The Home by the Sea

In my kitchen, I am confident. I can cook a feast for 30 while only breaking into a light sweat. I can bake perfectly formed cupcakes with creamy centers and light enticing frosting at a moments notice. I have been having a life long love affair with my Calphalon frying pans and me and my knife... well, we are best friends. BUT, when I am taken out of my kitchen, out of my element, when I am placed into unfamiliar territory, such as in a tiny kitchen by the sea about 45 minutes south of Salerno, a kitchen complete with a strong Italian mama, my previously mentioned skills dissipate. I looked down in horror at the head of lettuce, the simple task of tearing each leaf causing my hands to shake. 

“Am I taking too little time to wash the salad? Am I taking to long?? When the hell was the last time I washed my lettuce?? Am I tearing into pieces insultingly small? Oh dear God, does she want me to squeeze the lemon on the salad? How much is too much? What if this is the cleanest most sour salad to ever exist in the history of all creation? Where is a tornado siren when you need one???”   

Antonietta Raffaella rules her kitchen with an iron strength earned from 45 years of marriage, raising two children now going gray and chasing after three energetic grandchildren. She is a tiny woman, not quite reaching 5 feet, with a sturdy build and patches of pale vitiligo affected skin dotting her capable hands and feet.  Her short puff of hair is tinted red, matching her cardinal colored nails, and her smile is well etched into the lines of her face. Beyond raising her own children, she dedicated her life to helping others through her work as a nurse to mentally and physically handicapped children and young adults. At the wise age of 66 years, she has well earned her summers in the little house by the sea.

Rizziero, Rafaella’s husband, endearingly known to some as “Baffone” (The Big Moustache,) is a bulldog of a man, with the arms and legs of a triathlete and the belly of one who is blessed with an extremely talented wife in the kitchen. He is the definition of a man’s man with his dark hair, sun bronzed skin and forceful personality. He spent his entire career building and inspecting cars at the end of one of Fiat’s assembly lines and in his retirement, he obsesses over crossword puzzles and falls asleep while sitting at the dinner table, his head slowly drooping into his afternoon expresso. He lives loudly, full of generous emotion and when he heads off to the bathroom, his adult children (who really should know better) snicker and say “ scimmie con le scarpe da ginnastica ai piedi.” (it smells like he ate monkeys and gym shoes.)

Rizziero is from the old guard.. the generation who knew how to find dinner in the sea, how to fix cars, how to hold a hammer, how to repair one’s house, the generation who voted for the communist party and still would if one currently existed in Italy, the generation who believes wives tales such as “wet hair will cause migraines” and “one should never open the refrigerator barefoot,” the generation whose hands don’t fit comfortably on a computer keyboard...the generation in which people spoke face to face to one another.

Every August, Raffaella and Rizziero play host to family and friends in their little house by the sea, while living by the motto that “to feed is to love.” Guests are embraced as family and are given food and drink to a near bursting point, and after a week of sun, sand, wine and quiet evenings, one cannot leave their orbit without a bag of potatoes grown in their own garden. 

However, their’s has not always been an easy path, and there were times in their many years together when one thought seriously of leaving the other. But even so, even as the breeze through the window carries the smell of the sea and they fall into a comfortable bickering, Raffaella leans her head towards Rizziero and their chairs are close. 

Dangerous Ciambelle!

my downfall...

I knew as soon as I saw the little ciambella, that I must have it, but I also knew that to have one would likely cause great physical distress. However, one must weigh moments of true happiness carefully in comparison to the potential resulting pain..

We were strolling one cool summer evening, through the final night of a Partito Democratico festival (the left leaning political party of Italy’s current fresh faced leader, Renzi.) We passed by stalls and tents full of used books, incense, free Tibet info, pizza, assorted sweets and hippy clothes (otherwise known as ‘clothes I like to wear.’) I stopped to watch at one stall as a man shaped dough into hand sized rounds before dropping them into a giant deep fryer. On another counter, hot, golden fried orbs glistened as they cooled. Two woman then liberally doused each doughy bite of heaven with sugar before arranging them as a display to tempt ravenous pilgrims such as myself.  

