Archive for May, 2007
my morning brew
From the title of my blog, you may think that I’m addicted to espresso. Well I do have some sort of coffee beverage at least once a day, so you wouldn’t be far from the truth.
As the days warm up, though, I’m just not craving something hot and savory in the morning when I make my way, rubbing my eyes, to the kitchen. I need something refreshing to wake me up.
Some days I’ll have a freshly-squeezed spremuta d’arancia–that’s the fancy Italian name for orange juice. Luckily between my in-laws and neighbors, I always have a great supply of oranges.
But does the late spring weather mean I don’t need caffeine? Hah!
And yet I don’t want something warmer than the Calabrian sun either.
So sometimes I have iced coffee.
Yes, I know that this is nothing new to most of you, but the first time I tried to explain this to the barista here, she looked at me as if I were speaking English. And I wasn’t, I swear.
Instead of dealing with that and to save me not only the trouble bringing my own ice to the bar (they usually don’t have any) but also a few euros a week, I make my own iced coffee at home, and you can too! Bella and I corresponded about this the other day, and I thought maybe more of you would like in on the secret.
Every night after dinner, I make a pot of espresso (you can use whatever coffee you like, of course). When it’s done, I add sugar to the whole pot, stir well, and leave the top open to cool off a bit. Then before I go to sleep, I pour the sweetened espresso into a small plastic water bottle and put the bottle in the refrigerator.
In the morning, I break out a tall glass, plop in some ice cubes (trays brought from the United States), pour in about two espresso cups full of coffee, and fill the rest with milk–I like a lot of milk–and there I have my very own fatto in casa iced coffee.
I can even have another if I like. And I often do.
Bottoms up!
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[tags]iced coffee, coffee, espresso[/tags]
la festa della mamma
When I was in elementary school, our teachers planned a Mother’s Day Tea for 2 p.m. the Friday before the big day. Having been the teacher’s pet eloquent writer and speaker that I was in my preteen days, I was chosen to compose and deliver the welcoming address.
A huge honor, of course, but my mother was a nurse and worked the 3-11 shift; I knew she wouldn’t be able to make it.
But I wrote and edited and wrote and edited my little speech anyway because, well, other mothers would be there, and they deserved a good show too. Still when it came time to perform, I was nervous as I walked onto the stage, gripping my notecards for dear life.
Click click click said my shoes on the wooden floor–the only noises amidst complete silence.
Everyone was looking at me although I didn’t dare glance at them. I simply got really close to the microphone like they had told me to do, took a deep breath, and said, “Good morning.”
Finally I looked into the audience, and there she was.
My mom, front and center, beaming the smile that always comforted me. I delivered the rest of the welcome without so much as a stutter.
I still don’t really know the details of how she managed it, but I know I appreciated it–so much so that it made it into one of my college essays (and I got in!).
But only now as an adult, another part of the story sticks out to me: my mother doesn’t even drink tea.
Happy Mother’s Day Mom and to all mothers,
including those in Italy, as today is La Festa della Mamma here as well!
You make life amazing!
(You think it’s a coincidence that MOM upside down is WOW?)
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[tags]mother’s day, la festa della mamma, mothers, moms[/tags]
sisterhood of the impossible-to-find pants
I find clothes shopping in Italy rough, and I know I’m not the only one.
It’s not just the sales clerks that either (a) won’t leave you alone to browse or (b) won’t wait on you even when you ask.
It’s more about finding the right clothes in the right style with the right fit at the right price.
Aw, I’m just going to say it: there isn’t a pair of pants in Italy that I like, that will fit me, and that will not cost more than a plot of farmable Calabrian land.
No, I haven’t scoured every store from the Alps to the Aspromonte, but I’ve been here almost four years, and I’ve never (that’s mai) bought a pair of pants here. I’ve been able to get along with my basic, if somewhat outdated, wardrobe up until now, but another complication has been added to the mix.
Over this time, I’ve lost somewhere around 35 pounds (16 kilos) in total. It’s been gradual because I haven’t actually been dieting, per se. Eating better? Absolutely. Moving more? For sure. And so as my lifestyle has changed, so has my pants size, and as I realized last week, the old ones just aren’t even passable anymore.
Isn’t this supposed to be the fun part of losing weight–when you get to go out and buy new clothes in a size you never thought you’d see?
Yeah well, it hasn’t been enjoyable for a variety of reasons, one being that I have no idea what size I actually am. Even in American sizes, I’m not sure, but at least I know what I’m not based on my current clothes.
Sure there are handy little online conversion charts to help, but you know what? Even when I try on pants of the European sizes I (allegedly) used to be (35 pounds/16 kilos ago), they don’t fit!
