Browsing Tag

life in italy

Life in Italy, Traveling with Children

Summer in Sight

April 30, 2013

It was a balmy blistering 83 degrees here in Rome yesterday, and we celebrated by cranking the AC for the first time and bathing naked on the terrace. Well, half of us did. Buns and bubbles everywhere. Good thing we have zero across-the-balcony neighbors home during the day, and are sufficiently shielded from the multitude of passersby below.

Also featured: clear, 100% natural lemonade popsicles (I love you, Italy) and dozens of still-parka-clad natives streaming by on the side walk. (I will never understand you, Italy.)

I get that it gets really, really hot here. And that, therefore, 83 degrees and 95% humidity is nothing in the face of the looming spectre of Ferre Augosto and the days of 100 + on both thermometer and barometer. But for the love of modern cooling systems, a fur-hooded parka? When the mercury has crossed the 80 degree mark. That’s stupid crazy.

It’s cognitive dissonance at its finest, here, because as the tourists begin stripping down, (and I include myself in this illustrious subgroup) the Romans keep their parkas on, their stockings up, and their cardigans knotted firmly about the shoulders, just in case a bracing breeze should stir the languid springtime air. And I begin to wonder, am I drunk? Is it actually much cooler than I feel? Are my kids going to get sick at the park in shorts and polos, if from nothing else than the icy stares of disapproving Nonas?

Unrelated photo of a baby with a mustache.

83 degrees. And I’m wondering if I should have thrown a couple sweat shirts in the diaper bag. Italy, you’re getting under my skin.

Here are a couple things I am looking forward to, despite the hellish temperatures that loom:

A trip home to the good ‘ol US of A in June/July. Weee! A week in Colorado, an long wedding weekend in Florida, A long diplomatic layover in the Italian consulate in Chicago (plus a side of South Bend, Indiana, just for good measure) and a nice little Independence Day fete in our nation’s capitol. So yeah…that’s 2 international flights and 3 domestic crammed into 3 weeks. Should be…something.

Welcome to our row, gentlemen. Can we buy you a drink or 5 to dull the sound of shrieking? (We really do this, when necessary. It’s part of making sure people don’t decide never to have children of their own after meeting yours.)

A few days on the Amalfi Coast. A friend from Denver is taking a belated honeymoon to Italy and wanted to house swap with us while they come into Rome and do piligrim-y things and we flit down to Amalfi and hang out on the beach. Um, yes please.

Dave’s little sister coming to spend part of July with us! Dave’s sister Claire is a brilliant and talented doctor who is currently working in Cambodia where she specializes in tropical diseases. (My in-laws are very understanding parents.) She’s also worked as an ER doc in Detroit and NYC, so if that isn’t a diverse resume, I don’t know what is. She has like 3 Master’s Degrees, too, and is completely adorable. So if you know of any single Catholic dudes who are semi-outdoorsy and multilingual with IQ’s pushing 160 and a love for Third World living…(I am not positive Cambodia is Third World, but it’s hot as hell there, and that’s sufficient to qualify in my book.)

Dave’s best friend (and best man) coming for a long weekend in May just weeks after his ordination to the priesthood. It really doesn’t get any cooler than this. Keeping our finger’s crossed for a private mass in St. Peter’s. Or maybe an invitation from Papa to join his morning Mass at Casa Santa Marta? Hey, a girl can dream.

World Youth Day. Dave was going to go, on the Papal flight no less, but he is sending one of his writers on assignment instead. And I am so, so glad.

Independent and semi-adventurous that I am, single parenting in the heat of Roman summer sans swimming pool does not strike my maternal fancy. And it will be super fun to watch it all on tv, anyway. Promise.

Hey guys.

Sandals. Ladies, I need help! Shana posted some of her picks for flats on ANMJ this morning, and a couple of them look like they could be sufficient for high-mileage trekking, but I think I’d sooner die than own a pair of Birkenstocks. I just…no.

So does anyone recommend a cute, comfortable, and durable walking sandal that doesn’t scream aging feminist or spunky/outdoorsy sophomore? Also, TOMS…talk to me about TOMS. Can you walk in them for miles and miles? Do they hold up like Sperry’s do? Or are they just too insubstantial? I have a lot of shopping planned for our USA visit…

What about you all? What are your summer plans? Is it even ever going to be summer where you live? I know my temperature bemoaning is probably offensive to your frostbitten ears (I’m looking at you, Denver and Canada) and so I offer my condolences. But know that I would trade temps with you in a heartbeat. Love, the sweatiest woman in all the world.

