Champagne. He orders a bottle of wine and goes on about how wonderful it is (Sicilian). It was one of those “you never look at a menu, things just arrive, all meals are shared tasters” kind of events. (Though at one point, he did actually have occasion to make some choices, and he did so without asking me what I wanted.)

At some point in the conversation (looking back I’m not entirely sure how he worked it in), he casually mentioned: "Lots of people thought I was gay when I first moved here. You know, single guy, living alone…”

My brain reacted as if as if a needle had been screeched off an old record: “What?!?!? You’re NOT?!?” Are you in total denial or am I blind?!? (Thank heavens that the girl can hold her alcohol and her tongue well enough to remain classy and composed while my brain had this blazing conversation with itself.)

He kept jumping up and running back to the kitchen. A mountain of vegetable and shrimp tempura to start. Smoked salmon and some sort of creamy salad-y side dish with that. Delicious mushroom ravioli in a to-die-for truffle sauce. Bottle of wine finished.

He’s off to the kitchen again. (What?! He’s not gay?!?! Then, is this ... a DATE???) I took another look. He *did* have a dressier outfit on than the ‘end of workday’ might have dictated: jeans paired with an open-collar pale blue button down shirt, red sweater vest, navy-blue gold buttoned blazer, and coordinating ‘navy/red/yellow ascotty’ scarf at his neck. Quirky thick-rimmed funky glasses. Wearing an ACSCOT; are you kidding me? He’s either gay or a 70 year old British man. I squint at him across the table.

Now arrives an apple tart baked in the shape of a heart. (A heart? What is this, prom night?!?) A fresh fruit extravaganza over a homemade rum icecream, all flowing out of a waffle cone sort of thing. A glass of Muscat dessert wine. The chef comes over. I gush, appropriately. We are offered some sort of a digestive made from berries? flowers? *(I don’t know, my dictionary doesn’t have a translation for ‘guiggiolo’.)

At some point, I can’t tell if he’s drunk, sleepy, or I’m just not interesting, but he gets that sort of glazed-over look behind his hip streetster glasses. For my part, I am famously, blissfully, basically un-affected by the alcohol we have consumed, though it could be that he filled his glass twice as frequently as mine? (Gotta love that high tolerance, it serves me well in situations such as this.) We have GOT to get out of here. And of course, he has already paid the bill; won’t hear a word of my offering to split it.

I try, desperately, a businesslike closer. The chef gives me his card and we depart. As he walks me to my car … “Gosh, this really was such a great recommendation; you’re right, it would be an excellent place to bring groups. Thanks very much for introducing me to it.” The short, double-kiss on the cheek that is a European standard, the mention that I need to swing by next week to do some business anyhow, so I’ll probably see him then, and … whew. I’m in the car. I wait for him to leave the parking lot first, then drive, following him … sloooooooooooooooooooooooowly … the 10 or so minutes back up the hill towards home. I peel off at my house, waving goodbye.

On the way home, I have called Fratello Guido, because someone has to share my moment of teenagerlike head-spinning: “he’s NOT gay!!!! Can you believe it?!?! OMG. Does that mean this was a date?!?! And what do I do with THAT?” (FG, for his part, is bemused by it all, probably thinking it’s about damn time that I went on a date.)

Let a few things be said here:

1) He actually, taken out of the daily-grind of his work environment, was a bit easier to be around than I had remembered and conversation throughout the evening was not as painfully stilted as I had feared it would be. I had a whole list of conversation starters prepared that I, mercifully, did not have to dig too far into. He's not fundamentally unattractive. However, despite all that, he is still not (my) dating material. My brain is already worrying now about the locals that we ran into at the bar – small town, easy to start rumors, and that’s the LAST thing I want. The chef made at least one "be careful with this one" joke, arrrghhhhh!!!

