italia

Buongiorno!

I realize it has been a while since we last met. You’ve heard my rantings of this crazy and hectic life, which I’m sure you just as well relate to at times… Thanks for sticking through.

However, this time, I’ve a different story to tell you. One week ago today, I arrived in Rome for the first time! These previous seven days have been the start of probably the grandest adventure in my life thus far: a semester spent in Italia. I am here, in a small town north of Rome, for the next four months. To experience culture. Learn Italian. Eat the most comforting food in the world. Peer into the depths art and antiquity. Take a step toward learning more about myself and about others. And countless other reasons I have yet to discover.

In the past week, my taste buds have already indulged in food unlike anything they’ve known. The first night, I ate bruschetta made with vibrantly red tomatoes and crusty bread, pizza with various toppings like zucchini and authentic pepperoni, and the smoothest, purest gelato that looked like plain old vanilla but released a whole new world of expansive flavor upon touching my mouth. I’ve had a nutella-stuffed donut at nearly midnight, countless squares of pizza, fruit tarts and cookies, and fluffy, creamy cappuccinos costing only a euro. I’ve witnessed the creation of authentic gelato after tasting the classic pistachio flavor, which is as wonderful as people claim.

Last night, friends and I treated ourselves to a more expensive dinner at “La Spaghetteria,” which since 1984 has held the Guinness World Record for the widest selection of sauces at a restaurant. As we flipped through page after page of listings, it was nearly impossible to choose. I settled on a variation of my favorite, however: crema di latte, pomodoro, pancetta, prosciutto, e vodka, for all you Italian-readers. AKA cream, tomatoes, vodka, and Italian ham. All mixed together, sticking perfectly to slightly fatter spaghetti noodles. It was neither overly soupy nor scantily coated. Just enough to produce a hearty harmony of flavors.

Let me tell you, I didn’t use to be this way. Growing up, my palate was accustomed to sitting at the table with its arms folded tightly across its chest, unwilling to consume most normal and delicious foods. Why it was so stubborn, I have no idea. I would take the cheese off pizza (now the most embarrassing and horrid thought to me), demand that my bread be toasted and peanut butter be thickly layered (which I admit, I still require) for PB&J, and refuse mashed potatoes and cheeseburgers. Everything had to be perfect, and I deeply thank my family and friends for having the patience and grace to not abandon me.

I am thankful to know and say that I have come far since those days. Food is an elemental part of culture and people and physicality, and to not experience its vastness is to turn my back on such a joyful part of life.

These things said and shown, I want to direct you someplace else. I have created another blog solely for this time spent in Italy. Because it is so difficult to manage two sites (you’ve seen how slow I can be on even one), I will be posting mainly on the newer space. Though it isn’t solely focused on food- more on honest stories of my time here- I can guarantee that the topic will appear more than frequently.

With that, I invite you skip on over and join me in experiencing and eating my way through Italy! The link can be found both below and on the “connect” tab above.

Ciao for now!

www.ellyndreamsofitaly.wordpress.com

bruschetta, a first dinner

The flavors of my family are as such...

Garlic. Balsamic. Pepper. Olive oil. Parmesan. Dijon. Spinach. Pasta. Basil.

A collective whole that is tangy and zingy on the tongue but full and comforting in body. It bursts with depth, adventure, and richness. The crisp chop of the garlic and the traveling aroma of its mysterious spicy-sweet complexity. The thick creaminess of dijon shaken with balsamic vinegar and bold olive oil... It all combines after the first few cuts on the plate. Chicken, rice, and spinach merge with the mud to create a mix of homey perfection. And when it's all gone, the crispy bread fulfills its role by swooping in and mopping up leftovers that simply cannot be left behind. It is only to be followed by a hoping finger that ventures to the plate and returns to the mouth with a smidgen of the meal's flavors for the taste buds to fight over.

It's an act, an art, a beautiful play. These meals are each lovely and perfect, somehow both new and familiar at the same time. A surge of nostalgia, a hope for a larger stomach, but a joyful resolution nevertheless.

This is one of those meals.

philadelphia dreaming

My best friend Krysia and I have a dream.

It's a beautiful dream that has existed since our youngest years. Back in the day, we used to talk about how one day we would own a bed and breakfast, in which Krysia would run the front of the house, I would cook all the food, and our third friend would serve meals to guests on her roller-skates. Very sensible, really. 

