A Real Italian Christmas

This year represents my fourth holiday season in Italy, and tonight, Christmas Eve, is the first time I spent it with an Italian family. Many similarities, a few differences. The real joy of the evening, for me, were the 7-year-old girl and 9-year-old boy who believe in Babbo Natale (Santa Clause).

The tradition in Italy is Santa Clause arrives at mezzanotte (midnight) of Christmas Eve to bring the gifts. Christmas Day is a day to relax and have another large meal. (More food!)  No TV, no calcio (Italian soccer), and no football (American-style) is watched on the 25th.  Fat old Santa, I thought, would never fit down the chimney because the flue is pretty narrow and Santa's bacino (pelvis) is a bit wide.  It turns out, Santa rang the doorbell at right about midnight. Babbo Natale arrived with armfuls of gifts.  The little girl is rather furba (clever, smart, sharp), and she immediately called Babbo Natale on it.  "E'  babbo!"  (It's Dad!)  "It's Dad's face, Dad's shoes!"  And then she commented, "Your belt is made of paper.  It's not a real belt."

I do not know if these kids believe in Santa or have already learned how to play the game, but all those doubts about Babbo Natale were soon replaced with the excitement of the gifts.  Just like everywhere, the wrappings and ribbons did not last long while the children clawed to get at the hidden treasures.

Meanwhile, the evening proceeded.  Good food was prepared and eaten.  Lots of Italian was spoken.  I tried to keep up.  I even tried to joke in Italian. Everyone said my Italian is very good.  I believed none of them until Andrea, the 9-year-old, piped in and said, "E' vero" (It's true). For me, the ultimate compliment is for a child to tell me my Italian is excellent. Finally, I believe and accept that my Italian just might be better than I think. I value kids' opinions (especially in this regard) because kids are usually straight up. I have often wondered what do children not necessarily old enough to "understand" that Italian is my second language think when they encounter someone like me.  It was the way Andrea piped up with "E' vero" that convinced me.  It was as if he knew better than anyone else, and his compliment was not patronizing like often the adults who say I speak well might be.  My Christmas present.

After the festivities -- the food, the conversations, the smiles, and the gifts -- I descended the 89 steps back to the street with a belly overstuffed from too much indulgence, where, to my surprise, I saw many people out on the street with perhaps no real purpose but to amble about with everyone else.  And then it hit me.  Inside or outside, everyone was with someone...even if they were with everyone.  During my short walk home, I overheard many kids speaking with their parents about Babbo Natale and observed the knowing smiles of their parents as they replied.  A few winks here and there, and I finally understood.  English is my mother tongue; Italian, my adopted language.  But universal is people.  Even if we do not speak the other person's language well or at all, we still (can) communicate.

The kids taught me that. Christmas suddenly took on a new meaning.  A fun evening to see it through the eyes of young children and their parents. And what presents I received!

Merry Christmas

-- Giosalina 
    Firenze, Italia

My Dog, Mabel, Leaves for her Holiday in Campi Bisenzio, Florence, Italy

written by La Mamma Ansiosa

Today Mabel packed her suitcase -- a blue Ikea bag filled with her favorite things, food, and toiletries -- and has left to begin her week-long vacation with a family in Campi Bisenzio, a suburb of Florence, Italy. Her adopted Italian family for the week includes the two cutest 2 and 5 year olds, Niccolo and Sara, with gorgeous giant globes for eyes.  It is like summer language camp.  Mabel will have a week of immersion and return home with a much stronger understanding of the Italian language and culture.  (I want to go to summer camp too.) The little girl arrived with a couple of her stuffed animals to take Mabel to her house.  I do hope Sara will hold on tight to her toys because Mabel has a thing about hoarding other dogs' and children's toys.  She places them under her neck and all around her body, and when the dog or child wants one of their toys back, Mabel just looks at them very smuggly as if to say "haahaa, you can't have it" while the other wimpers and cries afraid to reclaim the toy.

Mabel sprawled out on two of her beds on a hot day

I hope Mabel and her host family will enjoy many adventures and lots of fun together.

