Archive for 2007
Buon World Nutella Day!
***Be sure to check out NutellaDay.com for the most up-to-date info!***
It’s finally here…World Nutella Day! For those of you who don’t know, Sara at Ms Adventures in Italy and Shelley of At Home in Rome have taken matters into their own hands and created the first holiday celebrating the chocolate and hazelnut spread that has become a household staple.
Now, I’m not going to dishonor Nutella by exaggerating my love for this special Italian treat. I do like Nutella a lot, especially when it’s inside a cornetto, but I’m not addicted by any means. I think this is probably because I’m not Italian-crazy about hazelnuts (a minor sin here), even though, don’t get me wrong–I’m a nutty gal. No comments from the Peanut Gallery please.
That said, like any good Italian, I always have a little jar of it in the house; I love that you can reuse the containers as drinking glasses. Sure, sometimes, there are weird cartoon characters on them, but then there are the plain ones, which can actually look mildly classy–especially next to all the other stuff I have. And then there were the World Cup-themed ones.
So, um, yeah, we end up going through a good bit of Nutella.
In honor of Nutella Day, I am sharing with you one of my favorite ways to enjoy the chocolate/hazelnut mixture. It’s nothing fancy like this, but when I need a little something in the morning, it does the trick:
There it is. Nutella spread on a cracker, topped with a slice of banana, and sprinkled with nutmeg. I usually eat this while drinking a big mug of tea, but feel free to play with the recipe.
I’ve also been known to add a rather American touch by putting a dollop of peanut butter (if I have any stashed away) and/or marshmallow/fluff in the mix. These are great for kids and for adults like me who sometimes like to eat like children.
Now go check out the Nutella Day Flickr pool for some more ideas.
Happy World Nutella Day everyone!
Italian Dream Intepretation: Lottery Numbers Included
On what is the only Italian-produced television program I watch, there is a running story about Italy’s Unabomber.
For those of you who don’t know, Italy unfortunately does have its own Ted Kaczynski, so to speak, and he has been leaving random bombs in the northeastern part of the country since 1994. No one has been killed by these bombs yet, but several have resulted in severe injuries, including amputations and loss of sight.
He may share a name with the America’s Unabomber, but that’s really where the similarities end. This guy in Italy doesn’t have an apparent motive as he’s made no economic or social demands and his victims seem completely random–except for the fact that he has placed several devices where children were likely to come across them, and, in fact, have.
It’s a horrible story, and now authorities think maybe they know who’s behind it. I’m not sure if the television portrayal is meant to help bring this guy to justice, give him ideas, or make him really, really angry, but it’s had some unintended side effects on me.
Like nightmares.
Just one (so far), and it really wasn’t so much scary as freaking weird. OK, you twisted my arm.
This television show is on Tuesdays, so I’m not quite sure why several days later, I dreamed that there was a group of Italian investigators searching the house I grew up in (in America) for an Italian Unabomber bomb.
To give you the layout, in that house, there are two bedrooms upstairs on opposite ends of the house, connected by a hallway with the staircase taking up the middle chunk of the top floor. Open spaces that we called the cubby hole* run along the entire length of the house on both sides of the bedrooms.
So, in the dream, I had been changing clothes in one end of the cubby (which I would never do) when I noticed that there was suddenly a group of Italian police officers searching the opposite end of cubby hole. And, interestingly, while they were searching, I realized that I had about 200 lovely hand and shoulder bags that I had apparently completely forgotten about. In fact, there was the cutest little red number that was really speaking to me. Only it doesn’t exist in real life.
*sigh*
Anyway, they searched the whole place and didn’t find anything, but then I suddenly remembered that I had smelled something burning the night before. This was actually true. Don’t you love the way your subconscious incorporates reality into your dreams? Well the night before the dream, I smelled something really pungent burning–much stronger than ordinary wood. It was around only for about 10 seconds, and it disappeared. I still don’t know what it could’ve been, but my subconscious figured it must’ve been a bomb. Placed by the Italian Unabomber. Obviously.
Back in the dream, I told the woman investigator (I think she might’ve been the blonde from Without a Trace, but I can’t be sure) about the burning smell, and she was more convinced than ever that they needed to continue searching. Within minutes, she found a small bomb inside a book in the corner on the floor; the other officers then yelled that they had found another on the phone line. So there you go. 
I woke up quite anxious and after I shared the terror with P, I knew what I had to do next.
Even before taking Luna out for a walk, I had to check our dream interpretation book, which, because it’s Italian, also gives you the lottery numbers you should play based on your nightly imaginings. I’m not joking. The numbers are actually the point of the book–the interpretations are just bonus. This, btw, was my birthday gift to P. And he loved it. I swear.
I didn’t find much out there regarding what war my subconscious is waging, but I do know that I should be feeling lucky about 4, 17, 22, 34, 37, and 77. If anyone plays those and wins, I’ll be happy to accept a percentage of your proceeds. If anyone plays those and bad things start happening, you should really watch Lost. And not get on a plane.
After I checked my dream book, it was time to take a more-than-ready, butt-swishing Luna out for a little stroll in the gusting wind. The past couple days, we’ve had amazing winds around here, especially at night and into the early morning. Because of this, the temps finally feel more February-like and drying clothes outside has been heavenly, so I can’t complain.
But I can bundle up. And I did. And then I turned around to tell P we’d be back shortly. And he told me to get the camera.
