Country Livin'

I grew up in a suburban area of California known as Scripps Ranch. Scripps, as we Scrippies call it for short, has an audaciously misleading maxim written in pretentious and cursive script under the town's welcome sign- Country Living. Ok. Lets get real for a minute. Everyone who inhabits these parts should know perfectly well that the only thing country about it are the "bird cages" situated within the complexes of the local business parks, where peacocks have supposedly been stored by rebel farmers for decades. And the reality is, that said cages are much better known for being the secret locale for awkward, pimply, bored, upper-middle class teenagers to smoke pot without their parents' belligerent disapproval. 

I believe that the things/places/people truly adherent to their respective mission statements need not literally spell out their mottos in bolded, cursive, or neon letters. I will never buy a vehicle from "Honest Joes Used Cars" just the same as I will never consider a person self-described as "smart" any intelligent. While Scripps Ranch may have originally been designated a getaway for a minority of city dwellers, it is now a mass of concrete, cookie-cutter slabs of stucco, crafted one on top of the other to form a relaxing escape for more than 32,000 people. This country lifestyle also boasts enormous chain grocery stores, nail salons, gas stations, fast food joints, and in general, the same conveniences of a city, but under the misrepresentation of a private country retreat.

The juxtaposition to my current residence was made particularly stark today as I went foraging in the backyard/Italian countryside for my lunch. This is real country living- identified not by the sign claiming to be so, but by the inescapable smell of cow dung, the itch in my eyes, and the fact that like, maybe ten people live within five miles of here. Oh yes, and the FLIES! The flies that fly slower than the Italian Postal Service- definitely indolent enough to catch in one's hand, providing a country boy the proud yet false impression that he is in fact agile. 

So, this is what I spent my afternoon doing while Giulio was inside studying the legality of abortions. I guess he's one step closer to becoming a doctor and I'm one step closer to riding a bull and lassoing in the  sunset. 

ain't no country living in this metropolis

must lose lbs. to enter garden

welcome to the ivy league, peacocks

empty basket full of hope and promise

backyard foliage

discovery numero uno- an unripened pear & mini alligator

peach fuzz unlike my rabid mustache

apricot acting like an ass

conventional crowd predictably ostracizing the weird ugly

the savaged one is always most compelling

zucchini feigning apricot

expansion

imminent preeminent walnut

romaine

(assaulted by nature in exchange for this photo)

mini eggplant makes me want to explode with babies

digression

almost ready for the ball

plum, the only one

randomly placed & most insanely massive non GMO zucchini EVER

tipping the scale

magnolias on the way in

the end. now show me your fruit basket.

Ligurian Style Spaghetti with Pesto

What you Need

Handful of Green beans (from the garden)

Two Potatoes (from the garden), chopped

1/2 Package of Spaghetti

Pesto Sauce (homemade with basil from the garden)

What to Do

Boil water, add salt.

Add pasta, potato, and green beans. Cook to al dente.

Drain, add pesto.

Season with freshly ground back pepper, salt, and parmesan (from the cows behind the garden)

use a fun knife

don't chop the potatoes too small or they will overcook

homegrown

the Percolator nearly ruined my life

When it comes to my romantic relationship, I am unequivocally the dumb one- so much that I live in perpetual fear of the day that Giulio realizes I tricked him into dating me. Last December, and once again this month, my lacking faculties were nearly abruptly and tragically exposed.

Enter: The Percolator.

I am a coffee drinker but not a coffee snob, and like any good Starbucks patron, I happily drink what's handed to me. I've also handled an espresso machine, a french press, and at a time when I used to get dressed in the mornings (due to my employed status) I would even take the liberty of preparing the Mr. Coffee pot at work, thereby caffeinating my entire building. I never had any complaints.

When I visited Giulio and met his parents in Italy for the first time, I was unexpectedly introduced to a significant, though never before mentioned member of the family: The Coffee Percolator. I had no warning and therefore no preparation to reconcile my ignorance on the issue- imagine going in for a job interview and having no clue what your prospective employer does for a living. 

And then, my fear came to fruition: Vuoi fare il caffè?  I panicked, alarm bells sounded.  Merda! What do I do? There's no way to fake making a post-dinner espresso for a table of Italians. After quick deliberation, I decided to do the only thing I could- laugh awkwardly, then feign amnesia. Time passed, and with a cocktail of nonchalance and apologetic gaze, I was eventually able to casually observe how it was done by a trained professional. Saved.  

I moved to Italy three weeks ago and after the first week, experienced another close call when the black handle of our trusted yet abused percolator detached. Considering my unemployed status, I took an outing to the local supermarket and purchased a shiny, new espresso maker. It was brilliant and I was excited to devirginize it immediately. Giulio kindly reminded me that I had to craft one batch of disposal espresso before consuming the first cup. Not wanting to waste a ration of the good stuff, I rummaged through the cabinet to find something old and oxidized, and was pleased to find a tin of stuff that smelled like shit. So I loaded up the percolator, placed it on the stove, then stepped out of the kitchen (pending the size of the device, it usually takes 7-10 minutes to brew).