2) It’s entirely possible that the shock of his apparent-not-gayness created an overreaction on my part and that it WAS just a business dinner. Really. A long string of unrequited loves in junior high and high schools reminds me that ‘just because he’s straight doesn’t necessarily mean he’s interested in you’. That principle is interesting in the reverse, too. I’m occasionally asked by nosy nellies about a (relatively closeted) friend… “do you think he’s gay?” Since it’s not my story to tell either way, my answer is always the enigmatic yet honest… “Well, he’s never hit on me, which doesn’t really confirm one way or the other, now, does it?”

Sigh. How odd.

In other news: Simon (my new-old car for those of you just joining us), after three plus weeks, had a new radiator installed yesterday, which means that on that tedious post-dinner-drive up the hill, I am finally not sitting in the teeth-chattering cold with a blanket on my lap. One mechanical problem solved.

Now it’s apparently my Gaydar that needs a recalibration. Damn: if it’s not one thing, it’s another.

Reverence for the Elves that Went Before Me

I have ALWAYS loved the Christmas season; here in Italy it is no exception. Everyone seems ... nicer, somehow. Despite the chilly (often downright slice-you-in-half cold) weather, people are almost determinedly cheerful. The towns look sparklier with lights on and trees trimmed in front of stores. Coming around what is usually a dark corner, you can now see a house with a few strings of lights out front. People say 'Buon Natale' to strangers and smile. Things smell all nice and pine-y and cinnamon-y. I do hate crowds at the stores, but I love picking out thoughtful gifts for people.

Religious or not, there's just something magical about everyone feeling all simultaneously festive for the month of December. ('The Season' starts MUCH later than in the US. Lights sort of appeared starting after the 8th of December (Immaculate Conception.) - refreshing, actually, to not have been bombarded with it since the end of October.)

I went sort of quiet on you a week ago, as I have been spending most spare minutes getting Christmas preparations done here: Cutting down the cedar tree to trim the mantle with. Spraypainting odds and ends to hang on the tree. Importing stockings. Shopping. Baking. Buying stuffers for aforementioned stockings. Washing all the sheets and towels for guests. Making the list, checking it twice. Figuring out how to make mom's famous potatoes without two of the key ingredients (cheddar cheese and sour cream). Making sure there is enough wine/champagne/liquor stocked to sufficently inebriate our little troupe and whatever army might invade, even in the case of a five day snowstorm. (Truly, while grandma can get run over by a reindeer and Santa could get stuck in the Chimney, there is absolutely nothing conceivably worse than running short of alcohol on Christmas.)

You see, for the first time in my adult life, I am hosting Christmas. (I feel like there should be some sort of definitive musical accompaniment to this announcement).

For more than 30 years now, others -- my parents usually (though on the odd occasion grandparents or inlaws), have 'DONE' Christmas, and I just had to show up.

It is only now, juggling a full time job, a new language, a totally foreign list of stores to rely on, a car with no heat, with pine needle rash up and down my forearms and a whole batch of overcooked toffee in the trash, that I realize that the Elves of my Christmases Past are truly saintly.

And for the most part, those elves were my Mom and Dad. Christmas at our house was always ... perfect. Even the years when there wasn't so much to be cheerful about, Christmas eve and Christmas day itself sparkle, dazzling and sugar-coated, in my memory. DS can confirm, but I don't think I'm deluding myself here... our house was always, without fail, Christmas magic.

The candies and cookies were baked - not just one kind, but five or ten to choose from. I don't ever remember there being a 'meltdown' in the kitchen when a whole batch of something got trashed. Packages were wrapped prettily and sat enticingly under the tree for days before. In later years, each ROOM had a different Christmas tree of some sort, all with different themes. There was almost always on the 23rd a big party with all our friends and neighbors - with everything made by Mom from scratch (not the total-cop-out way that I have hosted my parties in my recent adult years, assigning different dishes to all my friends to bring ...)

For the first 25 years of my life, setting up and lighting the tree was Dad's (totally thankless) job. Usually, there were also cut greens and lights draped from the eaves of the house and lighting the bushes outside. And it was all woven together just 'so' - appearing like the lights had grown from inside the branches; NEVER that the strings had just been thrown on, draping lazily and unbecomingly on the outside. As I wrestled the TWO STRINGS of lights onto the branches of my little Charlie Brown tree last night, cursing as my hands and arms were pricked, I thought of him. There's a whole list of conversations I plan to have with him whenever we meet again, but I'm going to start with "I finally get it -- thanks for always doing the lights."

