Braving Lasagna in My Italian Kitchen

    "What would y'all like for dinner tonight?"
    "Lasagna," says one, with five other heads nodding. Oh wow. Lasagna in this kitchen? 
                                                                              *
     Ground veal and pork; eggs from a local farmer; ricotta and mozzarella made right here 100 kilometers away. Fresh lasagna sheets; homegrown tomatoes, basil still blooming on my kitchen windowsill; onion, garlic, and fragrant Italian parmesan. The ingredients are so humble here, but exotic by US standards. I am intoxicated by the ricotta so soft and new. The tomatoes are from our neighbors' garden--they brought us a box of tomatoes and cucumbers freshly picked, just the other day. The eggs are in large trays in the store; this morning I selected a carton for a half dozen (they only have cartons for 4 or 6 eggs), and then fill it one by one with eggs I imagine are only a day old. They still have the occasional feather on them and are room temperature. "We will eat in magnificence until we get salmonella poisoning," I think to myself as I put on the required plastic glove and select 3 half-dozens.
    In my kitchen, I stand ready before my buffet of shining ingredients. As I pull the top drawer to grab a knife for onions and garlic, it bumps into the window. The window is a large, french window whose two sides open outward to your left and right. Glass panes inside wooden frames; a large, brass knob that twists open and shut in ancient mechanic style.
    Throughout the day we usually leave our french windows open. We don't yet have a screen to keep out the bugs, but we need the ventilation. A little hive of honeybees has recently detected a constant food supply in our kitchen, so we now have flies, mosquitoes and honeybees visiting us as we cook. We are becoming friends.
    I stand with the window, aromatic basil, and honeybees to my left as I face the oven with the utensils drawer below it. I pull the drawer. It bumps the window. It used to be a bother to me that I cannot open the utensils drawer and have the window open at the same time. But now I have found my groove; I gently pull the drawer and let it move the window itself.
    While browning the garlic, onion and meat, I beat bright orange eggs in the ricotta. I slice through mozzarella ball as big as a child's head.
    I add the tomatoes and sauces and herbs to the meat, and let it cook for several hours. I have time to tidy up.
    Skins of onions and remnants of garlic have to go in the compost. Plastic wrappings for the mozzarella and ricotta go in "plastic." A sack that held the parmesan is plastic on one side and paper on the other. I tear it in half, and put the plastic and paper in their corresponding bins. We have been instructed how to recycle and the whole region has become rigid about the process. Our landlord told us we have incurred for him 2 fines, not recycling well enough. So, I have become slow, methodical, and have accepted that it is just a big part of the day, putting each part of each piece of trash in the right bin or bag. I tear the plastic hook off the paper box, putting the hook in "plastic" and the box in "paper." I shake spinach leaves that have turned into brown slime into the compost bag, clean out the bag, and then place the bag in the plastic bin. The worst was pouring tomato sauce that had grown mold in the jar down the drain, rinsing off the metal lid and placing it in "metal," rinsing out the jar and putting it in "glass," and then seeing chunks of moldy tomato in the sink, and so scooping them up and putting them in compost. I washed my hands fifteen times and said a prayer to guard me from mold-disease after that.
    The fragrance of the simmering meat sauce wafts through air and is carried throughout the house. Children come out of their rooms and inquire, "What's cooking?" I chop fresh basil from our window box, and work in the final touches of fennel seed, pink salt and multi-color pepper. Layers of meat, then pasta, then cheese, over and over. Thin layers. The pasta sheets were made this morning by a local supplier and they don't need to be boiled before layering. Into the oven and the house explodes with the scent of lasagna. I clean down the kitchen counters and transform them from the preparation station to the serving station. I ask kids to put away clean and dry dishes.
                                                                          *
     Ron and I were supposed to go out on a date that night. I had told the kids I was making them dinner, and please could they make a salad. They could eat at 7pm or when everyone was hungry and then please put Sebastian down to sleep. We'd be out until about ten.
    But instead, by 5pm kids were asking to dig into the lasagna. I too couldn't resist. After easy deliberation, Ron and I decided to have our dinner right here in the house with a big bottle of Chianti and candles lit--a lovely a date and a perfect end to the day.
   
   

First Italian Haircut

            It is long overdue—I must do something about my hair. The blond highlights from twelve weeks ago in Dallas sit like strange, unintentional accidents atop my dark base. The brittle, blonde streaks have grown out two inches. With my older kids watching my younger ones at home, I bravely strap my purse over my shoulder and like an explorer setting out to conquer the Mississippi River, I launch out into the Italian unknown. 

            I walk into a salon and ask the receptionist for il colore. She says, “Certo,” certainly. Have a seat. 

