Don't tell, but I'm knitting without a pattern [Now with fruit-flavored photos]

So we're going to see our super extra fab and cool friends in Arkansas over New Year's this year (their coolness is obvious since we're willing to travel to AR to see them) and I've been asked ever so nicely to replace a hat and pair of gloves that I crafted years ago. Seems the originals were left in a bakery freezer somewhere along the line and are (squeeeeeeeeal!) thoroughly missed.

Well, shucks. 'Spose I'll have to get out the needles and questionably huge basket of yarn and get to work on their replacements. The only part of that idea I didn't like was having to track down a pattern for an earflap hat and pair of fingerless man gloves that worked with any yarn in the growing heap. I'm kinda at the point where I don't want to be running out to get any more proprietary yarn. Actually, I'm at the point where I need to sit in my room, with the yarn heap, and think about what I did. I don't even think I can call it a stash anymore, since it is getting too big to be stashed anywhere.

Which is why I'm now knitting without a pattern. Because it came down to

A.) Find a pattern and buy the yarn

or

B.) Choose some semi-suitable yarn and make up a pattern

And guess which one I could do without leaving my couch? Yeah-huh. You got it. I'm lazy AND gluttonous with yarn. Aren't I the sexy one.

So after rescuing a couple hanks of grey wool tweed from the vast never-never of the stash, I sat down with the circulars and got to work on the hat, expecting all the while that I'd end up with a tweed pile of doody. And, for a while, it did look that way. I couldn't get my M1s to come out without leaving a gigantor hole. Eventually I turned to my so genius friend Caro for some M1 advice and came away happy. And the hat looks kick ass! I was so pleased with the un-doody like appearance of the final product that I crocheted coordinating edging which makes it all the fancier. I'll put up a picture and you can see what I mean. It got to the point where I was like, "This hat is, like, way better than the first stupid one I made anyway. I hope they can't even remember the old one cuz this one makes it look like crap."

*Update: Here's the picture I promised. See the fanc-Y edging? It'll be better once I block it, but for now - not bad.



Then in a moment of triumph I started the fingerless man gloves. Again - without a pattern. Risky business, I know. I had Bubba model for me, with his big man hands, and I now have one fully functioning fingerless man glove to inspire the remainder of my unguided crafting. Don't I lead the craziest life? I have high hopes for the final product.

*Update: Ok, so it's looking a little Flinstones-esque, but I think I'll like it more once it's been blocked and then worn by someone with less discriminating tastes. Hello, Arkansas.




And in case you're an extra suspicious and attentive reader, they used to run a bakery. Which is where the hat eating bakery freezer came from. It's not just taking up their entire Arkansas kitchen or something. Although, I do hear that shit is weird there.

Falls goods

Me: Bubba, isn't it so fall-ish out here?

Bubba: Yep.

Me: I just love that it's just so, you know, fall-ish. Crunchy under my feet. Leaves all different colors. You know?

Bubba: Yep, fall-ish.

Me: Right. You know.

I never said we were philosophers. But I do like fall, and it was looking rather fall-ish out this weekend. So, we walked in the crunchy leaves, I made random brainless comments and then I baked fall-ish things. And I blatantly ignored the unfall-ish temperatures outside because I knew it was retarded to be baking in 80 degree weather.

It is unfortunate that my desire to do/bake fall-ish things never coincides with actual fall-ish weather. I'm always early and I always end up doing this type of baking in a tank top and flip-flops.

But since I've already brought in the final harvest from the veg. garden and it's already week 7 in the NFL, the thermometer can fricken blow me, because I'm ready to bake.

I also got my delivery (via dump truck) of November magazines this week, and there were a billion recipes I wanted to try. This was from Sunset (yes, I'm a granny that subscribes to Sunset) and the recipe had me at "Polenta". Apparently my enthusiasm is somewhat naive because my mom-in-law reminded us, at hubby's rejoicing in the forthcoming meal, that "hey, you know that's just grits." Oh well, I still love it and the fact that it comes pre-made in a tube just sweetens the deal.






Let me be 100% honest here, it was real good. Like "gimme summore" good. And when you open the windows and trade jeans for capris, it helps with the sweating.

*Per Kelli's request, here's the recipe for this fab dish. Why I didn't link to the recipe in the first place is a mystery. BTW: I swapped the Bulk Italian Sausage with the Italian Chicken Sausage from Trader Joe's because real sausage skeeves me out. Also, don't forget to peel the gnarly casing off. Oh, ew. I'm actually gagging a little bit typing that. Ew.*

For dessert I made Martha's Pear-Sour Cherry Flat Pie.

It was fine.

I'd had high hopes, since hubby was so excited to have a cherry pie of any variety in our house (cherry pie is so nasty), and because I had brought a new, fun food into our house that hubby was thrilled to eat (puff pastry). But, in the end, hubby didn't throw his eyeballs back with ecstasy with the first bite or give me the finger when I tried to engage him in conversation while he was eating (signs of good baking). Although he did finish his first piece and then get another when he saw me dozing on the couch, so he might not have been lying when he told me really liked it.