I remember the years of my childhood when fanciful surprises from Santa appeared; the most memorable an enormous dollhouse that... looking back... the 'Elves' must have spent every night for a month assembling (after working all day, putting dinner on the table and us kids to baths and bed). And then gift wrapping every tiny piece of furniture that went in it. Amazing, really. Looking back, I fervently pray that our glee that morning was sufficient. And if, in the childish freneticness of an overstimulated Christmas morning, it somehow wasn't ... I hope the fact that so many years hence it is still such a warm, vivid memory will compensate.

The last few years, I simply "cruised in"... flying in from wherever (Australia once, the most exotic that I remember), poured myself a glass of wine and enjoyed the glow -- of the tree, the music, the fireplace, the munchies, the company. Inevitably, I would have a bundle of gifts with me, all as-yet-unwrapped ... and The Mom would send me to her impeccably decked out 'Wrapping Station' (how many houses do you know with a WRAPPING STATION?!?!) 5 choices of paper? Check. Cute gift cards? Check. Bags for awkwardly sized gifts? Check. Tape, scissors, assorted ribbons: Check. Check. Check. (My Ex once observed in awe that Christmas wrapping at our house was a competitive sport.)

When I had forgotten something smashing and festive to wear to the party, The Mom would stop her party preparations to find me something in her closet.

Big ole' party on the 23rd. Christmas eve dinner and all the trimmings (complete with clever games and interesting party favors at everyone's place) on the 24th. Homemade breakfast Christmas morning, including Mom's famous sticky buns. Mimosas. Thoughtful gifts all around. Smartly-stuffed Stockings that had miraculously appeared overnight. Some sort of luncheon spread Christmas day.

I know now, many years older and wiser, that 'twas the night before christmas ... not a creature was stirring ...' is all absolute crap. It has to be. Those poor elves are probably still up stuffing, wrapping, or assembling. It is no wonder that my most consistent memories of Christmas afternoon at our house was of Mom and Dad napping.

As I scramble now (T-minus ONE WEEK to arrival!) to prepare to entertain our tiny troupe of four (The Mom, UBlend, and the Rugrat) for MY first hosting (and it will be all of our first Christmas outside of the US), the pressure is on. Because I have a string of more than thirty years' worth of wonderful Christmas memories that it's my turn to pay forward. Because I'm sure I never said 'thank you' enough for how wonderful it always was. Because everytime a bell rings, an angel gets his wings. Because the elves that have gone before me never let me down. And, ooooh boy, do I have a new found respect for them.

Trial By Fire (Word of the Day: Bruciare)

Bruciare= to burn. Used in a sentence, "my hands are a bit burned tonight." (I miei mani sono un po' bruciati stasera). And I ultimately have Renaissance Artist to thank for this.

Last Saturday night, we were together at the Cacciatore for dinner. R.A., in a conversation with Patrizia (one of the owners) suggested that next week, I would come in for cooking lessons on their (open wood fire!) grill.

Not wanting to impose, but also not wanting to seem ... well, rude or overly presumptuous ... I wasn't certain what to do. R.A. asked me yesterday on the phone if I was going, and I laughed him off. (Though it should be said, my Saturday social calendar wasn't exactly full.) At lunch today, Paolo said that I should arrive at 6 to eat with the staff 'before work.' I responded that I couldn't come by 6, but could be there by 7 (before the 'dinner shift' at 8).

I arrived (with my hair tied back and toting my own apron), completely uncertain as to what to expect. I strove for an 'unobtrusive and casual' demeanor as I watched early preparations in the kitchen. I learned the 'double boiler' trick for heating up pasta sauce. The rest of the women didn't quite know how to react to me and of course my Italian is too stilted to make casual banter to set them at ease. Patrizia started to explain a few things to me. She showed me how she fried up day-old bread in oil to add to the polenta. She explained the pasta boiler. She showed me how to cut and season meat (this tiny little woman can wield one mean cleaver, and one the size of my forearm, no less!!!). She told me that 'tonight was going to be hard' - (my cue to get out of the way?!?): there are two parties of 15 people each arriving at 9pm, and they all want meat: the grill would be busy. She showed me the basics.