Family Life, Life in Italy, toddlers

7 Quick Takes: Homemaking edition (sort of)

April 26, 2013

So delighted to join Jen in her triumphant return to the small and portable screen.

1. This apartment. So blessed to find it so quickly upon our arrival in the Eternal City, and so thankful for its proximity to Dave’s office. And to pretty much everything touristy and beautiful about Rome, which our visitors definitely appreciate. But we live on a busy, busy street. And we’re on the 4th floor. Which means our ‘kid-friendly’ space is … limited.

The living/family/dining/guest room

2. First up: the ‘outdoor’ space. That gorgeous balcony with the Cupola view? Mommy’s heart attack. My boys are surprisingly obedient considering their ages, but it’s still a scary, scary place when toddlers are involved. Now soliciting and entertaining any and all advice from more experienced DIY’ers and home owners/long-term renters for how to baby proof this freaking thing.

Calm down mom, it’s only a 30 foot drop into traffic.
Laundry room with a scenic view.
Keeping a sharp eye on his construction crew below.

3. Joey and JP’s new Montessori-inspired ‘classroom.’ I made a lovely friend at our parish here in Rome who is a full time working mama to a beautiful little boy who almost shares a birthday with JP, and so was gracious enough to share a birthday party with him last weekend. Right now she is responsible for student life at the University of Mary, but in her past life she worked for several years as a Montessori teacher, and is currently homeschooling her little guy in the method. One part intimidating + 10 parts intriguing.

4. Using the powers of the internets and my #1 consultant, Google, Inc., I got creative during naptime earlier this week and here is the result:

Top shelf: sensory play/messy stuff JP can’t quite reach to eat. Yet. Sand-wave maker (from my childhood), giant Christmas ornament pilfered from the 2012 Papal Christmas tree, picture book of art from Galleria Borghese, tray of colored buttons for sorting, and one million highly-toxic colored pencils from the street vendors.
Writing tray: chalkboard, notebook, chalk, parental regret (I can just smell it).
John Paul sucking on venerating an icon in the ‘prayer corner’
 
Indulging Joey’s magpie tendencies with a ‘secret big boy drawer’ for his treasures. Current inventory includes a postogranm (coolest app ever)  of a friend’s newborn son, a B16 pocket calendar, and various and sundry shiny metal objects.
The ‘kitchen.’ Got to learn how to make Mama’s coffee some time.

Prayer space: icon of the Holy Family, relief of Bl. JPII, ‘art’ featuring the current liturgical season, and a Scripture verse for the week. And a card from Papa B, because we had one on hand. We’re those people.
Some child level artwork of plants and seeds, and a view of the whole ‘classroom.’

5. The big boy bed. I swore I never would, but then I did. And I’m (mostly) glad. He asks to go down for naps now, and bedtime is so far a much, much less hostile negotiation. And we’ve only found him sobbing in the middle of the hard marble floor once per night since Wednesday. So, progress.

Proud.
And happy. This is at naptime. Words fail.

6. Color of the week for laundry: rustic orchard red. That’s the report I just gave Dave on what color I dyed our linens and shit (that used to be a store, right?) this week. It’s the careful result of layering puke green, 80’s pink, and street-bazaar red over weeks of towel washing. Call me if you’re interested in a custom mix for your own

7. That’s all I got. Picture heavy and content light this week.

P.s. LOVED hearing from you yesterday about how other mamas kick back for a little down time. At least a few of you confirmed me in my love for home improvement TV and alcohol. And night prayer? Before 11 pm and while still dressed and conscious? Brilliant.

Family Life, Life in Italy, toddlers

To Market to Market

April 24, 2013

Where I probably could buy a fresh pig. But I’m not quite there yet, Italy.

One of the great blessings of living in a country where people live a little closer to the land is that even in a city of several million people like Rome, I still have access to some of the freshest meat and produce I’ve ever seen.

I’ve mentioned before that Italy has stricter laws as far as GMO and pesticides are concerned, (though my favorite butcher thinks nothing of dropping the cherry from his cigarette into his case of sausages and skinned rabbits and then carefully plucking it out and wiping clean the meat. Shudder.) so things that I may have struggled to fit into our grocery budget back home are simply commonplace here.

The tiniest little strawberries, called ‘fragolini:’ Molto piccolo e molto dolce.