Personally, I found it a little spicy, which is a weird characteristic for a fruit pie. This is because of the Chinese Five Spice in it, which I was suspicious of when I added it to the mix in the first place. Should have left that out. And, plus, you use dried cherries instead of fresh fruit which I find a little grody.

At the end of the day we both decided that it'd be good for breakfast with a strong cup of coffee. Or as a dessert as long as it was buried underneath the dessert band-aid, a heap of vanilla ice cream. I prolly won't make it again. I might try the pie version, but only because there's no Five Spice in it and I need to put all these leftover dried tart cherries into something. After that, no more cherry pie. EW.

What I will be using more of is puff pastry. I got an extra enthusiastic thumbs up from Bubba at any/all of the puff pastry recipes I presented, so I'll add that to the list. I kinda see this as an extension of the All Pie All the Time mantra in our house. So, during my carboholic weekends when I release the floodgates of my naughty eating behavior, I'll try to put something good into puff pastry so I can get that drooling look of food bliss from Bubba that I so strive to achieve.

On assignment in Rome

Of course I'm not lucky enough to have official business in Rome (although my tactics become even more covert and strategic the more I visit), but during this trip I was gifted a unique and blissful project that I could not resist.

Imagine it as though you are Finny...

You are in one of the world's great cities, wandering the terrace of your friend's apartment, scanning the rooftops of scenic Trastevere. Perhaps you are drinking wine. Certainly you are taking photos. There is the promise of an obscenely delicious Roman meal only hours in your future. You are mildly drunk. Your friend saunters out onto the patio, toting her own glass of chilled white wine. You engage in the kind of joyous banter that builds between two close friends who don't get to gossip nearly enough. Her sweet kitties weave between your feet and mew softly, exposing their (big) bellies for scratching. The sun is beginning to set behind a bell tower only visible to those lucky enough to be five floors above street level, basking in the glow of an October afternoon. You feel utterly content and your cheeks are beginning to ache from nonstop laughter. But something is missing.

What could possibly be wrong?

There is no scent of lavender on the breeze. You are not within arm's reach of a trowel. You see a rogue weed sprouting up from the lemon tree pot. You see a hydrangea in dire need of shade. You see a bougainvillea that needs ruthless pruning. There are hanging pots without cascading flowers. You are just a few tiny steps from earthbound perfection with no way to achieve it!

Until your wise and generous friend takes one look at your psychotic gaze and suggests cheerfully (mercifully), "Hey, would you want to help me set up a garden up here?"

You realize you have the most intuitive and generous friends on the planet. Barely able to maintain your grasp on the wineglass, you smother a squeal of excitement and embrace your friend while mumbling promises of greenery and flora she has never imagined.

To make a long and dramatic story short, Shelley asked me if I would want to help her garden. On her rooftop terrace. In Rome. With only my own vision to guide me.

Um, yes please.

*Drool*

And thus began my newly discovered dream of combining so many things I love; food, wine, gardening, friends, Rome, fall - into one big slaphappy event.

Now, of course, I couldn't wait to get started. I believe I immediately began rearranging furniture without finishing my wine, or even putting my glass down for that matter . So, you know I didn't get good "Before" shots with which to perform an impressive HGTV-ish comparison. I know, I know, I'll never make it on Curb Appeal with behavior like this. Perhaps you'll forgive me if I just show you lots and lots of "After" shots.

We started at Eurogarden,a multiacre gardening establishment the gargantuan-ness of which I am still having a hard time comprehending. It was simply huge. And situated cross traffic from ancient ruins and an historical rose garden dating back to the middle ages. Well, shucks.



Obviously I ran from the still-moving car toward the garden wagons. This was no time to worry ourselves with parking the car properly. Almost breaking out into a frenzied sweat I wandered the open-air aisles of the herb and flowering shrub area with forgiving Shelley in tow. It took us all of ten minutes to load down the wagons with enough lavender, mint, thyme, sage, lantana and succulents to outfit a terrace twice the size. We had no restraint. We piled on bulbs, sprinkler fittings and seeds (for the ever necessary plot of cat grass) waist high before we hauled our extra-full wagons to the conveyor belt (why haven't we begun employing this method of plant checkout in the States, yet?) for checkout. I was nearly effervescent with excitement. I'm sure the clerk thought me mildly insane.



Moments later we were hauling boxes to the car and then searching frantically for parking in Trastevere so that we could bring all the plants upstairs and ready them in their new, freshly sprinkled, homes. Of course, this business of hauling and parking and hauling some more was a project in itself (see Miracle in Rome at the end of this post), but I'll save the commentary by saying only that there was a lot of sweating, four flights of extremely steep and tiresome stairs, some swearing (mostly by me) and no plants were harmed in the process. Although the Cinquecento may never be the same. Full to capacity as it was.



And, after a few hours of planting, hauling some more (all the soil didn't make it up in the first trip), reorganizing of sprinklers, aggressively pruning, weeding, fertilizing, sweeping, arranging and repeating - the terrace was done. Planted. Arranged to allow for parties and merriment. Available for reading, relaxing and contemplating the beauty of Rome. And now, existing thousands of miles from me and my US-based coffee cup. Boo hoo, I know.