Whahuh?
I’ve concluded that it’s a problem of body type and shape rather than of size; for instance, if I find a pair of pants that fit my thighs and bum, the waist is enormous. Anything that would fit my waist requires squeezing my legs into them until my torso is held up by two salsiccie (sausages).
Not a good look on anyone, I don’t think.
Then there’s a little thing called “length” and Italians only believe in one, so it’s off to the tailor’s to spend more euros if you aren’t whatever that height is!
And don’t even get me started on the low-rise fad that won’t die.
On that subject, let’s talk a little more about la moda. Even if I could find a pair of pants that fit, finding them in a style I like would be quite difficult. Plain old jeans (oh, I don’t know, like from the Gap) are hard to find. Many have sequins or other stitching to liven them up.
Apparently I prefer my jeans rather deadened.
I’ve never been a big fan of bedazzled anything, but now, pushing 31, well, I find such jeans even less appropriate (although many of my Italian colleagues older than me don’t see a problem).
I haven’t mentioned the cost yet, but believe me, clothes are not cheap here (except for the staples like socks and underwear which you can get at the weekly market). I’m simply not willing to spend a small fortune on a pair of slutty-looking jeans (yeah, I said it) that make it difficult to breathe and sit at the same time, all while showing the crack o’ my bum to the world.
And so I’m stuck in pants limbo.
Ordering online is an option, but for how long it would take something to get here (if it arrives at all) coupled with how expensive it is to ship and, oh, have I mentioned that I have no idea what size I am? Probably not worth the hassle.
I think I just may have to spring for a cheap Ryan Air flight to London where it is rumoured (get it?) that women built like me exist.
Either that, or, fellow expat women, sisters if you will, it’s time to start an importing business.
Che ne pensate?
(What do you think?)
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[tags]shopping in italy, pants, trousers, jeans[/tags]
Top 5 Italian Words You Really Don’t Want to Mispronounce
Whether you’re coming to Italy for your first or twenty-first time, ready to meet your future in-laws, trying to impress your new Italian amore, or just in the mood to laugh *with* us as we maneuver our way through the beautiful Italian language, I have compiled for you:
The Top 5 Italian Words You Really Don’t Want to Mispronounce.
love thursday: big gifts from little ones
Anyone away from most family and friends probably appreciates postal deliveries more than just about anything in life. I’m no different.
I love getting any letter or package, but it’s particularly special when I receive something from my niece and nephew back in the States. Knowing that they still think of me in between soccer and baseball, school and birthday parties, iPods and whatever else it is kids play with these days? Warms my heart and, quite often, makes me downright giddy.
You may remember reading that Mia, my niece, had sent me a postcard from Disney. It arrived!
The other side of the cartolina is a family picture in front of Epcot, but I won’t post it because I haven’t asked permission. You’ll just have to trust me that it’s adorable.
Of course I save everything my niece and nephew have sent me. Here’s a collection of some of the older stuff, drawings when they were both a few years younger:
But it’s not limited to just drawings. They also send me little gifts that they’ve picked up here and there (usually with the help of Nana) that somehow remind me of them.
From left to right: Gangster Bean, a giraffe pin, and a little ceramic owl.
For the record, I’m never doing a photo shoot with a bean, a giraffe, and an owl again. You see how they all refused to look at the camera?
The Gangster Bean came about because before I left to come here, my nephew Michael was big into the Mighty Beanz. A list of all the beans, er, beanz came with the packets, and I told him about my affinity for Gangster Bean (go figure). So when he got his hands on this guy, he sent it off to me.
The giraffe is because I love giraffes, and my niece knows that. So one day while out at yard sales with Nana and Mommy, she saw this and knew I would love it. And I do.
The ceramic owl was gifted during the time of Filippo and Filippa, the wild owls that we raised for a little while. Isn’t it a hoot? Hah!
I display their letters, pictures, drawings, and gifts throughout my house, and everyone always asks about them, their names, how old they are, etc.
And you know is always the most interested? Other children. When P’s nieces and nephews or kids from the village come around, they zero on anything related to Michael and Mia (especially their blond hair!) and ask, above all, when they’re coming to visit.
I can’t wait for the day that they come and can meet all the people who already know so much about them. And somehow I don’t think the language barrier is going to make a bit of difference.
Hearts seem to have a language of their own.
Happy Love Thursday everyone!
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[tags]love thursday, giraffes, mighty beanz, gangster bean, owls, children’s drawings[/tags]
Michelle Kaminsky is an American attorney-turned-freelance writer who lived in her family's ancestral village in Calabria, Italy for 15 years. This blog is now archived.
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