Cookies and milk

I still love the Alps. When I’m there, I (1) blend in with the other people wearing polar fleece (in Chamonix), (2) thank God I’m not lactose intolerant (in Courmayeur), and (3) have a new appreciation for Frodo’s climb in Lord of the Rings. The Valdaosta also has a wonderful cookie called Tegole (“tiles”). These hazelnut cookies are round, thin, and the diameter of my mouth, the result of which are little razor cuts on the corners of my mouth from eating too many in quick succession.

The Mont Blanc ultra marathon was a few days before I left, so incredibl(ly crazy) athletes were beginning to descend on the area. I wanted to bow and touch the hem of their gore-tex jackets. I half expected to see Dan O’Flaherty among them, but then realized he’s probably quite content running ultra marathons in New Jersey.

P.P.P.P.P.P.

I love food, but what I love more is feeding people. It's more fun to cook for others than for myself, and more satisfying to cook for friends than for strangers. Therefore, in exchange for a bed, visitors to my humble village must eat my food. (And, to keep the gender roles blurred, clean the dishes.) (See Exhibit A: "Captive house guest." Don't worry, Barry. I set him free eventually.)

Usually I recreate dishes from work. One day after a night at the restaurant during the Toscana Nights street festival, I tried to replicate Marco's gnocchi with cream and pears. The dish was doomed to poor imitation from the start due to a lack of gnocchi and cream. With no gnocchi, I changed the consistency of the sauce to better suit the long pasta I had. With no cream, I changed the flavor profile to fit a lighter sauce.

In other words, it came out completely different. Crepes rather than pancakes. Cake rather than brownies. Gumbo rather than jambalaya. This dish, which I call 6Ps (porri, parpadelle, pecorino, prosciutto, pera, pepe), has been declared a favorite by all (three) guests who visited after it's creation. And only one was related to me. God's smiting thumb! I'll have to hang on to this one for when I'm a yuppie.

6Ps - Add olive oil in a pan with chopped prosciutto and chopped leek. Add cubed, skinned pear and let cook for a few minutes. Add dry white wine (Vernaccia di San Gimignano) and let cook until alcohol evaporates. Add pepper and butter to taste. Add cubed pecorino and let cook until pecorino starts to melt. Add almost-cooked parpadelle to pan, mix, and let cook excess liquid in pan has been absorbed by the noodles.

* To make the pear flavor more subtle, crush cooked pear pieces with the tines of a fork before adding pasta.
* Salt levels in this dish will vary based on the prosciutto you use. (di Parma = dolce; di San Daniele = semi-dolce; di Toscana = salato). Add salt as necessary.

One thing I forgot to mention

Marco is a great chef and entrepreneur. He opened the restaurant where I work about three years ago. The restaurant is decorated with bold colors and modern art and features a courtyard out back where visitors, both Italian and foreign, can enjoy the Tuscan dusk.

Most of these visitors must be surprised by the tattoo/piercing parlor that opened across the way in June. Nestled in the a thousand year old castle, the shop is painted black with gold trimming and also features Lucky 13 Apparel. Leaving work one day, I saw an Italian grandmother in a cashmere sweater looking first at a black hoodie encrusted with a fake diamond scull (100 euro), then at a pleather belt (35 euro), and then at a set of handcuffs ("for sex").

The shop has caused a small stir among the more conservative citizens of Ambra, and students of economics know that the solution should be Coase's--the family restaurant should buy the tattoo shop. And then shut it down.

The latter will never happen, because the former already has.

Marco, a great chef and entrepreneur, is also a tattoo artist and the athiest drummer in a heavy metal band. Anticipating public consternation, he named his tattoo parlor "Doctor Madd" rather than "Doctor Satan." The shop in Ambra is doing quite well. Marco plans to open other stores in Florence and Arezzo.