Mabel was unaware that she is going on vacation and that I will not join her.  After the children were buckled into their car seats, Mabel climbed into the back of the SUV and settled in.  We closed the door after many kisses.  My heart broke as they all drove off.  Mabel looked at me, her eyes fixed on me, not understanding why I was left behind.  The look in her eyes was as though she thought that would be the last time she would ever see me.

I cried.  

But meanwhile, there is the mommy, La Mamma Ansiosa.  That would be me. I am in favor of Mabel going off and exploring new things, but she is still my baby.  

A giant sea separates attachment and detachment. Letting go is very painful for those of us who suffer from our attachments.  But in this case, I know we will soon see each other again in just under a week.  

Non vedo l'ora. I can't wait / I look forward to it.

Wild Goose Chase

I showed up at the agreed-upon place and time to go enjoy a pizza with a small group of people ... and ended up going out with just one of the group, my friend "G'io."  

G'io is a Florentine who insists there is no good food to be found within the city.  I am no food snob, but I do agree few great restaurants reside within the city walls largely because the majority of the restaurants cater to tourists and, as such, is not especially great food. When I used to vacation here, people would tell me "You can't eat poorly in Italy," but that is so not true. That said, I do have a number of places within the walls that I love and frequent.

The night before G'io wanted to take me to dinner, which involved either driving or taking a taxi, where we could eat "well," but I had my reasons for not being adventurous and didn't go. Last night he conceded to my wishes to stay within the city walls and to go somewhere we could walk to -- well, that is, initially, he conceded. We walked to Piazza Santo Spirito and settled in at Ricchi, a decent restaurant. He wanted to have fish.

Nota Bene:  Understand that Florence is landlocked and as a result is a meat-eating city. Even though the sea is only an hour away, fresh fish is brought to the markets on Fridays and available to all.  Friday is the day of the week in Florence to indulge in fresh fish, whether in restaurants or at home.  Otherwise, if you want fresh fish, chances are it will be frozen, even though it may have been frozen as recently as the day prior.  Oh, you can get fresh fish here other days of the week in certain restaurants, but you will pay heavily for that day's catch.

Back to Ricchi.  We ordered a bottle of fizzy water. The waiter came to take our order even though we had not yet opened the menu.  "What good fish is on the menu today?" my friend G'io asked.  The waiter began to explain.  To each item the waiter said, my friend had questions and comments and poo-poo'd several of the waiter's descriptions.  G'io ordered what he wanted, exactly how we wanted each dish prepared for both of us, and none of it was from the menu.  I felt like I had just been dropped into a scene from the film When Harry Met Sally and G'io was Sally.  Remember, I am in Italy, where the custom is that there are no menu substitutions. It was comical. A little discussion pursued regarding just how fresh the fish was. The waiter ran off to consult with the chef and promptly returned. Next thing I knew, G'io asked to pay for our bottle of water, which the waiter refused to allow him to pay, and to call a taxi for us, and we were out the door and on the street awaiting our taxi's arrival.

We took a 10 Euro taxi ride to just barely outside one of the city doors to Trattoria Vittoria.  We could have walked there in under 15 minutes.  I enter to see a large aquarium that I don't think is intended to be decorative followed by a very long display of fish and seafood of many varieties, big and small.  It is obvious everyone knows G'io.  He is greeted with handshakes, hugs, and kisses, and lots of "Mi dispiace," (I am sorry). At this point it is still early for dinner in Italy, but the restaurant is full.  G'io frequents this place regularly and dumps a lot of Euro here.  There were two very large parties that filled the restuarant, and G'io felt the restaurant made a grave error by not squeezing a small table for two in a corner somewhere for us to sit.  (It was Friday night.  We didn't call in advance, rather just showed up.)

Back out on the street.  We discuss where to go next...  He calls for another taxi.  Having selected our next stop, I convince him we can walk to the next viale (boulevard, avenue) and at the same time work up an appetite.  I tried to convince him, unsuccessfully, to start a charity fund in my honor after seeing how much he is willing to spend, frivolously, on taxis.