Unfortunately though, there are two types of food that, without fail, cause a nearly immediate need for a toilet... ‘Deep Fried’ and ‘Creme.’ But there are two types of food that I truly love... 

After walking by the ciambelle stall 3 times, I decided to ignore ALL past experiences with my digestive system. As I lovingly picked my very own sweet ciambella, the server woman gestured to multiple pastry bags full of potential filling... chocolate creme, vanilla creme, limoncello creme, Nutella (holy mother of GOD!!) I gestured to the simple vanilla and watched as she stabbed the center of my ciambella, inflating it with euphoric amounts of fatty goodness.

I picked up my newly adopted ciambella.. now weighing in at at least a kilo, and I bit through the golden crispy outside, tasting the soft warm spongy center. Oil dripped onto my fingers and hands as my lips became coated with sugar. My eyes rolled back as I sighed rapturously, thanking the gods in all forms.

Ten minutes later...

“Oh No, we need to go home NOW!”

“We are about 30 minutes away. Can you make it?”

“I think so..” said haltingly while breaking into a cold sweat..

Italy’s Florentine 13th-century poet Dante (otherwise known as Il Sommo Poeta,) devised many gleefully imaginative punishments for woeful sinners in his Purgatorio; the envious had their eyes sewn shut, the proud crushed under rocks, the slothful forced to run incessantly. However, I propose a change to his punishment of the gluttonous. Rather than having the overeaters starve while surrounded by overly tall trees full of succulent fruit, I propose that the punishment for a life lived stuffing one’s self silly must include a lengthy (years long) ride on the back of a scooter, over painfully uneven cobblestones while one’s intestines are trying to turn themselves inside out.   

SamPietrini is the endearing name of the heavy, square volcanic stones that pave the tiny streets of Rome’s city center. Sharing the namesake of the basilica that centers the catholic church, these little Saint Peters add character and loveliness to an ancient city. They also add misery and torment to the life of those who head downtown to overindulge in the culinary joys of Italy. We raced home over the crooked bumpy streets while I prayed to a sadistic Saint Peter and tried to internally manage the waves of abdominal cramping. Despite the unimagined closed roads, despite backtracking, despite catching every red light (which is only a suggestion to stop...) despite getting stuck behind not just one but TWO buses on narrow streets, We made it home before digestive armageddon.. just..

Twenty minutes later...

As I sat exhausted on the couch, the cold sweat and spasms receding, I reflected on the night’s events.

“I really wish I had another ciambella right now ”  

Mangiare

Sometimes I am asked why I keep returning to Italy. However, I usually just shake my head slightly and smile to myself. “Pfft.. silly question!” 

Alessandra, Mimmo and their son Tommaso, live in a fifth floor apartment about 3 miles north of the Vatican.  While no bigger than my old Andersonville apartment (which is HUGE by Roman standards!) Alessandra and Mimmo’s upper class home is filled with warmth, plants and beautiful books. Located on the top floor of the building, this lovely home boasts a stunning patio that extends the entire length and width of the apartment and overlooks a garden shop below. With multiple chairs and tables, a swing, a well loved foosball table, a plethora of healthy growing herbs, a couple fruit trees and enough plants to rival the garden center below, it is clear that life is lived on the patio. 

I arrived to a mixture of family, friends and work companions.. some of whom fell into all three categories, mingling on the patio. Luca, a confident, middle aged, fit pilot with impeccable english, cut limes and mixed drinks with the intensity of a nuclear scientist. I sipped a shockingly potent Caipirinha, a Brazilian drink made of lime, sugar cane and Cachaca (a liquor distilled from sugar cane,) and as the level of my drink slid lower, the warm tingling in my fingers and toes became more prominent.

L’aperitivo (or the meal before the meal,) consisted of drinks and little bowls of nuts and crackers placed strategically throughout the patio. People chatted happily while heaping salsa di salmone and tzatziki onto their crackers and children raced and weaved between the adults. Men gathered loudly around the foosball table, their overly enthusiastic play gradually shifting the table across the floor. 