In the midst of all of this intercontinental gardening a small miracle was witnessed by the two souls. The miracle of finding parking in Trastevere in under five minutes. Don't believe me (and who could blame you?):



Clearly, our mission was blessed and the garden was meant to be. Let us not speak of the hike that followed the miraculous parking job, as it wasn't pretty and I said a lot of bad words.

Mountains, sea

It's not unusual for my trips to Rome to include side trips to other cities. Mostly because my fabulous friends are also adventurous travelers in addition to being incredible hosts. It is also not unusual for these trips to be motivated by food.

Last time I was in Rome we went on side trips to Tuscany (amazing steak and gnocchetti with truffle sauce), Montalcino (wine) and Montevarchi (Prada - ok, so sometimes these trips are motivated by shopping). This time we side-tripped to Arcinazzo (bistec alla brace and a taverna serving incredible lamb) and Ischia (Naples style pizza). Somehow Ale has come to know the location of the best restaurant in each Italian town/city/sweeping countryside and he appears to take great pride in sharing this knowledge with me when I come to town.

Well, darn.

Mountains
Arcinazzo is one of those towns, perched on a picturesque mountaintop that could only exist in Italy, that makes you question it's authenticity just for the unrelenting beauty of it all. This is where I started my "I can't believe this is real" mantra. Because, still, I can't believe it is real.

Take for instance the view from the terrace:


That can't be real, can it? It seems possible that I've been ruined by one too many Disney crafted attractions in my day to look at something like this and be able to accept it at face value. But there it is, incredible as all get out, just sitting right outside the shutters of Ale's family's mountain home. And, apparently, it's looked just like that for, oh, a thousand years or so. Another concept I have a hard time wrapping my American brain around when in Italy. You know, since everything there is incredibly old, historically significant and utterly gorgeous. You just don't see places like this in the US that aren't crafted by some salivating, hand-wringing evil corporation trying to capture the bank accounts of luxuriant billionaires.

And if all that weren't enough, we wandered down to Subiaco during the day to look around the Benedictine monasteries. These are from, oh you know, the middle ages. They are wildly beautiful with intact ancient frescoes, gardens originally planted by Benedict himself and seated atop a lush mountainside that had me gaping with bug-eyed wonder. It's no wonder Benedict holed himself up here for three years. I had a mind not to leave myself.

Once all my shameless gawking was satisfied, we went on to have lunch. Now, I don't know about you, but rustic Italian fare in an old mountaintop taverna sounds just about my style. And when they keep bringing more local wine in hand-sealed bottles, well that is just an invitation to kick back, relax and indulge until teetering drunk and grotesquely full. Bless our waitress who was also tending to a busload of awnry Italian tourists who chose to indulge a little too heartily in the local vino and were thus making enormous asses of themselves. She was close enough to sainthood to have moved across the valley to the monastery herself.

Once finished with our extravagant lunch (or made to throw our hands in the air in surrender) we headed back to Arcinazzo to find dinner and partake in the lovely fall ritual of roasting chestnuts by the fire. Dinner we found, in the form of two enormous steaks reminiscent of those enjoyed by the Flintstones family, but the chestnuts were a whole other story.

As it turns out there is a local phenomenon known as Giovedi (Thursday) which means that you can not and will not be able to find any particular type of produce on this day of the week due to delivery schedules and the like. So, we drove through numerous mountain towns, in ignorant disbelief that an entire region would adopt such an inconvenient routine, until we'd visited every produce market within a 25 mile radius and received only one response to our chestnut inquiry: Hands folded across ones chest and a knowing nod followed by, "Bah! Giovedi."

So much for our foray into the timeless tradition of roasted chestnuts. Good thing we still had the steaks to capture our curiosity. Just try to tell me that the sight of these doesn't make you want to saw a giant hole in your cars' firewall and go running out for a brontosaurus burger.


Sea
Ischia was a new one on me, since it involved sea travel, something we hadn't included in any of our previous out-of-Rome jaunts. Before we could get to our presumably sea-worthy vessel, however, we had to pass through the towns of Pompei and Naples, which appeared to be some sort of pennance. Pompei is inaucuous, as far as towns known historically for being buried beneath lava flow can be, but Naples was another story altogether.

As we drove, or more accurately, flew low, on our way to Naples, Ale regaled me with horror stories of Naples and it's citizens. Many stories that had the underlying theme of anarchy, lawlessness and, well, horror. At this point in my Italian travels, I was not ready to accept that in a country that had such beauty as seen in Tuscany, Rome, Arcinazzo, Montalcino, etc that there also existed a town buried in garbage, half on fire and willing to block entire thoroughfares for the sake of a soccer game that didn't provide adequate parking.

Oh, for my innocence.

I won't go into extravagant detail, and I won't even include photos (in case you're trying to eat lunch right now or something) but Naples is something of a dump. Specifically, it's people treat it like one. At one point, mercifully toward the end of our trek through town on our way to the pier, we paused briefly before making a left turn and I watched Ale wrinkle his nose and roll up his window. Why? Oh because we had pulled up alongside a hillside of garbage that was approximately 10 car-lengths long, shoulder height and ON FIRE. Oh, and there was a burnt toilet seat topping off the whole mess.