We arrive to Fuor d'acqua, and it is packed liked sardines. Again, he is greeted in the same manner, i.e., handshakes, hugs, kisses, and "I'm sorry." Again, no place for us.

Out on the street again and still outside the city walls, we walk next door to Via Vai, chic and also packed. The usual greetings again. I watch the maître d' shake his head "no" as he studies the 14x18 piece of paper full of reservations. Eventually, he finds a table for us. We're hungry, it is no longer too early for dinner in Italy, and we are finally sitting down. Again, G'io goes through the exercise of drilling the waitress about what good food is on the menu tonight, and then he proceeds to order for both of us what he wants, the way he wants, not according to the menu.  

Dinner was excellent.  We began with an appetizer of burrata. (Burrata is a fresh Italian cheese, made from bufala mozzarella and cream. The outer shell is solid mozzarella while the inside contains both mozzarella and cream, giving it an unusual, soft texture. It is usually served fresh, at room temperature. The name "burrata" means "buttered."  It is served with lightly fried mozzarella and small mozzarella balls and prosciutto.)  Our primo piatto (first plate) is fresh, homemade spaghetti with porcini mushroom sauce served wrapped in foil.  Our second dish consists of a gorgeous fresh vegetable salad, and the most delicious, perfectly grilled Chianina filet mignon I have ever tasted with mashed potatoes.  I still had food in my mouth when suddenly he was ready to go, and we abruptly left.  It happened so fast that once we were on the street, I couldn't help but think I left something behind in the restaurant.  My experience of eating dinner out in Italy is you "buy" your table for the evening and you leisurely enjoy one course after the other over several hours' time.

We walked back into town and back to Santo Spirito where we sat outdoors and took coffee and continued our conversation.

Oh, I am not complaining.  It was a dramatic, exciting, and fun evening, full of great conversation. Started out with the intention of having a pizza, which turned into a mission for fresh fish, and ended up eating the best filet.  I learned about a few restaurants (all in one night) that I hadn't previously known about that are off the tourist maps and places I would love to return and actually eat at.  I ate well. For a simple girl from Southern California, the entire evening was entertaining.

After many hours of speaking and listening intently and intensely only in Italian with a person that has a thick Florentine dialect, speaks quickly and not often clearly, doesn't cater to my language inadequacies, I came home exhausted but with several new words and phrases added to my Italian lexicon, a belly full of excellent and yummy food, and a deeper friendship.

Abbicci and the Art of the Italian Language

Abbicci is how we pronounce ABC in Italian.  It means ABC, alphabet, primer, rudiments, and basics.  I love that abbicci is a word instead of merely ABC.  The English equivalent is abecedary, though, I must admit, I have never heard it.

Many of my friends in the States often comment to me that I must now be speaking fluently and like a local.  Magari! (I wish) Anzi! (on the contrary).

Since a child and growing up in Los Angeles where Hispanics make up approximately 47% of the population, I spoke Spanish.

My first visit to Italy in 2003 inspired my desire to learn Italian. I thought it would not be too difficult since it is similar to Spanish.  Wrong!  Spanish is a piece of cake.  Italian is -- I don't know what to compare a piece of cake to. A piece of marble?  It requires chipping away at the stone for a long time to speak the language at all well.

Twice I received a month-long scholarship to study the language here in Florence, Italy.  Once I began studying Italian, my brain told me, "You must decide. Will it be Italian or Spanish?"  The two languages are similar yet still so different.  Spanish is spoken in more than 20 countries around the world; Italian, primarily in two countries, i.e., Italy and the Ticino region of Switzerland. It would have been more practical to choose Spanish, but I found the Italian language beautiful, melodic, enchanting, and seductive.  And I knew I would continue to return to Italy.  I chose Italian.  Now when I speak the word "gracias," it doesn't sound correct to my ears.