Yesterday I bought the bulk of our meat and veggies for the week at the marcato at the base of our apartment building. I spent about 40 Euros (roughly $50), and I came home with all this:

Meat is by far the most expensive ingredient here, so most weeks I will buy 1 (one!) chicken breast and have it filleted into thin slices, and the result is what you see above: an entire IKEA container filled with mini ‘chicken breasts’ that I can stretch into 3 meals. This week that little box ‘o chicken will yield chicken and pineapple fried rice, gluten-free chicken parmesan, and probably something involving the magical packet of Ortega taco seasoning gifted to me by a very sweet fellow ex-pat whose husband makes frequent returns to the US. And who shares my affinity for all things ‘Messicano,’ as they say here.

We do have at least 2 vegetarian meals per week, not because we don’t like meat, but because we can’t afford to have it here every day! This bothered me at first where the boys were concerned, since I don’t want to deprive them of the nutrients and protein they need in order to grow, but once I realized they were eating a wide variety of fruits and vegetables here and were having either beans or eggs or some other protein-dense food on a daily basis, I relaxed a little. Plus, chain-smoking aside, Italians seem a lot healthier than Americans, from the cradle to the grave, a reality which, despite the massive amounts of pasta I see consumed, has to harken back to their native cuisine.

(An aside. According to an Italian acquaintence who is very slim (effortlessly so) and very typical in her habits, I am assured, Italians do not eat pasta in the evening unless it is a special event, like a holiday or a big family dinner. They limit their carb consumption in the afternoon and evening, and it would seem that this has a hugely positive impact on their bodies being efficient in processing so.many.carbs. Plus, she pointed out, they have been eating this way for centuries, and therefore their bodies are accustomed to doing so. She theorizes that perhaps American women’s bodies are not.)

Another huge help I’ve discovered, thanks to my sweet friend Susanna, who is herself a transplant to Rome (from the Italian island of Sardinia. Swoon) via CNA – her husband works with Dave and produces EWTN’s Vaticano, a weekly news show from the Vatican, is Despar’s home delivery service. Despar is a German grocery chain whose selection of international foods is fairly impressive, and whose willingness to deliver cases and cases of water and heavy cleaning supplies is magical.

For an additional 5 Euro on top of my grocery bill (about $7.50), I can have a month’s worth of water delivered to our house. Delivered as in driven to our building, loaded on the elevator, and unloaded in my front foyer. Boom.

Like Christmas, only wetter.

My pedestrian days of water lugging are behind me.

So the grocery shopping breaks down like this: every 2 days or so, a trip to the fresh market, where we buy all of our meat, most of our produce, and a good chunk of our eggs and dairy. And the occasional scarf or piece of cheap jewelry or knicknack from the dollar/Euro bins at the end. Because Mommy has a problem.

About twice per week, I go to Todi’s, the local discount grocer around the block. There I buy diapers, (5 Euro for a 20 pack. Best price I’ve seen in the city which still guarantees the diapers will perform their desired function.) yogurt, frozen veggies, canned goods, and some cleaning supplies/trashbags.

Once per month I visit Despar and import our drinking water, and usually end up with unplanned vino purchases and the stray jar of Nutella, because damn their prices are good. And Nutella is hard to quit.

Ocasionally I stray from this pattern if we’re travelling or if we ever (okay, inevitably) need something on a Sunday afternoon, when everything is closed. Then I have to hoof it about 1.5 miles west to Simply, which is a rather largish and nice-ish grocery store featuring a good mix of Italian and international foods.

There you have it, folks. All the stuff you didn’t know you didn’t care to know about grocery shopping in a foreign country.

Oh yeah, and these guys. Not super helpful, but usually very entertaining.

This is a clear popsicle. Which is a miracle. Also, they wanted to Lady and the Tramp it. Their request, not mine.
Life in Italy

Boy oh Boy

April 23, 2013

Stepping back from yesterday’s craziness (calling all trolls, come hang out in my commbox) for a little good ‘ol fashioned mommyblogging, courtesy of sweet and crafty Sheena at Bean in Love, who actually asked for obnoxiously kid-centered posts of progeny.

Twist my arm.

Yes, that arm. The monstrous post-partum mommy arm flapping in the bottom right-hand corner of the frame.

 When John Paul was born, we were all but convinced he was a ‘she,’ both because the pregnancy was so different from Joey’s, and because we had our girl name settled oh, about 9 months earlier than our boy name. But out he popped, and we are so glad to have two little man cubs only 19 months apart.

They are already best friends,

though Joey is for sure the Alpha Wolf. Except that JP is only trailing by 7 lbs these days, so better watch your back, big brother.

Joey is the proverbial eldest child: bossy, confidant, opinionated, a little self-centered, smart, and really, really stubborn. In other words, he’s the male version of me.