And were people screaming, bosoming their children or calling the attention of the authorities? No, they were going about their daily business, not even pausing to gag softly at the buzzing mound of nasty stewing plague on their city street.

So we got on the ferry and went to Ischia, where I can assure you that there were no roadside garbage heaps, despite the city's allegiance to the Naples region.

Ischia is an island draped with winding narrow roads that make Lombard street look tame. Oh, and these streets are also steep, parked up with tiny cars on either side and driven by madpeople on scooters who are traveling the earth with absolutely no fear of being crushed by a cement truck. Thankfully Ale was behind the wheel to expertly navigate the dicey streets so that I could close my eyes and pretend we were actually alone on a six-lane freeway with wide open pasture land on either side.

Of course we made it to our first nights accommodations without incident, stealthily avoiding schoolchildren, oncoming cars unaware of the two-lane status of the streets and one hundred poorly manned scooters. While the views and surroundings were stunning and beautiful, our accommodations turned out to be a bit less than what we'd imagined. For a full recount of this one night adventure into Residence vacationing, please pop over to Shelley's blog for a top ten retelling of it's more repellent attributes. She outlines ten things that you never want to find when happening upon your vacation rental.

What I will say, since Shelley has left it to me to explain, is that in addition to the laundry list of laugh-so-you-don't-cry disappointments we encountered, my patio indeed had "dog issues". I coined this term when I wasn't sure if Shelley was going to laugh or cry under the circumstances. What I really wanted to say was that my "patio", while having a scenic view of a rickety tool shed, overgrown palm and a dozen other "patios", was also a dog donut factory and that I would require the most industrial sized pooper scooper if I had a mind to go outside again. But I didn't want her to cry, so I simply said that my patio had "dog issues", so if we wanted to hang out that evening, we should perhaps do so on their patio, or anywhere else on the island. Alessandro thought this was amusing and said, "Well, as long as they're not human issues!" and we went on our way.

Needless to say, we made it through or first day/night on the island in a drunken haze, stopping briefly to enjoy some natural thermal baths at the base of the "convenient" 200 step staircase. After booking our following night's lodging at "the most scrumptionest" hotel we could find, we wandered off for apperitivos and dinner in the charming harbor town of Forio.

For comparison's sake, here's a look from our balcony in Forio, notice the lack of dog issues.


As for the rest of our time in Ischia, it was blissfully spent alternating between luxuriating poolside and eating the most incredible Neapolitan-style pizza a girl could hope for. A little poofier and chewier than Roman pizza, it's pretty awesome with the best ever mozzarella melting on top. To harken back to my previous post where I gushed over the Mozzarella di Bufala (see, I am really making good on my promise to loop back) the cheese they have in Naples is really a superior product. As Ale put it, so perfectly as always, "this is not Old Grandma Cheese, it's the good stuff."

In addition to not-grandma mozzarella, tasty pizza, tubs of Nutella, plenty of shopping and fancy-pants accommodations, we also fully enjoyed my favorite custom, apperitivos. I know we have Happy Hour here in the States, but I don't feel it accurately compares to an Italian apperitivo. At least not the way we were rolling in Ischia. Our apperitivos were generally observed ocean side, with multiple interesting snacks and a menu that went on and on. Moving from cocktails to dinner was my favorite time of day, enhanced by my rising blood alcohol level and the promise of another good meal. This is also when my Italian was at it's best, mostly because I was too drunk to care if I was using the wrong tense/verbs/language.



I have a billion more pictures I could share, but this post is now the longest in Finny history and I've managed to bypass the short bit of jet lag from 5:30 this morning. So, I'm going back to bed, but will be back to go on about more food, the scariest possible situation for a non-native speaker, a small miracle in the town of Trastevere and my best gardening assignment ever.

Ciao.

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.

Buona sera

Ok, so I thought I'd post more than I have, since I was off to such a promising start, but it appears that Rome has been too hard to tear myself away from for time on the computer. Big shocker.

However, I will be home (too) soon and promise to post on the laundry list of topics piling up in my head; anarchy in Naples, dog issues, the King of Random, rooftop gardening (oh yes, dont think I put my gardening gloves down just because Im out of the country), island living, a truckload of Nutella, testing the limits of my stomach capacity, the miracle of Italian white wine and a hodgepod of other things that come up when living life blind from caffeine. Oh, and there's a video of a real life miracle to behold.

For now, I'm off to spend my last evening with an apperitivo (my favorite new pastime) at a lovely post and dinner at Ristorane Spirito DiVino down the street.

I'll check back with you when I get back to the US, so full of prosciutto that I will probably get stopped at customs.