            Soon I am draped in a black smock and three Italian women hover over my head like starlings. “Chiaro?” says one. “Scuro,” replies another. In art history class in college, I learned that Caravaggio and Rembrandt were masters of chiaroscuro, the technique of using high contrast of dark and light to add drama to their scenes. Bold shafts of light thickly streaming from windows into otherwise almost-black rooms: such was the perfect setting for Christ calling Matthew, according to Caravaggio. Now I realize I was not so erudite after all. Chiaro—light streaks, scuro—dark natural color. It’s very basic, really. 

            My Italian is not so bad. I have been complimented by deans of high schools and landlords. But these gals must be speaking a dialect—I cannot understand a single word. Realizing I cannot understand, they repeat themselves, only talking louder and faster. I nod yes, shake my head no, wishing that there was more about hair highlights that you could act out or signal with hand jestures.  

            A decision has been made. “Use the number 7,” I hear one say. “Then the #21. Then blablablabla.” Yikes. I can only imagine what colors these are. 

            She mixes the coloring and starts in on my hair. My stomach sinks. My chest burns. This could really go badly. 

All my life, I have hated haircuts and styling. Crying afterwards is a regular occurrence. In Dallas, I had finally settled in on one particular stylist, mainly because she does not usually overly lighten my hair (which is no small feat in Texas). But she rarely listens to any specifics I say, and she seems to resent working on my hair. But isn’t this your job? I sit there wondering. Going to the salon is for me like having dinner with an ex-husband. You do it because you just have to every once in a while, and you just hope you can get through it alright.     

Now, I am going through the same labor, but at a severe disadvantage. I have no idea what is about to happen. I remind myself that there are worse things. Immigrants are dying in the oceans, trying to escape their war-torn countries. We are over-heating our planet and will soon all be dead. In the meantime, Donald Trump is making a mockery out of the office of president and ruining the greatest democracy the world has ever known with his spin, lies, and tyrannical stupidity. If our country withers and dies under his reign and sinks into the sea, will the Pacific Ocean and the Atlantic come together and form one whole? Will we call it the Pacific or the Atlantic? These thoughts comfort me as she washes my hair and my neck strains on the sink rim. 

Finally, the moment comes. The lady takes the towel off my head and I catch a glimpse--it is not bright blonde, my one real nightmare. In fact, even though it is a little dark and has a hint of auburn, I now just look a little more like them.They have made me look a touch Italian. The lady says, “Cosa dici?” Whadda you say? I smile and tell her it looks good, in textbook-classroom Italian with an American accent. 

As the other lady dries it and I have a slight freak-out for how reddish it is, I think, “Julia Roberts was blonde and then the next time you see her, she is suddenly auburn. When people see me, maybe they will think Julia Roberts.” Then I hear my thoughts and tell myself to ferma la boca—shut up. 

As I check out, the lady asks me if I am on vacation or if I live here. With slight trepedition I tell her I live here. This is a big moment for me. She asks me if I would please fill out a form and she can enter me into the system. Into the system? I am going to be recorded in an Italian hair salon? This is like meeting a guy’s parents—a very big step. I have to look up my Italian phone number since I don’t yet know it and pronounce my name two times for her so she can understand. 

I say goodbye to five smiling women all standing at the door waving good bye to the American lady. I put on my sunglasses and walk down the cobblestone streets, feeling one shade more Italian.     

Matisse for Mothers

Harmony in Red

The Green Stripe (or Portrait of Mme. Matisse)

(Goldfish)

     As my children nap, I peruse a coffee table book of Matisse to relax my mind and body. I feel a wave of peace wash over me like a wave on the beach. What is it about Matisse? I spend long time with Harmony in Red, looking at the ecstatic moment of a women setting a bowl on the table. How often am I setting a bowl on my own kitchen table? Usually it feels like labor, a heavy chore that should have been completed by now. I am tired-hurried-hot-annoyed all at once. 

   The story goes that Matisse was a lawyer and became sick for many weeks. His mother brought him a paint box and art paper. While he was convalescing, Matisse experimented with paints and discovered a "paradise within." His Harmony in Red says to me, "Remember where you are: You are in paradise." I am awed by the raspberry red, the twisting vines that run off the table cloth and right up the wall. I am astonished by the serenity and dignity of the scene. This painting says to me, "See the beauty all around you." The goldfish, the colors in his paintings. They all remind me: Live in the moment! Don't miss the epiphany waiting for you!  

   As a mother, I am desperately in need of this reminder. I want to find the dignity in the child, the spouse, the meal, the home, the people I encounter. I want to find my paradise within, and let it help me see the paradise all around.   