John Paul is our sweet and snuggly guy…but he can scream. Like noises from another planet. Particularly during the Eucharistic Consecration. Or if ever we happen to be tagging along when Dave is filming an interview or having a conversation with somebody famous and/or important. John Paul does not have a ‘discrete’ setting. Also, his screams. Oh Lord, poor Joey is still scarred from the Great CIO-fest of Spring 2013, (wait, that’s now, actually. But it’s been a great past 2 weeks! So I think we won.) when we locked him in a marble-floored bedroom with his younger brother and ‘sleep trained’ them both to the tune of JP’s ungodly shriekings ringing off the acoustically perfect floors.

Don’t be fooled by this face.

My ears still bleed from time to time.

They look alike, but they look like their own little persons, as well. Joey is skinner and has a longer face (and a much fiercer scowl) where JP’s honest and open round face/eyes assure me he will never be able to tell me a lie. Or so I hope.

We’re so in love with these little boys.

And so is the entire city of Rome, it turns out.

Life in Italy

Let Me Google That For You

April 15, 2013

Oh, you’ve never heard of this? Well let me just…yeah. There you go.

The following are actual phrases typed into the search bar on this laptop over the past 48 hours, by various adult members of our household, and in lieu of an actual thought-provoking and potentially time-consuming post, I’d rather distract you with our ineptitude at all things parenting and domestic.

Oh my gosh, until you’ve moved to a foreign country and can’t call your mom/sister at the drop of a hat, you don’t know how truly stupid you might be.

Don’t believe me? How about some proof pudding:

“How to cook oats”

“What do Russian people look like?”

“How late is too late to potty train?”

“Is it too late to potty train?”

“Self potty-trained children”

“Natural remedies for ants”

“How to kill ants”

“Does cinnamon kill ants?”

“Why am I so fat?”

“Mexican restaurant in Rome”

I believe the last two items may be related, but I will have to do some more research to let you know for sure.

In utterly unrelated news, I’ve embarked on an ambitious homeschooling effort on behalf of Joey’s atrophying brain. In lieu of an actual preschool program, since we A. can’t find one that costs less than $350 per month and B. the last one I looked at involved children ages 2.5-5 running wild through 4 open classrooms wearing color-coded smocks and yelling at each other in Italian and even I was scared of them, I’ve decided to take matters into my own capable hands and unschool him here at home.

Today’s lesson: the color red, or rosso, if you’re being geographically particular. We gathered a bunch of red stuff, including a pepper, a tomato, an empty pill bottle from (sob) Target, and a blunt vegetable peeler into a bowl and dumped it all out on the coffee table, where I proceeded to drill him on names and colors in two languages. I also happened to be wearing a red shirt and bright red lipstick, courtesy of Dave’s selection during a weekend shopping trip.

The end result? He knows the color red, and Mommy is, it turns out, a Montessori goddess. I mean I (unwittingly) coordinated my outfit in order to facilitate synapses in his brain. Come on.

Homeschooling: nailed it.

He might not be any closer to potty trained, but thanks to Google inc. and a bowl of fresh produce and household items, he is well on his way to Harvard. And is currently watching Calliou in Italian. Which is even more obnoxious than the original version, if you can imagine that. On second thought, please don’t try to imagine that. I don’t hate you, and I’d hate for you to suffer so.

Class is in session.

Family Life, Life in Italy

7 Quick Takes: Rejoice!

April 12, 2013

Linking up with Jen‘s usual raucous crowd via Grace, who is living up to her moniker by hosting for our out-of-commission new mama. Praying for little Joseph to exit hotel NICU swiftly and start sleeping through the night promptly.

1. Speaking of sleeping through the night, (don’t say it outloud, you idiot, don’t say it.you’re cursing yourself.) John Paul is doing it. And one week shy of his first birthday. After 5 consecutive days of DOUBLE naps and peaceful 12 hour nighttime stretches…I’m calling it: the kid can sleep.

Feigned innocence.

1. Praise God in Heaven, because this little monster was shaping up to be the permanent baby of the family. I don’t know that my dark circles will ever disappear fully, and I am sure that part of my brain came unhinged sometime over the past year from so many repeated shootings out of bed at 2 am to the tune of bloodcurdling song from the room adjacent…but he sleeps now. And all is well with my soul.

2. Jillian Michaels and I have been on again off again for 2.5 years. Joey is 2.5 years old. You do the math. Anyway, I’ve finally reconciled the nemeses and they now join forces to whip me into shape every morning. And while I don’t look any better, I feel more in control of Rome, since maybe the buses don’t come on time and maybe I can’t find what I’m looking for at the grocery store, but at least I can always count on Jillian for a few good chest flys in my life. And Joey is my workout buddy. You might say they have come to a grudging acceptance of one another.