Ciao

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Nutella - making peanut butter look dumb

Three things I've learned so far:

1. I will never again fly through Heathrow. Just no. Gah! and ew.

I'll spare you the rant I crafted while running to and from Departure screens at Heathrow searching desparately for my gate 20 minutes prior to my flight. Mostly it was just me asking no one in particular how it was possible that my flight hadn't been assigned a gate yet when I was supposed to have boarded the plane minutes earlier. Of course, once we finally were assigned a gate I had to queue with 900 other crazed Rome travelers in a dark narrow hallway and fight for position in front of three Italian men having an animated conversation about a "dirty girl" who they had met while in London. I'll spare you the details, but the conversation involved all the bad words I learned during my last visit.

2. Roman drivers are exactly as terrifying as I remember. And, yet still, I have all my limbs.

I first must say that I can't be more grateful for the fact that I have extremely generous and hospitable hosts that are always waving and cheering at the uschita when I come out of the baggage claim. It is a warm and exciting reception and something I look forward to for all twelve hours of my flight. However, the exit from the airport onto the highways of Rome never fails to get my blood pumping. You can imagine my enhanced excitement when I saw that Ale, my friends fiance and one of my world class hosts had just purchased a new car. Basically a cruise missile mascarading as an Alpha Romeo. Granted, the shock of haphazard Roman driving wears off after the first hour or so in the car during my trips, but at first, its a jolt to the apparently calm and rational American driver in me. You know the one who expects to see lane lines painted on the freeway and such. I remember this in quiet horror as we exit the airport parking lot as if shot from a cannon. Why no lane lines? Why so much swerving? How is everyone still walking the city with all their limbs? I guess one can not question the existence of miracles.

3. Nutella makes peanut butter look like a chump.

Putting Nutella on a freshly baked pastry and serving it with cappuccino is nothing short of genius. Why anyone would eat peanut butter when Nutella is readily available is beyond me. Peanut butter is obviously the red-headed stepchild to Nutella and the US is wildly misguided in its allegience to the stuff. Who needs jelly when you can just put Nutella on bread and call it a day. Shelley has informed me that during Christmas they sell the stuff by the gallon in a container with a handle. I'm so sad that it is only October and that they didn't mention this phenomenon last time I was here. Which, coincidentally was during Christmas. Damn shame.

So, clearly, I'm here. And everything is as it should be. I've already said, "I can't believe this is real" approximately five hundred times while looking out over Arcinazzo from their mountainside home, staring up at the ceilings of a monastary from the middle ages and when staring at the brontosauras steaks Ale cooked alla brace last night.

And for those keeping score, I've spoken approximately five words of Italian since my arrival because I'm a wimpy coward. I vow to right my ways. Starting now.

Ciao!

Arrivederci

See, I knew a miracle would happen and I'd be able to close the suitcase.

Miracle = Rocket woke up from her nap IN the suitcase long enough to stand ON TOP of the suitcase so I could zip it shut. Ah, will wonders never cease.



So, with the suitcase closed, I can divert my attention to other preparation activities. Namely, properly stuffing my travel bag with enough in-flight activities to keep me from assaulting my neighbor or running amok in the airport.

I thought I'd taken care of this by stocking up on books, TV shows and podcasts on the iPod, and Ambien (oh no, I am not above dosing myself on long flights) - but then I realized NO PROJECTS.

Crazy me, in my haste to pack all my shoes, I somehow forgot that I'd have 12+ hours of potential productivity ahead of me. And a Christmas list that I hadn't even cracked. See, you can practically feel the cold sweats of my anxiety, too.

Well, not to worry, Knitty saved the day and I'm now going to head out on my FINAL shopping trip to get some yarn. I solemnly swear not to buy any shoes while I'm out. Just yarn. And maybe some needles. BUT NO SHOES.

And then I will sit happily in the airport, knitting at least 1/4 of my ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY project, listening to 1/2 of my ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY episodes of Drawn Together and will then board the plane, take my Ambien with a gin and tonic and rack out until my plane lands in London. Essentially negating my need for all of my ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY activities.

At least, that's what I have in mind. Let's hope there isn't a screaming child or stinky armpit that has other plans.

I hope to blog at least once during my trip, so perhaps I'll share the most ridiculous story from my flight. I'm sure it will take me at least a week to choose one.

A presto!

Packed-ish & Pie

Pie first -

While procrastinating before a big trip, there are lots of crazy-person things I like to do while avoiding my suitcase; clean the house, watch a full day's worth of television, landscape the yard, visit with the neighbors for no particularly good reason other than they happen to be within yelling distance of the fence, etc.

For this special trip, however, I decided to bake. Bake under the guise of providing food for hubby who, despite bringing himself successfully through life for 30-something years without my constant supervision, obviously can't be left to his own devices for sustenance for two whole weeks.

I stopped just short of freezing two weeks worth of dinners in color-coded Tupperware, because that would be crazy. Instead I made pie. Because what does a home alone husband need more than pie and the occasional cup of coffee? Precious little, I'd guess.

I ripped the filling from Farmgirl's revised Blueberry Breakfast Bar recipe which calls for peaches to be added to the filling with the blueberries. And since we just had a whole pan of these fab bars, I put the filling in my favorite pie crust and called it good. And since a friend of ours suggested this unexpected meeting of berry and stonefruit during a past dinner outing, I made one for him, too.

My procrastination has reached new heights.


