Don your helmets and feedbags

Because I have no shame and because I took 300+ photos on my trip that I feel compelled to share, I will be rehashing with mind-numbing detail as much of my time in Italy as possible during the next few posts. Also because I got drunk and just plumb abandoned the blog and now feel the need to make up for lost time.



To get us rolling on What Finny Loves about Italy, I thought I'd start with the obvious - food.

I've already banged on about the glory that is Nutella, so I'll leave that alone for now (although, please note the stacked jugs of Nutella that Shelley pointed out during our travels. Oh, for a spoon and five minutes alone with just one of those tubs.)

For everything else, there is only one word, *Drool*.

Mozzarella di Bufala. Good god, folks. I could (and believe did) eat this at every meal. (Save for breakfast, which is Nutella-time. ) In fact, this should be a part of every meal. After two weeks of this, I may break up with run of the mill cheese altogether. I've already given my dairy drawer the finger. Cheddar cheese? GAH! And it calls itself cheese. Big faker. Apparently the best version of this blissful creation is made in Naples, and I was not at all subdued in my surprise at this fact. I will get into my impression of Naples in a later post. *Little hint: Ew.*


Pizza. The real stuff that doesn't come with a stuffed crust or any other gnarly American interpretation. We had Roman-style (super thin, crunchy crust) and Napoleon-style (softer, poofier but still thin crust). Both utterly yum. As soon as we were loose on the city and hungry (two situations that always coexist for me) I very humbly suggested that we go to the scissor pizza place for a quick snack. That is to say that I did not drag poor Shelley by her hair directly to the pizzeria. In this pizzeria they have a unique method for dispatching their creation - they bring it out in long sheets, cut it with scissors into good size squares and put it in a basket with any number of appetizers (For me, a suppli.) I ate this no less than three times when I visited last and was eager to get back to it.

I should also mention that there was a 4 funghi pizza that made an appearance during a dinner out that is not pictured in the above collage for the simple fact that my hands could not take a picture and shove the pizza into my mouth at the same time - and frankly, it was so good I wasn't going to compromise.



Gnocchi. When done right, this dish can make me swoon. Or, in the case of this photo, beg. Apparently our primi piatti was supposed to be penne, but when Ale saw the tears welling up in my eyes, he dragged the waitress back to ask if we could substitute for gnocchi. I think she entertained the thought of murder at the idea of substitution, but in the end, would have had quite a mess on her hands since I quickly scooped all but two portions worth (for my dear hosts, I'm not an animal!) into my stomach. It was at this moment that I wished our table came equipped with a conveyor belt. For the love of gnocchi.


Wine. There is a small miracle that happens in Italy that brings me joy at each visit - white wine, and even champagne, does NOT give me a headache. Here in the States, I can barely run my nose past an open bottle without a searing shot of white hot pain piercing my skull. However, in Italy, the sulphates subside and the grapes remain unmixed, which means I can drink it to my hearts content. And I do. Of course, I have to sample the local and regional reds at the same time. Which also does not suck. It is possible that I'm still a little drunk. An extra special bonus to any wine drinking experience is the chance to wander the cellar below the restaurant. A cellar which just happens to be at the city's original street-level. I won't stray into the exact year of this cellar, but the floors of which are the very same that the Romans crossed in ancient times. It's about 40 feet blow current street level. Neato.


Olive oil. I have a lot of this at home, but when in Italy, my intake increases dramatically for the simple fact that it is just really good there. I mean, they know what they're doing. This is no mamby-pampy, barely green, can't really tell if it's made from olives or soybeans kind of oil. No. It's bright green, eye-rollingly fragrant and just short of orgasmic. Imagine it served by a young wavy-haired waiter with a local accent and crooked smile and you'll be there. I bought a bunch to bring home and I'll be spending the next few weeks trying to talk hubby into doing his Italian impression for me while pouring it on my bread. Meeeeeooowww



Gelato. Do not call this ice cream because it is so not the same. Specifically, there are no chunks, as Ale was so savvy as to point out. Apparently when he's in the states he seeks out B&J ice cream with the maximum amount of chunkiness. In Rome, I seek out the gelato with the maximum amount of frequency. It's a complimentary activity. When it comes speared with a cookie and served at an outdoor cafe, all the better. Did I mention it comes in a flavor called Baci (kisses) which is basically the gelato version of Nutella. Wow. Have they got my number. Let's hope I'm never in possesion of national secrets. I daresay it might only take one Baci scoop to get me talking.


Artichokes. What? You didn't expect to find artichokes listed amongst all the other famous Italian stuff. I get it. Me neither. Which is one of the reasons why it's making my short list. And why, when I go back, I'll ask them nicely if we can go back to Enzo's for some more. Again, not dragging Shelley by her hair. Called carciofi alla romana, it's basically fresh artichokes fried (but not battered) and served as an appetizer. Tender, sweet, swoon-worthy. I had a few and experienced a slight bought of depression at the empty plate. Beats boiled artichokes any day. But then, most fried things do.



I just realized that this post is getting self-indulgent and rather long, but before I shut the F up, I can also assure you that the coffee, pastries, prosciutto, bread and tartufo are all they're cracked up to be. I should know, I ate them all. And thanks to four blindingly steep floors of marble stairs plus one more for fun leading up to the terrace after miles of cobbled street walking, I may not have gained the predicted one hundred pounds during this trip.

So, I'm home now. And if you can't tell, I enjoyed my two weeks in Italy somewhat. I may have shed a tear at the airport that had nothing to do with the ridiculous line for US-based airlines. I may already miss Rome. I certainly already miss my friends. And I don't know about y'all, but I'm hungry.