I am in Italy since about a year ago, and I would hope my Italian were near perfect by now.  I believe that practice does not make for perfection, rather practice makes permanent.  If you play tennis with a bad backhand and continue to play with that bad backhand, it's never going to correct itself.  It becomes a permanent bad backhand.  Old habits are difficult to break.  Yes, I can speak all day in Italian, but I make errors in every other sentence.  I imagine I sound like I just crossed the border into this country.  I can survive and get along quite well with my level of Italian.  But I want more.  I want to be able to speak and understand better than I do.

Speaking on the streets and in my day-to-day life, the conversations rarely get deep enough to stretch my language skills, and because most Italians appreciate our attempts to speak their language in their country, they rarely correct us.  And, frankly, there is too much English spoken in this town with so many tourists and English-speaking expats. Therefore, I keep reinforcing that bad backhand.

By summer I was becoming frustrated that my Italian was actually getting worse, not even staying at the same level.  I had forgotten the rules and the exceptions and was questioning myself when I spoke. Summer of 2006 is when I last studied, and my language was at its peak then.  Speaking well, not perfectly, is high up on my list of priorities since I chose Italy to be my home.

At the end of summer, I decided to take private Italian lessons with one of my favorite professors from 2006.  It's been a few months now since my professor and I started to review the grammar from the beginning.  Days come when I arrive to my professor's office for my lesson and tell him, "I used to love this language, but now I hate it."  The only easy part learning Italian is the pronunciation: What you see is exactly how you say it.  Italian has a ridiculous amount of rules, and for every rule there are about 20 exceptions.  And the verbs... 21 tenses and moods.  In English there are several, but we use only about a handful of them and not much changes in the conjugations.

Just this week we are studying the subjunctive tense (congiuntivo).  There are four moods: present, past, imperfect, and past imperfect.  It is a challenge to learn all the ways to use the subjunctive.  I am determined to grasp the proper usage.  At this stage in my review of the language, subjunctive, is when the language becomes rich and colorful, where it advances from abbicci to pure romance.  We no longer speak only in the indicative, facts:  See Dick. See Spot.  See Spot chase the squirrel.  See Dick chase Spot.  I need to express myself clearly.  My favorite topics of discussion are often subjective topics, which makes the subjunctive mood a necessity.  I am on the edge of properly expressing my hopes, dreams, wants, desires, opinions, doubts, suppositions, uncertainties, fears, experiences, expectations and more and having give-and-take dialogue clearly with others in a foreign language in a foreign country.  And it finally is sticking to my brain. My backhand is improving.  It is exciting to be able to express myself and understand what others say to me in Italian, to have much deeper, more meaningful conversations, and take the relationships to an all-new level. This is the very meaning of to be rich. The wealth of words and language to me is wealth in our hearts.  And with this kind of wealth, many doors open wide.  Abbicci spells opportunity.  Just in time for the new year.

My New Year's resolution?  Expression, self-expression, and a wealthy heart and mind.  My pursuit of the Italian language helps me achieve that resolution.

Fett'unta

What the heck is fett'unta? It's a greasy, garlicy, piece of toasted or grilled bread. It is the Italian version of garlic bread and tastes delicious.

Fett'unta = fetta (slice) + unta (from the verb ungere, meaning greasy or oily) = oily slice or greasy bread.  End of math lesson.

In Tuscany, the traditional Tuscan bread is saltless and rather boring for that lack.  This happened because during the 12th Century the Pope put a hefty tax on salt, which the Florentines couldn't afford to pay. Even today, in the 21st Century, they continue to make bread without salt.   Saltless bread does not detract from the flavors of the rest of your well-seasoned meal.

At this time of year, late autumn, fett'unta is served more often in restaurants in Tuscany than during the rest of the year.  After the back-breaking labor of picking olives and then within a few days going to il frantoio (the olive mill), everyone rushes home with their new oil to make fett'unta and swallow it with a glass of Chianti. New oil is made from the first harvest of the olives in the fall when the olives are not quite as ripe as they become after a few weeks more in the sun.  The quality of the oil is peppery with a punch, the color is green, and the health benefits are higher.