In exchange for the pie, our friends dropped off a tomato the size of a truck tire and five containers of fresh pesto crafted from their own plot of basil.


This may seem random, but it is some of the best pesto I've ever tasted and went merrily with the gnocchi I was making for dinner. You know, as I was preparing my stomach for the delicious onslaught of expertly crafted Italian carbs I plan to take in. During the trip I'd yet to pack for.

Until today!

I believe I've exploited every millimeter of space in my suitcase. There are alarm clocks crammed into shoes, tank tops rolled up and snaked around books, brownie mixes lodged between the rolly-bar handle compartment and wheel-well. It's going swimmingly.

Except for the fact that I have to still pack my toiletries.

You think to yourself, toiletries - what's the biggie? Well, as I often forget until I'm standing in front of my nearly full suitcase with a handled toiletry bag, blow dryer, freezer-size Ziploc bag full of hair products and a half dozen brushes - my toiletries often take up more space in the suitcase than my clothes or even shoes.

Right now, I'm not prepared to do the math that it will require to get everything in there. However, I feel like tomorrow I will be, so I will wait and see if the contents settle or some other mystical process takes place wherein the laws of physics bend just enough to accomodate an overstuffed toiletry bag into my already plump suitcase.

Before you think me too overindulgent, high-maintenance, batshit or a combination of the three, let me tell you that this is a 22" suitcase we're talking about here. Not one of those rolling closets with the floral fabric you see stacked onto a SmarteCarte with 18 other pieces of matching luggage.

As it stands, I appear to be packing light, while the smallish suitcase I'm towing actually weighs a metric ton. I appear as a savvy traveler, while actually I'm busy being a paranoid American unable to separate herself from her shoe collection.

It all works out so nice.

I can do the countdown on one hand

I could even do the countdown on one hand if I were a member of the Simpsons! That's a big moment.

That means 4 (unless we don't count today, which I'm not, then it's 3) days to go 'till Rome.

What this means in real life is that I'm taping a note to the back of my chair at work (see you in two weeks, suckas!) and heading straight to the garage to unearth my suitcase.

What lies beyond the suitcase will be nothing short of dramatic, I'm sure. The pile growing on my dresser of "Misc. Shit to Pack" is growing more unwieldy by the hour and I'm praying that my suitcase grows a mother-in-law unit out the back so that I can get everything in there. And, I *may* have organized my packing list on Google Spreadsheets so that I can anal-retentively check boxes off as I pack, unpack and repack my suitcase throughout my trip.

Oh yes, I take my crazy online.

And even though I said that I was done shopping (did I say that out loud?) I *may* do another little run this weekend in the event that my pre-vacation fashion show goes poorly.

What? I haven't told you about how, before every trip I set out each outfit that I'm packing and then try each one on? With jewelry, shoes and bag? In the order I plan to wear them? Oh yes. It is true. Awesome crazy, no? And then, after all that, sometimes it turns out that I can't put together enough good outfits, and I have to take stock and go shopping. I anticipate this will happen this weekend.

And then I'll get to Rome, wear the same jeans 4 times (they have a washer and dryer, don't you know) and half of my clothes will come home unworn and will only have served the purpose of Valuable Suitcase Real Estate Placeholders.

Good fun.

Vacation Brain

I'm sure I'm not the only one who gets a mad case of Vacation Brain in the days (weeks/months) before a long-awaited trip.

You know what I'm talking about: long bouts of staring out the window from your desk at work while you mentally pack your bag, long bouts of insomnia spent staring at the ceiling as the fan goes round and round while you mentally pack your bag, long bouts of staring at the WB on TV while you search wildly for the remote because you HATE THE WB and should really be watching SportsCenter while you mentally pack your bag, etc. Oh, and that doesn't even cover the other waking moments of the day that you spend either practicing the native language of the country you're about to visit or trying to conjugate it's many verbs.

It's virtually paralyzing. I don't think I've done any meaningful work all week. I doubt I've had a coherent conversation in at least three days. It's possible that most of my coworkers (and possibly hubby, too) think that I've taken a leave from my sanity since I've been spouting random bits of Italian whenever the mood strikes me and then quickly receding into my Vacation Brain haze.

And, we all know what's going to happen, I'm going to finally be in this place of my recent obsession and my mouth will slam shut. I won't be worried about conjugating any verbs - no - I'll be worried about spitting out, "Due cappucinno, per favore" at the bar in the morning. Even though this is a no-brainer right now, as I sit thousands of miles from Rome, safe from the expectant eyes of the Arrividerci/Buongiorno man at the bar by my friend's house.

I'll say it, native speakers scare me. They know I'm faking it. They know that my subject/verb agreement sucks wind. They know I can't remember how to say, "Maybe", most of the time. ("Forse"- see, right now, I can remember. One week from today, I will totally forget it at the most inopportune time and will instead say something dumb like, "Quizas" which is the wrong language altogether.) It's like I'm standing around naked a lot of the time, with only the most threadbare of rags to cover my bits.