Jenny: “Show me your muscles buddy.”

Joey: …

Adolescence should be a blast.

3. There is a construction site directly across the street from our building, so as the weather has warmed up we’ve spent hours sitting on our balcony watching ‘the diggers,’ and in fact, JP recently uttered his first sentence, in perfect Itanglish: “Ecco, diggers!”

Homeschooling. Boom.

4. I found oatmeal at our local Todis, a discount Italian grocery store kind of like Aldi. Except maybe a tiny bit less ghetto. But OATMEAL! After more than 3 months of scrambled eggs and an unfortunate foray into gluten-full cornflakes. (What?? Why??) It sounds like a weird thing to be so excited about, but trust me on this one, pastries and yogurt for breakfast every morning gets old. And fat. And with it, the consumer. Even/especially when Nutella is involved.

5. I am an amazing cook. With the abundance of organic (everything here is ‘organic,’ because they have stricter laws about pesticides and GMO stuff here) and readily available quality ingredients quite literally on my doorstep, I have zero excuses not to whip up truly amazing and simple meals for the fam. I was an okay cook before our migration, but I relied heavily (okay, exclusively) on canned beans and maybe the not-so-occasional rotisserie chicken. No judgement here! If those bad boys were readily available, I’d be all over them. 3-4 times a week. But they’re not, and so I’ve had to branch out, aka learn how to cook. And it turns out when you have practically no friends, no car to drive places, and very few distractions, cooking can be a very worthy time-filler in the late afternoons/early evenings. I’m sure my husband is thanking his luckiest stellae that I’ve finally jumped on-board the domestic culinary wagon, and our bank account is also blessedly (or maybe sorrowfully?) free from 3-8 weekly charges labelled ‘Chipotle.’ No comment.

6. Sleep. Glorious sleep. So much sleep I did our taxes yesterday. 4 whole days early. and in less than an hour. with both kids crawling on me. And it was fine.  (Shut up now, Jenny. Anyone who is still reading by this point already hates you, and JP is guaranteed to regress in the most dramatic fashion if you utter one more word.)

7. Blogger friends become real-life friends. I’ve already creepily mentioned the Tierneys a million times, but in addition to Kendra I’ve also made friends with a group of mamas in Rome via a sweet reader who tracked me down and invited me to her beautiful apartment for a coffee date/mommy meet up session. Which I’m hosting at mi casa next week. Amazing, the internets. Plus, another lovely reader from Malta (yes, the Catholic island-nation south of Italy) is mailing me color-catching fabric protectors for my sad, sick laundry situation. Glory, glory alleluia. Will wonders never cease?

Off to the Camp with you now, and may your minds be edified with more stirring stuff than this. Me? I’ve got a double date with a toddler and an angry woman in sweatcapris.

Life in Italy

For Jack

April 11, 2013

My little guy has been missing his buddies in Denver a lot, lately. I don’t know if the longing for the comforts of home was brought on by the awesome dinner with had with this fun family and their six-pack of kiddos last weekend, or by Tia’s departure for sweet home Colorado last Sunday, but Joey has been asking me ‘where’d so-and-so go?’ all week long. Poor guy.

The most frequently requested players in the on-going drama of losing playmates and family members to the world of Skype (he was terrified when Tia suddenly popped up on the laptop next to Grandma on Monday morning. Literally buried his head in my shoulder and started sobbing, poor guy. Technology makes me feel that way too, sometimes.) are Jack, his bff+e and the son of my sweet friend Sarah, (who doesn’t blog but should because she is beautiful and brilliant and stylish – here are  some articles she’s written for CNA) Abigail, daughter to the lovely Holly, and Gigi, the sweetheart oldest daughter of Margo, who also could save the world through beauty, etc., if she’d only jump on the blog-wagon.

He also occasionally inquires into the whereabouts of our favorite little Mexican, but if mommy can’t have good guacamole in this country, then you better believe I’ve cut the little scream-talker out of our daily rotation. Plus, no Netflixs in Italy. Suck it up, son, we’ve got the Pantheon.

So without further ado, I present to Mr. Jack M. the following collection of meaningful images and captures of daily life in Italy, according to Joey. Who isn’t a terrible photographer for being a 2 year old, I have to admit.