Because I am not crazy about the plain, old Tuscan bread, I visit one of several of my favorite panetterie or forni (bakers or bread stores) and choose from a variety of whole grain breads.

Then I slice bread from the widest part of the loaf (not too soft nor too fresh).  Toast it or, better yet, grill it on top of the stove.  Cover with new virgin olive oil, and rub the bread with fresh garlic. If you like, add a little sea salt and pepper.  That's fett'unta. Enjoy!

What you do from here is up to you. What I have been doing is adding to the recipe as the Tuscan's do. This makes for a very healthful, quick to prepare, and economical dinner loaded with protein, vitamins, minerals, fiber, and flavor.

You could, for example, cook cavolo nero (lachinato kale) or bietola (beet greens): Boil water in a pan. After rinsing the leaves, place in the boiling water for about 30 seconds. Drain.

Add on top of the fett'unta.

Add some beans of your choice. I am using a mix of ceci (garbanzo beans) and cannellini (Italian white beans). I buy dried, organic beans. After soaking a minimum of eight hours and changing the water frequently (to reduce the gassy problem), I cook the beans in water with a small amount of olive oil, garlic, and some sea salt until the beans are al dente and the water is just cooked out.

Add the beans on top of the kale. Top with more new olive oil, sea salt, and pepper.

And wouldn't you know? All this talking about fett'unta caused me to crave some now. What better occasion than a visit by a friend? He's Italian, from another part of Tuscany. He'd never heard of it before and never ate it. So, of course, I made fett'unta for lunch. I thought it was cute how about five times I had to tell him the name, fett'unta, and why it's called that.  So maybe it's even more regional than I thought. No matter, he liked it. So will you.

Buon appetito.

Biscotti - Cantucci - Cantuccini

When it comes to food, wine, and vinegar, there is much to be learned in Italy.

Remember last year when I was trying to perfect my biscotti? Without preheating the oven, I have recently made a head start. The outside temperature has cooled off considerably, and I am nearly ready to once again resume perfecting my authentic recipe.

While at lunch with family and friends a few days ago, my Lucchese friend explained to me (100% in the Italian language) the difference between biscotti, cantucci, and cantuccini. Biscotti (twice-baked/ cooked) is the generic term for any cookies that are twice-baked and loosely used for any type of cookies. Hence my head start. So I am not incorrect when I call my cookies "biscotti" since I do bake them twice, but isn't that a bit general when I want to be specific? In the States, most of us think of biscotti as the hard cookies we like to dip into our coffee or hot chocolate. Previously, I was under the impression that cantuccini referred to the miniature version of what I used to think was specifically, not generically or generally called, biscotti and baked only in the town of Prato.



No, no, no. Let there be no more confusion for me, nor for you. Biscotti are any twice-baked cookies or cookies in general. Cantucci and cantuccini originated in the town of Prato, possibly made famous by Antonio Mattei, and they always have almonds. The diminutive "-ini" means little. So cantucci are the larger cookies, and cantuccini are the smaller, fit-the-whole-cookie-in-your-mouth-at-once, bite-size cookies.

If your biscotti has raisins, figs, chocolate on top, or some other variation, you are not eating cantucci nor cantuccini; rather, you are eating biscotti.

In the States, we typically have our biscotti/cantucci/ cantuccini with a hot drink to dip the cookies into. In Italy, either cantucci or cantuccini are served as dessert with vin santo, a sweet desert wine, not an espresso.

In the coming weeks and winter months, it is cantucci I will be perfecting. And if I get really good at it -- which type of yeast is best to use? eggs or no eggs? how long to bake the second time to get the perfect crunchiness? -- I hope to end up with cantuccini, meaning the smaller cookies. Last year, my goal always was to bake the smaller cookies, but on the cookie sheet, the dough would spread and make the larger version.



Soon I will put on the apron and heat up the oven because, for me in Florence, it is approaching biscotti - cantucci - cantuccini season. Mmmm........

-- Josslyn
Firenze, Italia