Thankfully, visiting friends means I won't be nude. No, they provide the necessary shield from which I can emerge at random intervals to spout my "frase del giorno". Last time it was "Ale, sa dove andiamo?" (Ale, do you know where we're going?) Which I used often and unnecessarily since Ale is a native Roman and has never been witnessed getting lost. But there was verb conjugation in there and it was more than one word in a row, therefore, it became the cornerstone of my conversation abilities. Oh, and let's not forget my dedication to asking people at the New Year's dinner party whether they wanted "acqua frizzante or naturale" despite their clear gestures. I was obnoxious.

This time, I'm not sure what I'll be randomly banging on about, but I will have to do it after many glasses of wine and lots of native encouragement. I just hope I can avoid having the Tazza D' Oro lady paw through my wallet to get exact change. Perhaps I should be practicing saying, "Hey you crazy broad, get the hell out of my bag while I figure out which of these funny looking coins to give you."

Oh yes, my international savvy is really something.

I told you I was a nerd

Let me say, right up front, before you all get mad at me - I'm super extra happy and excited that people as lovely as yourselves (you know who you are) want to join in on the book clubbing! I knew people still read books. I just knew it.

And, before you get all uprise-y, I did warn you of my nerdiness with my previous post. You know, as it referred to my desire for a book club so that I could channel my nerdy need for book convo amongst peers...

And so, I will now profess to you my nerdy situation - I finished the book.

*pause for criticism and squawks of annoyance*

I know, I know. We have a month already still. Sometimes I annoy myself with these things that I do.

Let's blame it on the San Francisco 49ers, shall we? They suck and yet I still feel the loyal fan responsibility to watch every last agonizing down lest they somehow pull out a miracle play and actually *gasp* win a game. Or at least tag a fieldgoal and put some points on the board. It's a long shot, but I hold out hope.

And, while I hold out hope, I read my book from the couch so that I don't scream loud at the TV, frightening Hubby, neighbors, fat cat, etc. And to bring this rambling story home to you extra special (and forgiving*) book clubbers - the 49ers have sucked extra wind so far this season (yes, we're only on week 3 here) and so I've had plenty of time to soothe my frayed nerves with book reading and Bombay Sapphire while perched nervously on the westernmost corner of my couch cushion.

So, with nerdy confession out of the way, I say - peel back the cover and enjoy the crap out of this book so we can dish on 10/31. And, to make up for my premature enjoyment, I'm going to take a copy of this book (my personal one) overseas to the international branch of our book club so that we can have well-rounded chatter on the subject in one month's time. It's only fair, I say.

Speaking of which...9 days to go...

Book club

As it turns out, I'm the slightest bit nerdier than my book clubmates. Yes, I'm sure this comes as a shocker to one and all.

And since the recent decision was made to put our regular book club meetings on hiatus in lieu of Movie Night (a less intimidating occasion without the pesky homework), I've been finding it hard to release my white-knuckled grip on the concept of regularly reviewing books amongst my peers.

So, I'm bringing book club to the blog.

There will still be the same wine drinking and snack eating (even if only on my end, but come on and join me) as before, except that the comments will be posted on the blog instead of blurted out between gossipy recountings of office misbehavior while pouring second (third) glasses of wine.

So, fellow book worms, won't you join me in the dimantling of modern literature by picking up the book you see along the right chrome here and coming back with your comments on the noted date? It will be fun and enjoyable, with very little travel required, and will perhaps divert your eyes from the TV in time to save your cornias from certain damage. Plus, if you've never read any of Bill Bryson's stuff, I bet you'll be glad you stumbled across it. And, if by some miracle, you don't find yourself honking out loud with laughter, I'll apologize right here in front of everyone for misguiding you.

And, if no one wants to join me, I'll carry on by myself. Returning on Halloween to sum up and comment on what is already (just a few pages in) a terminal side-splitter.

Have good weekends, all.

12 days and counting...

I am now officially in the throes of preparing for my trip.

I do this much like one might prepare for an international move to a third world country. This is when I act like Rome is not the largest city in Italy, with retailers and services far and away more comprehensive than those in my own hometown, and instead like an unknown civilization with limited means that can be entered only by the most self-sustaining and resourceful travelers.

Clearly, this is not the case.

I mean, for starters, there are more than three million people living there. Which means they must at least have one shoe store.

Shoes?

Italian shoes?

Who has heard of such things?

I say this because I just bought three pairs of shoes for my trip. Yes three. And I already have at least two at home earmarked for the suitcase. That brings us to five pairs for nine days. No, I'm not trying to wear a different pair everyday. But one must be prepared for all scenarios, and so I pack more shoes.

This might *might* be why I hate packing so much. Clearly I have a hard time being decisive when faced with a defined travel period, my closet and a "whimsical" method of getting dressed. (Whimsical=slow and mind-numbing) This might also explain why I race off to buy a bunch of new clothes (and shoes) and then debut them during my trip, without properly road-testing them on my home turf. I mean, being faced with having to make attractive outfits from a limited wardrobe for more than seven separate days is a challenge I'm simply not up to. So, I shop.