I mention this to shed light less on Marco than on the area, because Marco's shop can survive only as long as there are people who require his services. There are British and German tourists that walk among the castles and celebrate the red wine and rolling hills. There is the nearby bridge, which Leonardo da Vinci painted into the background of the Mona Lisa. And there is the youth culture. Here, you can get a piercing with your pasta. You can drink prosecco with folks with multiple tattoos and barbells in their ears. You can learn about scarification until the explainer must go home for dinner with his mother.

Rock on.

In my room lives quite possibly the dumbest mosquito in the world. It bit the bottom of my foot.

One k.g. of Tomatoes per d.a.y.

Last week, I released 2 kilograms of tomatoes into my kitchen. Within 48 hours they were nearly extinct. There were two of us here at the time, so we had a kilo each. Mmmmmm.

This week, they are disappearing at the same rate, but there is only me here now. Lycopenodermia has not yet set in, though having recovered from an episode of carotenodermia a few years ago, I’m not afraid.

The good news is that I’m chock full of Vitamins C, A, and K; of molybdenum, potassium, and magnese; and of chromium, B1, and B6. If I had a prostate, it would be happy.

Today, I popped them into my mouth like grapes while reading Orhan Pamuk out on the porch. Another delicious way to eat them is in tomato sauce. Pasta optional.

I learned how to make this sauce from watching Monica’s mother, Giuletta. Add a bit of olive oil to pan a with quartered pomodorini (cherry tomatoes? These are not cherry tomatoes. They’re little jewels!). Let them cook over medium flame for no more than 18 minutes. While tomatoes are cooking, add salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes and squash the tomatoes with a fork. After cooking is finished, mix in fresh chopped basil and run it through a food mill.

I omit the food mill part because I like the texture, and I do not like washing dishes.

In which I fell off the face of the earth

Dear loyal blog readers (aka, Dad):

Sorry for not updating lately. Things that happened in July:

- Umbria Jazz (Perugia) - Ironically, all the musicians I saw (Sonny Rollins, Eric Alexander / Vincent Herring) were from New York. The jazz was excellent, tickets inexpensive, and, by nightfall, streets full of drunk Italians wandering throughout the city from one concert to the next. Also had Grom.

- Cathy came to visit, so we rented a car and wandered around the countryside. Woo freedom! I got to see Montepulciano and we visited a few wineries. A favorite: Pian Dell'Orino, an organic winery in Montalcino. They have distributors in CA and NY, so the best part is I can get their wine when I get back to the states!

- Marco turned 31, the twins who live across from me turned 24, and I turned 22. Walter, Monica's son, and a few other people turned a year as well. The unusual number of summer birthdays makes me think that there must be something romantic about post-crush and the olive oil harvest... (This is rivaled in funniness by the Corcoran family, whose members were born predominantly in November.)

- Had one final meal at I'Toscano (via Guelfa 70r, Florence) and a final ice cream at Vivoli. Now they're closed for the August Holiday :-(.

- Apparently, between July 21 - Aug 21 is the hottest time of the year in Italy. Temperatures of 40 degrees C have seriously sabotaged my motivation to run...

Will post more about food later.

Tuscany's red light district (is nearby)

Along the state road between Ambra to Siena, there are five hookers.

They are only out during the daytime.
They are black women dressed like 7th grade girls at the mall.
They have clients from not only this area but also anyone who wants to take a detour on the highway from Florence to Rome.

After hearing about Tuscany’s underground sex trade, I thought Walter (Monica’s dad) and Fiorella (waitress) were joking. Since then, I’ve seen them three times.

First, coming back with Russ from the beach in Maremma, where we ate cantaloupe and peaches from a fruit stand for lunch, and I got a very strange tan. We saw two standing in the shade of a side road.

Second, returning from a daytrip with my parents. They were on the main road this time.

Third, returning from Norcia, the land of black truffles and embargo-breaking sales of Harry Potter. One of the women talking to—BARGAINING WITH—the driver of a stopped Mercedes station wagon.

“That’s the dangerous part,” Walter said when I told him about it later. “If the police see them then they’ll take away the car. Having sex in a car is illegal in Italy.”