That’s me on the right, in case you can’t tell the difference between the famous sketch and me. For any of you out there who know my last name, perhaps this is an extra amusing side-by-side. Think about it.
So, in conclusion, I’ve been tempted to do it before, but now I’m pretty sure–it’s time to swear off Italian TV forever.
It’s just no good for me.
*Please note that I am using the first definition listed here, and *so* not the fourth one. We most certainly did not have two of those running along the sides of our house. Ew.
Sunday Scribblings: You Say Goodbye, I Say Hello
This post is inspired by Sunday Scribblings‘ prompt “goodbyes”:
I’ve been asked countless times by strangers, close friends and family, and everyone in between how I ended up in southern Italy. It’s really a rather mundane answer, actually, if you break it down to its barest element.
I decided to come.
Sounds simple, doesn’t it? Well for me, it was. Whenever faced with big decisions, I go through the motions of weighing pros and cons, but I always know what I’m going to do anyway. Once an enticing idea enters my mind, it’s all systems go. I have instincts, and I follow them, and that’s why I’m here.
Three and a half years ago, I came to Italy, saying goodbye to the United States, my family, my friends, my apartment, my profession, my native language, my general comfort level, and so much more. All of that sounds scary now looking at it in print, but I swear to you, it didn’t even phase me at the time.
Looking back, even I can’t believe that, but this is a common theme in my life. When I went away to a prestigious university 400 miles from home, 17 years old, not knowing a soul, not exactly from the same background as most of the students, not nearly prepared for the kind of people I’d be surrounded by, I wasn’t scared or nervous at all. How ridiculous is that?
Some may call it habitual naiveté, but I like to call it dancing to the rhythm of the universe instead of sitting this one out. Or, put another way, if you are quiet and listen to your heart, it will tell you what to do. My heart has never been one to wait for silence, though, as it speaks up whenever it damn well pleases. Not surprising, being that it’s inside of *me* and all.
So when someone asks how I ended up in Italy, how do I explain in a blurb without sounding at least a little like a loon? I’m pretty sure that the phrase “doing the universe jig” isn’t going to make things any clearer.
Sometimes I wish I had a more solid, mature, acceptable answer like that I came here for a job or heck, even a guy. But I didn’t. I came because I wanted to. Simple as that. I didn’t have a significant other or children depending on me, so there was no one to consult. Just my heart, and it told me it was time.
The most difficult part for me was leaving my family and friends, not being able to be there for all the big and everyday things that I’ll never get back. And I’m sure that some of those people still don’t get what I’ve done or approve of it. I’d guess that some of that also has to do with the idea that I left a promising legal career—my goodness just that phrase makes me want to hurl.
You see, I had done the right thing, what was expected for so long, and I most certainly don’t regret it, because it’s made me who I am. But at the ripe old age of 25, I decided to do what I really wanted, what would make me happy. I would hope that those who love me can understand and respect that, but I don’t know if that’s happened, or ever will.
And I’m at peace with that. Because when I said goodbye to my old life, I said hello to me—the real me, the one that I’d been meaning to become—and to new experiences and a way of life that just feels right. Makes perfect sense to me.
And you know what else makes perfect sense? In Italian you say “hello” and “goodbye” the same way, reminding me that where there’s a goodbye, an inevitable hello can’t be far behind.
fancying february
I have a list of writing prompts stored in various files, paper and computer. I came across one recently that goes like this:
“What does January feel like? Write a poem or paragraph (or whatever) that explains your opinion of and emotions felt for the twelve different months of the year.”
OK, I missed January, but I’m going to start today with February. If anyone would like to join in the Monthly Musings Meme, feel free, and please leave me a comment so I can find you.
Here goes:
February. Just the word conjures up layers of clothes, snuggling up close, and mugs of hot chocolate. It’s the shortest month of the year and many would say, “thank goodness!” But not me. I rather enjoy this mini-month.
For me, it serves as the month where I can comfortably, without guilt or peer pressure, be a hermit. I can hole myself up near the fire, just the computer and me, or a good book and me, or, you know, if I’m feeling semi-social, P and me, and just relax, relishing these laid-back 28 (sometimes 29) days of blah.
I’m not big on new year’s resolutions, but even if I were, I don’t think I’d make them until February. January’s still too hectic, recovering from the holidays, getting the house back into everyday order, planning out projects, budgets, and basically debriefing the previous year. How can I possibly decide what I want for myself for the next 11 months with all that going on?
February, on the other hand, is the month in which I pick up the fun stuff I had been meaning to do, reading books I had been too tired to get to at night, thinking about learning to knit (again), getting papers in order for my taxes. OK, the last one isn’t so much fun as necessary, but the wind outside does give me just enough inspiration to dig into the stacks of papers.
February forces me to stay inside the house, and I have to admit, I kinda like it. A lot. All that time to decompress. Stop. Appreciate. Enjoy.
But it’s a short month, so there’s not a whole lotta time between checking on Phil’s shadow and greeting the lion or the lamb. February tends to fly by, but after a month of slowing down, I’m always ready for March’s sunshine and earlier sunrises to kick my butt back into gear.
Because, you know, hibernating can get tiring.
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[tags]february, in like a lion, out like a lamb, hibernating, writing prompts, writing[/tags]
A Pre-Valentine’s Day Chuckle
Some classic male/female humor leading up to San Valentino.
Read on...
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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