Sometimes we would practice our skills, to the point of venturing to the park across the street to retrieve onion grass that would soon be sautéed and tasted before tossed in the trash. Or we would concoct marvelously strange drinks consisting of tea, pepsi, lemon, and various other ingredients, later to be forced upon my gracious grandad, who would unfailingly respond with, "that's good!", which fueled our giggles. Sometimes we would practice our entrepreneurial skills with the always-expensive lemonade stand, or we would let our tastebuds guide menu exploration by tracking down that friendly neighborhood summer jingle until our hands were gripping skylite or spearmint snow cones topped with drippy marshmallow sauce.

Although it was all a distant dream at that point, it has all started to become tangible reality since. We have both matured into our designated roles, realizing that our gifts and talents lie in these areas (although the roller-skating seems to have fizzled out). We have been pursuing them through our jobs this summer and it's our goal to come up with a business plan for some sort of cafe or coffee shop by the time we return to school. We have been brainstorming concepts and exploring, both physically and electronically, different cities to see where we might fit. 

And last week... we got to explore Philly.

It's kind of funny actually. For some reason, Philly has just kept arising in both of our lives, both separately and together, in conversation or news articles or inspirations. And neither of us had ever been there. Thus, we're both intrigued by this historic city. So last week, when I had to go to the Italian Consulate to apply for my visa, we and my mom made a day trip of it. And though we'd heard various opinions of this Filthadelphia, we both loved it.

words, a prequel.

It seems that I've been all over the place again. I don't know how it happens, but each week seems to flit past my eyes before I even realize how far into the month we are. The only reason I know the date on a regular basis is because almost daily, my sharpie-gripping hands write onto masking tape those two or three numbers separated by a slash, in order to keep track of all the jolly goods we make at the bakery. I'm thankful for that because otherwise, I'd have no idea what day it is. Probably ever.

Life just seems to be accelerating more and more, and my greatest desire in a normal week is to have one day to just be in the moment. To squint my eyes, gather my thoughts, focus, and try to wrap my head around what is actually happening in my life. It's almost August already. Wasn't it just the first day of summer, like last week? Some weeks I achieve that, and the respite rejuvenates my soul, giving it rest more than ever before. I find joy again and I'm reminded of truth. And I'm recharged, ready to go until the next time that day comes. And then, some weeks don't hold such a day. Some seem to just push me along while I try to look back, point at what has happened, and understand.

Last week, for example. My cling to clarity and peace boiled down to one single desire: to chop garlic. That's it. All week I was craving this. That someone would stick me in a kitchen by myself, give me everything I need, and set me off. To chop garlic. To sizzle it in olive oil. To create a savory mess that begins on a cutting board, matures in a pan, and settles down to rest on a plate. To cook and get my hands dirty and let creativity and soul run free a bit. And though all of that didn't play out, I've had moments of it. And those moments have been completely and thoroughly refreshing. This therapy- I've learned it by reading Bread & Wine by Shauna Niequist. Until finishing her book, I didn't realize how tangibly healing it is to cook and return to the flavors that feel like home. I didn't know it was okay to rest that way, that God actually loves when I rest through the creative output He has instilled in me. I'm thankful to be understanding that more.

So I'm beginning to learn that honestly, life is just this way sometimes. I'm not the only one experiencing it, and others are experiencing it much more intensely. And it's going to be okay. All I need are those moments, those hours, or even days if I'm lucky, of space to be reminded of truth and to do things that bring my soul its greatest delight.

In the midst of all this, I'm seeing how consistent God is. How remarkably He catches my eye with something everyday but also intricate, like the sky. That's mostly where I've been seeing Him lately, come to think of it. And when I settle my mind to focus on Him, how steadily He speaks truth to me and refutes the lies that I so quickly am convinced of. He is beautiful and sweet, that is certain.

So for now, it's only words, in an effort to explain my situation. Soon, hopefully this week, I'll share in further detail about my foodie occurrences as of late. I can't wait to tell you about them.

Until then, seek your respite. Perhaps garlic. Or a good book. Or travel. Or family. Or coffee. Or coffee and something else, if you're anything like me. And enjoy.