For those (almost all!) of you who haven't seen it, this restaurant has a giant open wood fire, behind a wall of glass, so everyone in the restaurant can 'watch' what's going on. As I stood back there, I felt like an exotic dancer of sorts -- only one with NO IDEA what to do next.

There's a flat grill that sits in FRONT of a wood burning fire (at normal waist height, thank god for small favors...) Using a shovel, you pull embers from the bottom of the fire to distribute under the 'grill' to cook on. We started slowly, with the lamb -- nearly finishing it then pulling it off the grill and leaving the final cooking for later.

Patrizia showed me the art of putting the 'big steaks' ('tbone') on, leaving the thickest, bone-heavy side to the hottest part of the fire. Waiting and turning only once for things that need to be 'sangue' (med/rare). It was a great lesson. I had thought I would get a few simple tips, then quietly duck out so as not to be in their way.

Patrizia leaves me there for a bit, with the lamb. Then adds a few steaks. Then a piece of chicken. Then some sausage. All the sudden, I have a grill full of meat and I'm alone.

"I've grilled dinner for myself, family and friends hundreds of times" (I said to myself).

Self responded: "Yeah, but usually some testosterone-laden guy comes and takes over the grill after about 2 minutes, either trying to be helpful or to show off, and you're all-too-willing to let him do it..."

At its' off-season (winter) capacity, the restaurant holds about 45-50 people. And it was full, the big Saturday night on the town. The specialty of the Cacciatore (meaning 'hunter') is meat on the grill. (And on the busiest night of the week, there's some random American woman not normally reknowned for her culinary skills at the fire? What's WRONG with this picture?!?)

Agnello (lamb). Salsiccia (sausage). Pollo e spiedino misto (chicken and mixed kabobs). Pancetta (thick bacon). Fiorentina, Filetto e Tagliata (all versions of steak.) Giant racks of pork ribs (I *think* the casual word they used for this was 'rosicciana' - which, upon looking it up in the dictionary later means 'nibbled or gnawed,' which makes sense. I'll have to go back and check on this one.)

At this point, the proverbial fit hits the shan: 9pm. Me, still alone, on the grill. The two tables of 15 arrive, plus the 7 or so other tables of 2 or 4 who are already in process. Orders flying back and forth. Meat keeps coming at me. Turning what I have. Adding more in the empty spaces. Stacking up in a cooler corner meat that is ready for the table being slow with their pasta.

Plating the right orders at the right moment. Remembering which one is more cooked vs. less; which of the Fiorentinas has no seasoning. Pulling more embers forward. Trying not to lose the thin strips of pancetta in between the grill slats or puncture the salsiccia. Throwing more logs on the fire (adding wood from the bottom of the fire, a great way to keep steady heat if you've got the opportunity!)

All in bare hands. With one long grill fork and a table knife.

Thank god I had thought ahead and tucked a bandanna in my jeans pocket! At every spare moment, I ducked around the corner (out of the big glass window!) and wiped the sweat from my brow.

I can do this. Flip. Flip. Switch hands when the heat is too hot to bear on my right one (it's the hair singeing that gives it away). I can do this. Wipe brow with arm. Breathe. Flip, Flip. Turn, look out at crowd (thankful noone is paying a bit of attention to the strange new girl at the grill).

Time flew by; two and a half hours. Patrizia came back with three Fiorentina steaks, the last of the evening. The last batch of ribs were finishing. The fire was slowing.

"Brava." Just one word from her, and I finally started to breathe again.