Special Destination

          It is Sebastian’s fifth birthday. I had wanted to make it one of those memorable birthdays. When my older son Jacob, now 18 years old, had turned 5, it was a special experience he still vividly remembers. We took him to an area in Maryland where wild horses still roam free. Being a young, horse-enthusiast whose favorite movie was The Man From Snowy River, and having read a story about these wild Maryland horses, he was elated to get to see them with his own eyes. Not only did he see some of these horses, but our journey took us to a seashore. Even though we had no beach gear with us, we let him play in the waves. He crashed into waves as they beat the shoreline for several hours. It’s as though he went into a different mental zone and lost all sense of time and space. He just let himself tumble in the waves over and over. It was an ethereal experience for him. 

            Thirteen years later, it is my second son’s fifth birthday. Now that we live in Italy, I asked Ron, “Where could we take Sebastian that would be equally memorable?” We considered traveling to Capri or the beach, but it is Fer Agosto and the beaches are packed with people—standing room only. Maybe a trip inland? It is so hot, and nothing is open or running. The whole country is on holiday. It seemed that the best we could do is to get him great presents, take the plunge and buy a grill, and have a party at home with our family. 

            Fortunately, I woke up in the morning a little before Sebastian. I got out cake ingredients for a European breakfast cake, the kind that are not too sweet and have powdered sugar on top. Still wearing his footie pajamas, he burst into the kitchen and greeted me, excited that I was already making him the first of his two cakes for the day; we’d make a traditional birthday cake later. Standing on a chair pushed up against the counter, he picked up a spatula and started “helping.” Our kitchen is so small that everything takes twice as long. Finally, the cake was in the oven. I had not yet successfully baked a cake in Italy. I looked at the dial and had to choose an icon marking a setting. The light bulb icon? The bracket on the bottom? The brackets on top and on bottom? The grill on top? I chose the one with the bracket on both the top and the bottom. That was a mistake and cooked the cake too fast. I pulled it out ten minutes early and still worried it was overcooked. Crumbly cake. That would be a pity. 

            Annie came up to tell me that her stomach was hurting. Foreign Italian germs are making their acquaintance, welcoming us to the Old World. We’ve had several rounds of stomach flus. I gave her some hot tea and told her to sit on the sofa a relax. 

            Our dog Charlie, meanwhile, is on his seventh day of antibiotics. A city dog, he has had to acclimate to his new bucolic surroundings. He managed to gash his leg, probably squirming through a neighbor’s wire fence. His cut got infected and he has been limping and sleeping for a week. Consequently, not wanting to upset his wound, we have taken a hiatus from brushing him down and bathing or rinsing him on the every-other-day basis that we usually do. As the cake baked in the oven, I saw Charlie stand up and sheets of dog hair fell to the ground. “Time to brush and bathe Charlie. Clare, you’re turn!” I began sweeping the floors. There is something just plain wrong with having whole dustpans full of dog hair. Then I pulled out our new Italian vacuum cleaner. It has the force of a child sucking on a soda straw. After a full two minutes of vacuuming one little throw rug, I squatted down to see how much dog hair remained. A lot. I turned the machine upside down, cleaned it out and tried again. 

            Leigh, my helpful middle-schooler, wrapped presents while I mopped the floors. Nine-year-old Annie was heaving over the toilet. I muttered, “Poor Annie” loud enough for her to hear me but kept mopping. I suggested Leigh call all the kids up for birthday breakfast. We put a candle in the shape of a “5” atop it, lit it and sang “Happy Birthday.” 

            As we ate not-too-sweet cake that was thankfully not overcooked, Jacob told us that he was invited by some local kids to a soccer tryout this afternoon. In a flurry of excitement, we heard all about these kids, the team from the town next door, Grotta Ferrata, and how serious this tryout would be. But now Jacob was also feeling ill. Too ill to go to the tryout? 

We heard about Mary, Clare and Jacob’s night out on the town the night before, and how the high schoolers swarmed around these new “Americani.” Sebastian played with his new knights and soldiers, while we talked and cleaned crumbs off the table. Ants never fail to find any single crumb we leave. So, cleaning has become a fastidious business.  

            We went to Mass, and then came home to Annie throwing up and Jake resting.  Clare and Mary were in their room discussing the previous night out, giggling in one, long, continuous stretch. 

Then, the urge came upon me and I was finally ready. I undertook scrubbing the tubs and toilets. They all have water stains and whatever else kind of stains porcelain tubs and toilets take on over decades of use. You never can feel quite at home in a place with stains and muck from other people’s use. So, it was time. I put on old clothes and an apron, tied my hair back, and scrubbed the daylights out of that porcelain until it glistened. Do you ever feel like a new place will become yours if you just clean it enough? Then I gave the older kids a lesson in how to clean their bathroom.   

            Ron assembled the new grill and we had lunch. Sebastian kept playing with his new toys and each of the older kids rotated playing with him. He seemed to be having the time of his life and repeatedly hugged me saying, “I love you more than anything.” I marveled at him as he and Leigh played with little toy soldiers and swords. His skinny blue jeans and black Converse with bright white laces, his long, layered, blond hair that I sadly predict is about to get cut because no Italians wear their hair long like that. His voice melts my heart with its raspy “I wuv my sodiers” and “Wee, would you pway wif me?”