Mommy’s bare legs + filthy Sperry’s. Nice outfit shot, son.
Bubbles on the balcony + an artsy sky shot.
Beloved shopping cart.
His ‘garden’ – the windowbox planter lining our balcony.
His new ‘run shoes’
Daddy’s discarded tie-turned-dress-up item. Joey can pull off orange like no one else in this fam.
His roommate.
His room. (disclaimer: mommy took this shot)

Love and miss you, friends of ours. See all that space in the boy’s room (hint, hint.)

Life in Italy

Cucina Romana, accidentally Paleo-style

April 10, 2013

Having a gluten free toddler and no Chiptole around is hard, or so I thought. Living in the land that flows with bread and pasta, I assumed that Joey’s poor tummy troubles would condemn him to a life of frozen french fries, cuties fished from the depths of the diaper bag, and Ziplocks filled with peanuts and raisins every time we ate out, which was often the first 3 months we spent in Rome.

Between our resident nanny/tourista extraordinaire wanting to see all the sights of the city and Dave’s crazy work schedule, replete with dozens of work dinners and social events (you can stop rolling your eyes, I promise that 4 course Italian dinners get burdensome after a while), we literally ate out of the house an average of 5 times per week. And poor Joey? Well, he tasted his way through a patate fritte tour of the Eternal City. Except for some terrifying situations, where french fries weren’t on the menu…and then we froze.

What to do? We would start frantically pouring over the menu, trying to identify safe dishes while slapping away desperate hands from the omnipresent breadbasket. Um, how about carrotes julianne con limone? Or tacchino arrosta con rocket? Maybe some carcifora romana?

Before we knew it, we’d identified more than a few winners, and we made the startling discovery that our kids don’t only tolerate but actually really like artichokes, broccoli, roasted red peppers, carrots marinated in olive oil and garlic, and most surprisingly to me, caprese salad – and the whole thing, not just the mozzarella like their weirdo mom.

So we’ve been cooking more meals at home these last couple weeks, and I’m slowly learning to shift from bean and corn-tortilla centric dishes to preparing meals using whatever is fresh and in season at our market down below the apartment.

Right now, strawberries, artichokes, fennel (gag), and asparagus are all in season, and therefore cheap and abundant. It’s not like in the US where you can find whatever produce you’re looking for, either; they don’t seem to import out-of-season goodies from across the globe, which isn’t an entirely bad thing, I’m guessing.

Which brings me to last night’s dinner. I am no photographer, and I am an embarrassment to the blogosphere with my utter and complete lack of technical knowledge, so please forgive these fancy caption-less photos which are in no way worthy of pinterest … or really even of your continued attention. But I took them and I’ve come this far in my naptime posting, so:

Paleo/Gluten-free Chicken Parmesan with Roman Artichokes

Ingredients:
(Serves 2 adults and 2 hungry-ish toddlers)

1 boneless skinless chicken breast, filleted into thin slices
8-10 large cherry tomatoes
4 oz parmesan cheese (powdered fakey fake is fine. Mine was powdered real, but I’m sure it still would’ve given a real Italian a stroke to see me dump it from a plastic bag rather than shred it myself)
a few sprigs of basil
4 cloves of garlic
olive oil
1 egg
3 artichokes, trimmed and with stems intact (probably hard to find in the US? I don’t know)
salt and pepper

First things first, call your husband and ask him to bring home some red wine. Then, unwisely allow the kids to climb up on the chairs next to the table you’re working on, so they can help de-stem the tomatoes and practice grabbing the knife by it’s blade.

After a few minutes of dicing and cutting, leave the children unattended in the kitchen to wander out on the balcony to snap a picture of St. Peter’s in the sunset glow. I will never get tired of this view.

Get the artichokes going first, because they kind of take forever. Using a knife to open up a little spae in the center, stuff in some fresh basil, some parmesan cheese, and a clove of garlic. Turn the artichoke upside down (the filling won’t fall out if you’ve stuffed it tight enough), and stand it on it’s head in an empty pot. Repeat with remaining artichokes, and drizzle them with olive oil when complete. Pour in just enough water to cover each artichoke about mid-way up its’ body, leaving the stems exposed, and cover with a lid. They shouldn’t have enough water in there to float. Steam them over medium heat for about 40 minutes.

So good. And edible in their entirety. How did I not know this for 30 years?

 Next, crack an egg into a bowl, scramble it, and dip each chicken breast fillet in the egg wash. Have a second small bowl filled with parmesan cheese, italian spices of your choice, and salt and pepper nearby. Dredge each egg-washed piece through the cheese bowl and then lay in a baking dish. Dump olive oil over the chicken and bake at 375 for about 20 minutes (depending on how thinly sliced the chicken is, so keep peeking in.)

You can melt some softer cheese on top of them towards the end of the cooking process. I had gouda on hand, so that’s what I used.