As Alessandra set plate after delicious plate onto sturdy tables, we drifted happily towards our seats. I sat next to beautiful Isabella, the perfectly poised and kind wife of Luca who laughed and said “this is Italy,” while gesturing to our unconsciously gender segregated seating. I reached forward to giddily load my plate... pizza di ceci (chickpea pizza made by the talented Teresa,) pasta with smoked salmon, sesame seeds and cilantro, salad, and mozzarella di bufala (mozzarella the size of softballs.) I unwittingly asked a friend how to say “fresh mozzarella” in Italian and received a look of horror.. “but mozzarella is ALWAYS fresh!?”

Multiple bottles of rich red wine were passed around as Alessandra set the next course on the table, Pasta con ricotta, cherry tomatoes, basil, and black pepper.  While I ate to bursting, yet another course appeared, flavorful roasted zucchini and eggplant. The children, three adolecent girls and two boys, having no interest in vegetables or the adults lingering over them, slipped off to find their own amusement. Rather than rushing off to computers or Ipads, the kids had instead set up a store in Tommaso‘s room, selling little unwanted knick knacks and assorted hotel lotions. Lacking cash, I traded a Chicago button pin for an owl bracelet.  

I returned to my seat, gleefully accepted a glass of Vueve Cliquot and settled in for the dessert course(s).. I dipped my spoon into a tiny cup of sweet, light watermelon jelly and fresh creme, while recognizing that I would HAVE TO try the little cup of apricots and creme. I drooled over a plate of delectable beautiful pastries filled with an assortment of pistachio, creme, chocolate and fruit, and I nearly wept in gratitude as the profiteroles appeared in front of me (profiteroles are tiny little balls of pure blissful joy… one who eats them immediately attains nirvana) 

I ate until my stomach filled to my esophagus, while people drank expresso in the cutest daintiest little disposable cups I have ever seen and bowls of cherries and plums were passed around. As I waddled to the front door at the end of an evening of irrepressible gluttony, a bag of profiteroles and plums, fresh from the patio garden, was handed to me.

Sometimes I am asked why I keep returning to Italy.  "Pfft…"

        

Mac & Cheese and Jose Cuervo..

The problem with trying to have an emotional breakdown is that often times, the mundane details of life interrupt. I simply want to hide in my bed and cry, I want to forget everything, I want to drink to numb off the edges, I want my mind, for one moment, to be quiet. But just as I am pulling up my covers and letting myself sink into melodramatic despair... “Jen, you idiot!  It’s now July and you forgot to buy your car's city sticker!”  As I shut down that overly practical thought and reach for a glass of alcohol, my phone beeps..”Jen, did you go to Rome? If you are here, there is a funeral..Can you cantor?”  Life, it seems, doesn’t allow time for wallowing. 

Right now, I should be on a plane crossing the ocean. I should be hours away from warmth and my dear Saint Peter, but because I am a coward, I am in my bed with mac & cheese and Jose Cuervo. I miss my Saint Peter, but he would likely be ashamed of me right now anyway. I can’t make decisions and yet I can’t keep trying on different choices like the day’s clothing. I can’t expect people to be there for me when I am unable to be there for them. And so, I try to take myself out of the equation, to stop from failing myself and everyone around me... I make choices.. and then I panic that I made the wrong choice.. and then I am back where I started.. in bed with mac & cheese and Jose Cuervo. And just as I finally feel the tingling warmth of the second shot, just as the circles in my mind slow...

“Jen, buy your damn city sticker!”
“Oh, Peter..” 

Life Tastes like Wine...

An entry for the DaVinci Storyteller Competition...

I had walked for hours, sweat and dust caking into areas that I had never really given thought to before; my eyebrows, my salty upper lip, behind my ears and knees. I had passed row after endless row of celery green grapevines and I had begun to obsessively plan my first swallow of evening wine. As my mind fixated on thoughts of full strong flavors and the resulting warmth of dazed limbs, my body reveled in the dry heat of the Rioja sun.  After nearly a week of walking the pilgrimage across northern Spain to Santiago (Saint James) I was moments away from reaching the fabled wine fountain at the Bodegas Irache. I stumbled up the last remaining steps, already tasting the heady wine, and I gleefully turned the lever, my hand posed to catch the precious drops. And…? 

Nothing!!
"Son of a B%@$#!!!!"  