From one of the waitresses: "it's not an easy job, you know, especially the first time. You did really well. "

Many years from now, I will still look back on tonight as proudly as I am right this minute. Yes - my hands are un po' bruciata: (read: red and tender), but none -- NONE -- of the food got burned. One filetto was returned for a little more cooking, because a child was eating it and wanted it 'really really done'. But other than that, I was - if I may sing my own praises for a moment - a monu-freakin'-mental success. In a strange kitchen. On an open fire. With a shitload of meat and no earthly idea what I was doing. Working with five other people in a kitchen in a language that I have -- under the BEST of circumstances -- only a basic grasp on.

I walked away from the empty grill, Patrizia told me to go out to the bar and have a drink. I gladly accepted a beer from Paolo, and a cold beer has never tasted so good. It should be said that this woman is either totally nuts or some sort of santa della cucina (kitchen saint): turning her grill, and therefore her livelihood and reputation, on a busy night over to a stranger (and an English speaking one, to boot). I honestly do not know another cook who would have. Trial, literally, by fire. Though people do rise to the occasion when someone expects us to; and she believed - expected - that I would do just fine.

And I did.

Sip. Breathe. Appreciate cool air. Sip. Smile. "Brava."

I know pride is one of the seven deadly sins. It's not very often I say this, but damnit, I'm awfully proud of myself tonight. And I'm okay with that. If you end up in hell, ask for my party ... I've got a table reserved. And, judging from my recent performance, I'll probably be grilling.

What's "Martha" in Italian?

Some people may call my 'yard' some sort of a wilderness, forest, lots of trees and no other houses. Up until about a week ago, I was in that camp, too.

This week, it became a giant 'Michaels'. (US craft and hobby store).

Determined to be living the 'real life' here, I have basically refrained thus far from buying any Christmas decorations (except some spraypaint and little white lights .. TWELVE EUROS FOR A BOX OF 180?!?!?). With the help of the much more-visionary-than-I Renaissance Artist, we set out last weekend to harvest Christmas decorating fodder from the land.

He was gathering to decorate the hotel for Christmas, and I tagged along: if it's good enough for a Five Star "grande dame" Hotel, then it should be more than enough for my little stone house!

Armed with a roomful of cuttings from everything imaginable (oak, holly, pine, cypress, broom, pinecones, cardoons, rose hips, etc.) and a few cans of spraypaint, I went to town.


By Sunday afternoon, I was having so much fun that I started making arrangements to take to my friends in town (Paolo at the restaurant, Federico at the coffeebar, Daniele at the phone card place, Paolo and Carla at the AGIP station.) I spent all Sunday night and Monday morning in the basement, happily humming along to the Christmas carols, sipping wine and feeling like the Italian version of Martha Stewart: "Why of course, NOW it looks like a slightly dead and diseased branch that was cut back from an oak tree taking over the front yard. But just add some silver spraypaint, and VOILA, it becomes a perfect addition to a festive holiday bouquet!"

I'm going with greens, plus touches of purple, hot pink, orange and silver in my house. (More traditional reds, greens, and golds for the gift arrangements).


Tomorrow, I'll pick up the actual tree. (Though apparently, tree-decorating is a relatively new phenomenon here in Italy.) Interesting fact: by law, all fresh trees here are sold with the roots on. (How very earth-friendly, though after a number of years, I bet small yards start to look pretty nasty with all those old Christmas trees planted.)

So, instead of 'glass balls' my tree will have purple spraypainted thistles and acorns. Instead of tinsel, it will have silver glittery spraypainted clumps of spiky 'broom' tucked in. We'll see how it goes. There's always that quaint popcorn stringing option if it's really horrible... !

Chiave-palooza

Chiave (pronounced kee-ah-vay) is the Italian word for key. I *think* in Italian this would be (not that any Italian in their right mind would ever say this, but:) a veritable "festa degli chiavi" (the party of the keys), or, to americanize it a bit ... a 'Chiavepalooza'.

Thirty. Count 'em. Keys to my house. Crazy. And I use about 10-12 of them on a pretty regular basis. My favorites are the two big old ones, though. They barely fit in a pocket. (Hmmmm, is that a big ole' skeleton key in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?) Perhaps they're my favorite because they're super-swanky-'everything old is new again' cool, and perhaps it's because one opens the wine cellar. You make the call.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas...