Finally, take the cherry tomatoes and place them in a bowl or pot of almost-boiling hot water. I think this is called blanching them, and I have no idea where I heard of doing this, nor have I any experience whatsoever making tomato sauce, since hellooooo Super Target used to make it for me. But I didn’t have any sauce on hand, and I was like, get it girl, what you know about rocking a wolf on your noggin? (End terrifying glimpse into my internal monologue.) So I thought I’d try to make some.

Drain the blanched tomatoes and proceed to split them open with a fork (careful, they squirt) and smash them into oblivion. Add parmesan, chopped basil, salt and pepper to taste, and some oregano because hey, you’re the boss of this tomato sauce. And an entire clove of crushed garlic. Saute on medium high for 20 minutes or so, until the sauce thickens a bit. It will be very chunky, but also very delicious, so … win win.

In retrospect, larger tomatoes would probably have yielded a more respectable amount of sauce.

Finally, wander around your kitchen taking ‘artsy’ photos while waiting for the stupid artichokes to finish cooking.

Our matching espresso makers. Dave is on a decaf kick, so we’re a mixed household these days.
The view from the kitchen window. Not too shabby, at least when scary neighbor lady isn’t creeping at us through the window directly across. She always recoils in horror if we catch her eye. Viva Italia.

Finally, serve everything up covered with the finished sauce and a generous sprinkling of parmesan, letting your toddler season his own plate before screaming in protest when you limit him to 4 tablespoons-full, and forget to take a picture of the final product. Serve with a bottle of chianti and pellagrino, and a dessert of fresh strawberries with Nutella and/or whipped cream.

Buono mangia!

Life in Italy

My Italian (laundry) is Terrible

April 9, 2013

I have a straight up nemesis here in the Eternal City, and his name is Whirlpool.

Hi, I have no soul, but I bet I can get you to make a trip to the Confessional.

Or I wish it were, because then the *#%R($* thing would probably function predictably and/or accurately. I have, as you well know, 2 small and dirty boy, and a husband who is prone to stains, especially of the wine and coffee variety, probably because he wrongly assumes I love a good detergent challenge. I don’t know.

At any rate, in my most productive days of yesteryear, I was cranking out two loads on a good day, and patting myself smugly on the back for being so on top of our family’s wardrobe needs that we could get by with pretty basic and modest-sized layettes, every one of us.

Well, our wardrobes are definitely smaller now, (and not just because the US dollar is a contestant on the Biggest Loser beside the mighty Jillian Michaels Euro) because I have dyed many, many costly and beloved items a putrid shade of green and a sickening shade of burgundy over the past 3 months.

. That’s one of Dave’s $50 Jos A Bank permanent press dress shirts, stained with the hideous remains of an Italian bath towel and the salty tears of regret.

Now you’re probably wondering why I keep staining things. Am I enjoying myself? Am I too proud to ask for help? Am I washing our clothing by standing in the gutter and exposing my soiled articles to a fire hydrant blasting non-potable city water?

Definitely not; surprisingly, no; and just about.

The first week we arrived in Italy, I very unwisely laundered a load of our own clothing with some towels belonging to our rental apartment. Not yet acquainted with the phenomenon of buying ones linens from filthy street vendors featuring nicotine-scented bath towels and duvet covers, I wrongly assumed that colored items were permanently thus. But alas, no. A green bath towel, tossed in with a load of colored polos, t-shirts, and pants, will not hesitate to pollute it’s drum-mates with its detestable hue.

After weeping over a few truly ruined baby boy sweater vests (sob. the grief is still fresh), I made the heart wrenching decision to toss the truly hideous colored victims to the curb…but not everything that was affected looked completely awful. This turned out to be an unwise move, but one whose ramifications I would not fully grasp until yesterday afternoon, when the above-pictured dress shirt disaster occurred.

You see, gentle reader, I ought to have tossed the whole lot of crappy green-hued items after the initial contamination, and not just because they all looked awful, but because the few stragglers who made the cut to the ‘keep’ pile have, apparently, been slowly poisoning our remaining wardrobes these past few months. A green sock here, a green polka-dotted thong there…they kept popping up, but in mysteriously and otherwise unaffected loads of wash. Why oh why wasn’t everything turning green? Why only some things?

I actually don’t have an answer for that. But I do have an impressive cache of weapons employed in the losing battle of looking like a family of hideously-under dressed foreigners:

Most of my ‘stash.’ Each purchased at a different store. I can quit any time.