I had been thwarted by the many pilgrims faster than I, who were at that moment carrying camelbacks full of wine. (as a side note, rubber flavored warm wine drank from a camelback is truly foul.) 

While I suspect that I would have difficulty discerning a $15 bottle of wine from a $100 bottle of wine, I have come to the conclusion that the world occasionally stops to collectively take a sip and who am I to refuse?!  Wine has marked so many moments; a smooth glass of red with an old man in Genova, an exploding bottle of cheap Cava among laughing friends in front of Saint James,  A bottle of Lambrusco shared with a sunset viewed from the top of a mountain, a plastic cup toast of expensive Prosecco in Saint Peter's Square, a sacred taste of holy communion, a crisp white wine while staring into the eyes of a new lover... Occasionally, life tastes like wine.  

I have a good life. I live in a beautiful city and teach music to a bunch of overly precocious kids in Chicago's north shore. (I will not admit to the amount of times that I have been coerced into playing "Let it Go" from Frozen.) On the weekends, I tutor English as a second language, cantor for masses and play gigs. But sometimes, the cold of the Chicago winter seeps below my skin, permeating through my bones. In these moments, there is nothing for me to do but to pack my bag, grab my ukulele and my passport and head off in search of a new adventure. 

When there are moments in which practicalities prevent me from escaping Chicago's hectic cold, I must simply stop to take stock of the memories I have made and the stories I have brought home to share with my students, family and friends. These moments are jumbled together into one solid blanket of warmth…Buying pounds of chocolate and overindulging with giggling orphans and nuns in Peru, petting a sheep at 2 am one rainy night in Ireland, Sharing crackers with a donkey in Liguria, watching socks dry next to the sea in France, incurring the wrath of an Italian mother in Rome, blowing raspberries with a family in Riomaggiore...  

I have hugged haystacks, sang Edelweiss with german nuns, peed in fields, won an ugly ceramic chicken while playing Tombola, experienced delicious street food in Thailand (and the unfortunate intestinal response..) I have counted stars, fallen in and out of love, chased saints, hugged gods, slept with bedbugs, stolen fruit, and sang Puccini while crossing the River Arno. I have built and breathed dreams . Oh yes, I have lived. And at the end of each day, I have raised a glass, or a bottle, or a box, or a plastic cup (or a camelback) and I have toasted to the warmth of this beautiful world.

"So Jen, what will your next adventure be?"

"Well…hmm…"

Shared warmth..

Each Sunday before the 8:30am mass is set to begin, an elderly couple comes in through the side door. The grey moustached husband quietly leads his wife to the front pew, sees her settled and then heads to the back of the church to attend to his duty as an usher. The wife's appearance hints at a life lived with grit, joy and fullness, as she has tattoos on her arms, dark mascara around her lovely blue eyes, hair that will eternally be blond, faded jeans, and a smile that lights the air around her. On many such morning, she has pulled me in for a hug, or given my hand an extra squeeze and I have discovered that these little moments are so important to me. 

Lately though, she has been moving a bit slower, standing a little less tall, seeming confused a bit more often. She grips her husband's arm a little tighter and he holds her a little more carefully. With each Sunday, a little more time has passed, taking cruelly from us and returning to us things which we don't realize we need. But as Sunday's mass begins, I step up to the podium with  my normal sweaty palms, shaky knees, and rapidly pounding heart. However, as I look past the sheet music and useless anxieties in front of me, I see her smiling from the first pew. She beams up at me, her warmth a welcome benediction.   I share in her smile, take a deep breath and … "Good Morning and welcome to Saint Gregory.  Today the Church celebrates Palm Sunday…" 

True religion is real living; living with all one's soul, with all one's goodness and righteousness.

Albert Einstein

Too much is not Enough..

When I was in grade school, my family spent a year living in an apartment complex of about 20 large three story buildings, interspersed with parking lots. The long hot summer days, generally found me locked out of the house and left to discover my own means of entertainment. This included such things as finding a swing set, playing hide and seek with neighbor kids, searching the grass for four leaf clovers, reading under a tree or just generally, allowing the imagination to take over. However, there were many days that stretched overly long... endless days when I would scour the parking lots looking for lost change while the sound of the ice cream truck ceaselessly taunted. I kicked at the litter and bent to look under cars, always with the hope of finding a simple coin or two. My family never had spare change.