I don’t know how to hold on to this moment, this golden moment. Sebastian is about to grow out of those jeans and Converse. Soon, he’ll be a middle schooler who no longer cuddles in my lap or tells me he loves me more than anything, two times a day. He will find other loves, other interests. Annie is a dream daughter, clutching on to her Little House book in one hand and doll in the other. Leigh still helps with chores without being asked and still plays pretend games with Annie and Sebastian, even though she is five feet, six inches tall. Her childish innocence is in its final flicker—it’s like watching the remnant of today’s sun disappear behind the horizon. Mary and Clare are enthusiastic, hopeful, ready to conquer the world of high school and get it right this time. And in ten short months, Jacob will leave for college. Our family will never feel the same. He will come back, but as a visitor. 

Today we did not go to a beach or a special destination. But it turns out that we spent the day in our special destination. The day may not be memorable for Sebastian as I had hoped, but it will be memorable for me as a mother. As Time ruthlessly presses on, I feel my pitiful loss against its force. In my defeat, I cling to this day, positively in love with my family and new life in Italy.  

Getting To Know This Place

  The first few days of being in our new apartment--we have the top two floors of a house while the owner's daughter lives on the ground floor--were physically taxing.
     The kitchenette (it does not merit the title "kitchen") has cabinet doors with sharp corners. It seems I am always stooping down to put one thing away in a lower cabinet, only to stand up and gash my head on the corner of the higher one.
     The house--or should I call it a villa?--was built in the 17th century. I've been told it was a hunting lodge for a pope and the family into which he was born. As such, it was built to cool in the summer and retain warmth in the winter. The windows are well-placed for air-circulation and the breeze from the hills, the Castelli Romani, is forever wafting through. So, air conditioning is not an option. The owners would never dream of ruining this prize structure with drilled holes in the wall and buzzing outdoor units. We rebelled against the system and bought a portable AC unit that can cool one room. But we rarely use it. Our fans hum all day and night.
   The open windows, however, have torn screens. I spoke with a plumber who also happens to be able to make and install window screens (I know because I asked him for a screen-guy recommendation when he was repairing our toilet and he said he would do it) but he is MIA. For all I know, his metric measurements of our windows scratched in pencil on a scrap of paper are probably still stuffed in his work-shirt pocket and thrown over a chair in his bedroom.
    Bug bites are thus the new normal. We are learning to divert, spray away, and outsmart the pests. But scratching my arm while I bump my head on a cabinet door is a daily occurrence.
                                                                          ~
    Little moments of intense pleasure, nevertheless, are beginning to burst through.
    Basil~ I planted two basil plants in a window box in our kitchenette. The fragrance coming from the luminously green leaves is a soothing balm for my nerves. Italian basil is stronger and sweeter than American basil.
    Yogurt~ Organic, whole-cream, brimming with probiotics, made fresh here in our region called Lazio. Not sweet, but not sour either, it has a welcoming taste that a drizzle of local, raw honey brings out to its fullest. When I eat it with a peach, it is the first breakfast I have had in--I am guessing--twenty years for which I stop, close my eyes, linger in the taste, and bask in every spoonful.
    Breeze~ It is comfortable in our apartment, maybe 78 degrees F, I walk around with spaghetti straps, hair in a messy bun, and a light spray of sweat covering my face, neck and back most of the time. When a breeze gusts in, wanders through the tunnel of rooms and runs out the other side, it is a moment of rare delight.
    There are others, too. Homemade lasagna. Sunsets. A friendly neighbor. Children for my children to play with. A dog for my dog to be friends with. Driving through a round about without fear for the first time. Watching locals eat gelato--they really eat a lot of gelato--umbrella pines and cypress trees, cobblestone and cappuccinos. I am getting to know this place. I think I like it.

Finally Got Rested

After two weeks, I finally got really rested. Ocean therapy is so effective! And so is being surrounded by such lovely, loving, joyful people. I love my family!

Taormina

Jacob, Clare, Mary, Sebastian and I stayed in Taurmina by accident.  We had lingered a little too long in Syracuse, a little too long on Mt. Etna, and then a wee bit too long for dinner in Taurmina on the way home. . . so we stayed the night. What a delight to explore one of the greatest cities in Italy, sitting atop a mountain and overlooking the sea in one direction and watching smoking Mt. Etna in the other. Wagner and Nietzsche and dozens of famous writers and musicians have spent many months in this inspiring city. 

St. Catherine of Alexandria--a church for her right in the town center

Mosaic on the wall when you enter the old town

Mount Etna

DROVE TO THE TOP! Conquered the biggest live volcano in the world!

 (see the sheep)

(see the SMOKE!)