I don’t know, I guess we’re doomed to stand out like sore thumbs here, because we’re blonde, we’re chubby, and we have more than 1 child before the age of 40. And because we look like a walking ad for clueless tourists with no hope of enculturation.

You would never know I spend 1-2 hours each day fighting with this guy, spinning the dials into new positions and experimenting with different water temperatures and product combinations. Y’all, I’m half expecting to accidentally build a bomb in our laundrybathroom.

And what do I get, for all my toil? Usually some extra grace, sure. And banana or salami smeared across my solitary (sniff) remaining Gap oxford buttondown. So back to the rack I go.

Woe is me, suffering the indignities of laundry drying over my marble floors and (IKEA) Persian rug.

I know what you’re thinking – worst post ever. Or at least the most boring. But I had to bring it down to earth after yesterday’s glimpse into a heavenly future. And thank you for your encouraging comments and stories of survival – I want to believe!

Ciao for now,

Cinderella.

(p.s. I thought it worth mentioning that I literally set a pot of rice on fire during the crafting of this post, and that my beautiful little sister Lizzie gave birth to 7 lbs of delicious girlyness this morning at 3:45 am in the form of Miss Charlotte Therese. So I clearly have deeper domestic issues than laundry, and who even cares, because weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee for new babies, and the first ladybaby in our family in 18 years!)

Family Life, Life in Italy, toddlers

Signs of Hope

April 8, 2013

This morning marked my first in Rome being truly ‘on my own’ with the boys. We sent Tia home yesterday, and this morning found Joey pacing the apartment bright and early calling ‘Tia, are yoooou?’ while looking under every piece of furniture and behind every door. Poor guy, he has had a lot of goodbyes in his short little life. Here’s hoping the whole multicultural experiment offsets the trauma of repeated separations and prolonged absences from family.

The thing is though, today has been great. And not just because it’s gloriously sunny and 60 degrees, but also because I feel like somebody unscrewed my training wheels, gave the seat of my bike a shove, and…I’m doing it. In the immortal words of Kevin McCalister: “I’m not afraid anymore!”

(If you didn’t get that reference, I forgive you, but you should probably never come to my parent’s house around Christmas time.)

Another huge confidence booster, besides the 3 months of practice runs at navigating this crazy city with my trusty sidekick, I had one of my first ever blog-to-real-life meetups in the form of a lovely dinner out with an even lovlier family who were visiting Rome from Southern California- the Tierneys from Catholic All Year. Kendra emailed me a couple of weeks ago saying she would be traveling through with her husband, her parents, and her 6(!) kids ages 1 – 10, and did we want to meet up for gelato or dinner?

Um, yes. If only to see the looks on the faces of the other restaurant-goers when a table of 4 adults and a million small children walked in. Italians are famously enamored of babies, but I wondered how far that benevolence would carrying in a crowded restaurant on a Friday night.

The answer is very, very far. Particularly if 90% of the children involved were angelic creatures from another civilization populated by clean clothes and table manners. I don’t want to name any names, but a few of the younger diners were less than pleasant by the meal’s end, and it wasn’t the jet-lagged children.

But, but…there’s hope. Here was a lovely, growing young family who had come to Rome to meet their new Holy Father, see the sights and explore the Faith as a family (happy First Communion day, Bobby!), and they actually seemed to be enjoying themselves at a late-night dinner with relative strangers after 15 hours of air travel the day before.

And nobody threw anything at anyone else the entire time. Not even a single slab of proscuitto. It was awesome.

And it gave me a vision into what (I hope) the future could look like. Because more impressive than the well-behaved children and the adorable coordinated outfits they sported was the peace and the joy radiating from the grown-up Tierneys: they actually seemed sane, peaceful, and happy to be parents.

I am definitely the latter, but the former are both debatable at some point every day.

But I’m in the trenches. And I know it. And then I read this on Kendra’s blog after our meetup and I thought, oh gosh, they’ve been here, too. And hopefully some day sooner than later, we’ll be there, where they are. And the pen marks will come off my plaster walls. And people will stop rubbing bodily fluids on each other and on me multiple times a day. And I’ll sit around a big long dinner table and sedately sip (not gulp) from my wine glass while my older children model good behavior for and discipline their younger siblings.

These are the lean years, the investing years, the years where there is never seems to be quite enough patience or good temper to stretch through an entire day, and where every misstep feels like a major catastrophe. The days where I find myself yelling ‘dammit’ at my toddler when he turns the shower nozzle on me, the bathroom, and his (fully clothed) younger brother as I am trying to extract him from his 2nd shower of the morning.

I guess we can only go up from here though. Here’s hoping.