When I was 15 and in foster care, I owned just enough clothes for two loads of laundry, one load of lights and and one load of darks. One afternoon as the sun slanted through the laundry room window, I pulled my warm light load out of the dryer only to discover that I had forgotten to take a wayward cherry chapstick out of one of the pockets. Everything was stained with pink greasy spots. In one careless moment, I had ruined half of everything I owned.   

Two years later, I had told a girlfriend of mine that I could not go to a school dance because I had nothing, no shoes, no jewelry, no way to be pretty. A few days after, she handed me a delicate pearl necklace and bracelet set that her mom had bought for me and though I don't have memories of the actual dance, I do still have the pearls. 

My sophomore year of college, I had used the last of my spare change to buy a $.39 box of elbow macaroni and an even cheaper can of tomato paste at the local Aldi discount store. (It's frightening that I still remember the exact cost..) I stood in my kitchen, cooking my poor man's meal and as I added pepper, the lid of the shaker came off, dousing my entire meal. As I ate my foul tasting dinner, helpless tears filled my eyes, brought on by thoughts of my empty bank account and exacerbated by an abundance of pepper in my sinuses. 

Much time has passed and life has changed. I can now buy a pair of pretty earrings without too much thought, I can afford things that were out of reach when I was younger... olive oil, shoes with support, cheese NOT made by Kraft, Italian coffee, honey, soft toilet paper, Lindt.. I have a closet full of clothes and I no longer suffer sinus infections and sore throats for weeks before gathering the funds to go to a doctor. And a dead battery in my car no longer sends me into a depressed downward spiral as it it now easily addressed. I am by no means, rich, but I no longer feel hunger pangs. However, my life is full of reminders...

Before heading down to Peru as a teacher when I was 27 years old, I packed my bags with school books and 60 packs of crayons as the school had requested. Upon settling into the dusty Andean town, Puno, I headed to the school with my massive bag of crayons. As I handed a pack out to each student, I watched in amazement as something so ordinary was worth it's weight in gold in the excited eyes of my young students. 

Years later, I was leading a youth choir rehearsal which had just finished as one young member passed around a couple boxes of addictive girl scout cookies. I watched as another member, a preteen boy furtively took one entire sleeve of cookies out and clumsily slipped them into his pocket. Another singer noticed as well, a young girl who generally says Everything, yet in this particular case, she held silent. We didn't want to say anything as our young cookie snatcher had spent years as a refugee and his life had held difficulties that we couldn't fathom. However, I could perfectly imagine him, safe yet insecure in his new world,  home alone and unwrapping his cookie treasure. He and I would eventually have a chat, but that would come later. 

While completing my TEFL certification, I began assisting with an English language class at Centro Romero in Chicago's Rogers Park neighborhood. I help out on Thursdays with a classroom full of incredibly intelligent warm immigrant adults who generally work too hard for too little. A few weeks ago, the teacher, a beautiful vivacious middle age colombian woman, brought in mexican sweetbreads for everyone. As I thoughtlessly bit into mine, I looked around the class, noticing how some students meticulously wrapped napkins around their bread, to save for later, while others carefully split theirs in two, some for now and some for another time.  I thought about the differing value of such a simple item, and the unexpected pleasure of receiving a quiet gift. 

Saint James and Saint Peter are all about simplicity. A pilgrim agonizes while packing for the Camino since each item in one's back pack will have to be carried for over 500 miles.. "Do I really need a phone for each country AND the corresponding adapters, Do I really want to carry makeup through the Pyrenees, How much bug spray do I really need?" (I rethought that last one after I had left my bug spray behind only to later be devoured by devil's spawn tiger mosquitos..) "Will I really wear that extra dress? Do I really need a solar charger? Will I really carry a little ceramic owl ornament all the way to Rome?" (yes.. and back to Chicago..) As I left certain things along the way and acquired other things to carry, I realized that what was in my back pack was quite irrelevant, as irrelevant as the contents of my closets and home. 

After all, sometimes when I have everything, 

everything is not enough and other times, when I have nothing,

 I have everything I need.