Two minutes later I reemerged to the kitchen to find the machine rattling, hissing, frothing, and generally appearing as though it were vomitting black tar. What the hell did I put in there? I investigated the coffee tin which was naturally written exclusively in Italian, opened up my computer, and frantically typed in all the bolded words I could make out into google translate.  Apparently I had filled the diddy with instant chicory. bad move. (though as a mini digression, I'm alarmed that we even had it in our cabinet in the first place.)

Primarily concerned with exposing my vapid self to Giulio, I threw the pot in the sink, rinsed it, scrubbed it, sprayed down the stove (covered in black goo) and refilled the percolator with real espresso, just in time for Giulio to walk in to the first legitimate batch being brewed. He smiled at me and rubbed my back as if to suggest he was proud of my domestic aptitude. And then we drank.

Fire in Firenze

I've just returned from a 3 day mini-stay (or, gita) in Florence where I visited an old friend from college, ogled at old, beautiful things that were admittedly far beyond my ability to appreciate, and inhaled busloads of gelato (one of which cost me an offensive 5 euro). Three days is enough to grab hold of Firenze's facade, but not nearly sufficient to indulge in its interior and underground art. For those looking to become totally submerged by David's bits and bobs, I recommend 5 days.  If you're an art historian and or fanatic, then I just suggest moving there.

Getting there from Milan:

I bought my train ticket in advance through Trenitalia which even boasts a clickable GB flag allowing for the near flawless cyber conversion to ahem, british english. I was surprised to learn that there are in fact over one dozen trains to Florence every day- roughly 30 euro each way for the pitifully slow (3-3.5 hour) steerage vessel or 50 euro for the lightening fast, swarovski encrusted, 2 hour magic bullet. In light of aforementioned abusive gelato habit, I opted to save the 20 euro and go for the scenic route. Purchasing and using my billete through Trenitalia was easy as pie- if you opt to have your ticket emailed to you, you can simply write down your confirmation code on the back of your palm and wave it at the clerk when he stares at you (tapping his foot, waiting for your travel documents while you stare back at him blankly wondering who the hell he is and what the hell he just barked at you in 4speed Italian, until finally realizing he's with them.) I've learned that Italian bureaucracy is approached the same way as Italian lifestyle- leisurely. I was never questioned for ignoring the explicit instructions to print the confirmation email and on the way home, I flashed a smile along with my iphone (articulating a typed, though miniscule confirmation code), which was more than acceptable documentation of my entitlement to be there.

Navigating Florence

GET A MAP. Know which way the river runs (East/West). Use the location of the sun and the location of the river to orient yourself, this is not a joke! Florence is small but convoluted and you'll do yourself a favor if you heed this advice. Stay far away from any gelateria on the river bank as they are commercial, crap, and insultingly expensive. Most of the tourist traps are on the north side as this is where resides the famous Duomo and Giotto's Campanile, but there are some very lovely shops as you traverse south of l'Arno. For the ladies: be advised that although I was never harassed or made uncomfortable, the men were much more brazen with their gazes than what I'm used to in Milan... I've heard this is an exponential trend the further south one roams but have yet to test this hypothesis myself. 

The Jersey Shore

This disgusting, MTV reality program that glorifies much of what is wrong with America happens to be filming in Florence at the moment. YES I saw the camera crews, and YES I scurried off in the opposite direction.

The Sites

I stayed out of all museums and all conventional "must-sees" with the exception of Giotto's Campanile which came highly recommended to me by the locals. It's adjacent to the Duomo, 417 steps to the top (clearly articulating that there is "NO LIFT"), and in my opinion, is far better a final visual than its counterpart as you get to see the Duomo from this angle and without having to wait in a queue). 

Ponte Vecchio- Firenze's oldest standing bridge

the false impression that i'm not engulfed by tourists

l'Arno- your compass

local Tuscan produce

supreme view from Giotto's Campanile

Never too hurried to stop for a cappuccino

Stuffed Peppers

This recipe has a gorgeous presentation, is totally simple, and can be varied by grain and/or meat to suit one's palette. 

1. Heat oven to 400F.

2. Slice bell peppers, removing membranes and seeds. Leave the stems on for presentation.

3. The filling can include whatever you like. We happened to have leftover vegetarian couscous with peas from the freezer but you can use jasmine rice, brown rice, or quinoa. I wanted to add some meat to the filling so I cooked a package of ground turkey with a little salt and pepper and one onion, then mixed it with the couscous once it had cooled. 

4. Add one jar of tomato sauce. Mine was red wine and parmesan flavor. 

5. Add another 1/2 cup shaved parmesan to the filling and homogenize.

6. Spoon into bell peppers.

7. Cover with foil and bake for 45 minutes

8. Sprinkle tops of pepper with extra parmesan and place back in oven, uncovered for 3 minutes.

Voila!