It goes without saying that I have the best friends in the world.

THIS is my very first Christmas tree here in Italy, which arrived just this moment by courier, a "get in the spirit!" gift from UBlend.

It's hard to see details in the pic, but it's decorated with purple stars, brightly colored balls, and all these darling dangly women ornaments saying things like "If the shoe fits, buy it in every color" and "New shoes, red wine, big diamond rings... these are a few of my favorite things!" All being held in the arms of a cuddly personalized bear (I was there when the bear was 'born' but that's a longer story... suffice it to say, it's nice to see the finished product for my very self!).

As I unwrapped it, I got a little misty: I'm a total sucker for 'thoughtful'. And I love having the non-traditional Christmas house ... purple, pink, orange, and silver this year. It's like he read my mind.

I just called to thank him. Of course, there's a saga behind everything: the (protectionist) Italian government won't let you ship "toys" into Italy so he had to fill out the customs form twice at the post office ('go back in line, do a new form, and we'll pretend we didn't have this conversation'). I laughed as he described it to me: "okay, so it's not a stuffed animal, it's a PILLOW."

And on this end, the courier collected a 22.61 Euro customs fee from me. Probably because of the clandestine bear. But it was MORE than worth it for my dose of Christmas cheer from the States.

Word of the Day: Cazzeggiare

Advice to all ye language learners out there: you know you're making progress when you're learning words not in the dictionary.

This one is the end of a long story, that started with Simon not having heat when I picked him up last Friday.

Of course, the house didn't have heat either, which was deemed the priority for that moment.

Simon, it is now discovered, needs a new radiator. Which is covered under the mandatory one year warranty for all cars sold ... even those for only 1000 Euros.(okay, there IS something to be said for a basically protectionist society...!)

After seeking the advice of sweet Paolo, 'il mio angelo di macchine' (my angel of the cars) here in my neighborhood, he told me what the problem was (so he was sure I wasn't taken advantage of,) then sent me back to the dealership (an hour away) with that information. They in turn sent us to THEIR mechanics.

Part is being ordered. Due in equal parts to language (and Florentine DIALECT!) struggles, lack of technical vocabulary, and admitted total disinterest in the inner workings of a car engine, I caught about 1/3 of the conversation that was going on between Il Cavaliere and the mechanic: the upshot of which is that they will call when the part arrives, 'maybe Monday or Tuesday'.

As we drove away (still-able-to-see-our-breath-inside-Simon), Il Cavaliere explained:

IC: (clearly troubled.) "Sadly, what this means is that you have to live with a car with no heat for a few more days."

V: "If it is safe to drive, it is no problem; but my feet are very cold driving in this car now. I will have to go buy socks made of wool."

IC: "And you also need better shoes, like mine. Yours are too dainty and not warm"

V: "I already have better boots, but I only wear them in the country."

IC: "You should have better city boots. Next week, you will have to bring the car back one morning. Then we will have to go 'cazzegiare' at the shopping center for a while while they fix it. While we are doing that, we can buy you better shoes for your cold feet."

I burst out laughing. Not having heard 'cazzegiare' specifically before, but combining it with Il Cavaliere's frustration with the situation and understanding its root word, I caught the gist of it.

At the end of the day today, I had IC write it down for me (visual learner that I am...): "La prossima settimana, IC. & V. vanno a Gigli a cazzegiare e a comprare gli scarponcelli per i piedi freddi di Viaggiatore."

Cazzegiare: (literally) - to 'dick around'. Probably casually interpreted as generally do nothing, goof off, screw around, or dilly-dally... but it is when you can casually throw around 'cazzegiare' that you know you're getting somewhere. The measure of fluency is always in slang.

Yes, a week later, brand-newish Simon needs a new radiator (still has no heat), and we're still dicking around with it. And somehow, it all seems charming not frustrating. There's gotta be something in the wine here that takes off what would otherwise be my sharp prickly edges about this situation!