BREAD :-)

Hurrah for food reincarnation! Just as each culture has it's own version of life after death, each culture also has it's own way of using old carbs. The American kitchen makes stuffing and french toast; the Chinese kitchen fried rice and juk; and the Tuscan kitchen pappa di pomodoro and panzanella.

I find these dishes' English translations hilarious, because pappa di pomodoro will be soup and panzanella salad only when stuffing--their culinary second cousin--falls into either category. All three foods have similar textures, which means the "Tuscan bread soup" lacks broth and the "Tuscan summer bread salad" is scant on vegetables. I prefer the latter to the former, but will sadly be unable to genuinely replicate either once I get home. Unsalted bread is difficult to find outside of Tuscany, and--more problematic--carb populations, no matter how large, often go extinct within 24 hours of entering my kitchen. Anyway, both dishes are delicious, Tuscan ways to recycle old bread.

The other delicious, Tuscan way to recycle old bread is to feed it to the chickens out back.
And then eat their eggs.
And then eat them.

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Pappa di Pomodoro - Saute chopped onions in olive oil. Add chopped basil. Add 1 part pureed tomatoes and 1 part water. Cook over medium heat for 18 minutes. Add pieces of stale bread slowly until bread absorbs all liquid. Mix until pieces of bread are smaller, but do not make into a paste. Add salt and pepper. Serve drizzled with olive oil.

Panzanella - Soak stale bread in water until fully saturated. Squeeze water out and rip bread into small pieces. Add chopped onions, tomatoes, and cucumbers. Mix. Add salt, pepper, and olive oil liberally. (Carb:Veggie ratio should be similar to that of fried rice).

Consultants are smart!

Bosses urged to watch more movies: Four Italian management consultants have come up with a novel way to get ahead in business - read fewer textbooks and watch more films. (BBC)
Excerpt: "Lolita, Stanley Kubrick's 1962 offering, contains "lessons about seduction and betrayal" which might be useful for investing on the stock market"

Out-run and out-eaten

After the Notturna di San Giovanni, a 10K in Florence, I left thinking four things:
- Running in Italy is like driving in Italy. There must be rules, I just don't’ know what they are.
- Clocks in Italy are like Saints. These days, their utility is aesthetic.
- Thank God Vivoli stays open until 11PM.
- Racing in Italy can’t get any better than this—what other race will start with a parade (men in tights throwing flags), feature a vocal crowd, and offer views of half the curriculum of Art Hum?

I reconsidered the last point at the finish of a 7-point-something K near Siena, where they gave each participant a bottle of wine. I chuckled to myself and began to think about how my friends would react when I told them this once I got home.

We didn’t go home. Ubaldo had indeed kept his promise to take me with him to races, but, here in Tuscany, “race” also means “dinner” (which is proceeded by a “post-race shower” and followed by “drinks”).

Fast forward to the food: Walking toward the dinner tent, I heard my name. The race organizers were conducting a raffle among participants, and I had won a chocolate pastry! All the participation prizes were food—olive oil, salami, good wine, sweets.

We waited in line to order and get a table. An eight year old served beer on tap, while his mother managed the cash register. As we sat down, one of Ubaldo’s friends uncorked his raffle prize (DOCG olive oil) and poured it over bread for the table. Half a wheel of pecorino rosso appeared (origins: unclear). Then, finally our order: a crostoni platter. Beer. Prosciutto and melon. Pici with ragu. More beer. Mushroom and prosciutto pizza. A pork chop. Orange pastry. By this time, the Italians—most of whom had run sub 2:40 marathons in the last two weeks—started to smoke and speak quickly in dialect. Another round of beer. I checked the time; it was 1 AM.

“Don’t worry,” Ubaldo’s wife whispered to me as she surveyed the mess. “I’ll drive.”