This is always a mistake. This is how one ends up in a foreign country unknowingly exposing the native countrymen to ones private bits thanks to a poorly installed zipper or peek-a-boo button. These things should be tried out close to home and within arm's reach of a handful of safety pins. (Note to self: pack safety pins)

Regardless of the woes that surely await me, I've shopped. And I fear, I have shopped beyond my means to carry. My suitcase may have the ability to unzip an extra three inches of storage space, but it isn't one of those cartoon suitcases in which you can house a full grown hippopotamus playing a cello. Sadly. Since that would mean I could bring at least two more pairs of shoes and maybe even my boots. *Drool*

So I'm at that scary point in my packing (fricken 'ew) when I have to reacquaint myself with the laws of physics and start nixing clothes for the sake of space and so that hubby will not roll his eyes when he sees me trying to oldschool close my suitcase by sitting on it. Again, this is not a cartoon.

15, 14, 13, 12...

Notes from the Grand Canyon State

As it often happens, I have returned home from another blissful trip to visit three of my five best friends, who have grouped themselves conveniently in one city, without a photo to show for it.

It has occurred to me that when surrounded by people who I love, and more importantly, who don't annoy me, I relax into heap of contented euphoria from which I am only capable of participating in a few limited activities-like balancing a cocktail on my lips and laughing hysterically. The notion of taking pictures, even of my perfect goddaughter, is the farthest thing from my mind. Especially when I can hold said goddaughter in my lap and stare into her pretty eyes instead (without a drink in my other hand, as I was instructed by her mommy).

So, here I am, back at the homestead, trying desperately to pull my plants back from a weekends devastation caused by a surprise heat, somewhat kicking myself for not having photographed the loveliness that is Arizona this time of year.

I mean, yes, it was hot, let's not lose all sense of reality, but when it cooled off and we were lounging on the patio staring at the desert sky and over the rough and tumble landscape, I had my I'm-visiting-Arizona-and-being-beguiled-by-its-sandy-charm moment that I always have while I'm there where I think, "Hey, I could get used to this!"

Then I remember my short period of Arizona residence with a shudder and choose instead to ogle the javalina making their stinky way up the driveway and peer through my cameras zoom lens at the tarantula picking it's way across the street below. I also ritualistically indulge in gaping at the desert night sky (decidedly different and more spectacular than skies viewed in other locales) while continuing to fill my glass and listen to my friend's kids talk tirelessly of their beanie baby's dating preferences. It may sound surprising, but this makes me very happy.

It also makes me happy to know that my best friend's kids are growing up with a keen acceptance for gay marriage and that they incorporate that into their stuffed animal dating scenarios. For those taking note, "Fuzz" (a brownish type Beanie bear) can only go to the ball with other boy bears. Such wisdom in such tiny people.

And so, here I am, back in the Golden State, happy to be home, but also a bit melancholy since I won't see these hilarious, non-annoying, perfectly-crafted-just-for-me friends all in one sitting for a while. Plus, sobriety has kicked in and I realize I have a lot of laundry and unpacking to do. Gah!

Good thing I'm off for Rome soon to see another one of my five perfect fit friends. Let us begin the countdown...16,

Hello, my name is Waterdew

I'm packing this morning (unless you and I work together, in which case I'm working from home), and aside from unpacking, there is little else I despise more than the act of packing a suitcase. Mostly because I don't like wrinkling my clothes and because I know I'm inevitably going to forget something important like underwear or a fifth pair of shoes.

But it does make me happy to know that in just a few hours I'll be sipping margaritas with one of my favorite people and likely sweating through my tank top since one of my favorite people happens to live on the surface of the sun where it is currently just shy of 100 degrees. Apparently Fall is only present there in the Pumpkin Spice Lattes at Starbucks.

Either way, and to explain the random photo at the beginning of this post, as I started packing and soon lost interest, I decided to pay a visit to the vegetable garden that I'll be abandoning for four days so I could fill up the feeders which the birds have so meticulously emptied in the last 24 hours. Is it possible for hummingbirds to be overweight? It appears that I'm conducting some sort of experiment on the theory since the feeder is sucked dry most every time I go out to the garden and the feeder also suspiciously lists to one side when the hummingbird arrives for one of it's 250 daily meals. Perhaps I'll be the first person to find a hummingbird that weighs more than a penny (I read it on the cap of my Snapple).

As I wandered the yard, post fill-up, I stopped to inspect/lust after/congratulate myself on the progress of my newest honeydudes and I ran across this strange specimen that looked like both honeydew and watermelon. I briefly entertained the idea that I had somehow inadvertantly created a honeydew/watermelon crossbreed and, of course, gave myself a little unearned pat on the back for my gardening ingenuity. Really though, I don't know what happened here and what will result from the unusual stripedness of the honeydew, so instead of trying to get all horticultural I decided to just give it a name and go back to sorting out my shoe collection for my trip.

I'll call him Waterdew.

Good weekends to all.

Tomato Tunnel [NOT PORN]

Let us bring the Tomato Tunnel into the light of day so that you can all stop thinking me batshit.







What you are looking at is a (one) tomato plant that has so excessively overgrown it's laughably underachieving tomato "cage" that is had to be staked up with 2x2s, reigned in with garden twine, wrapped with multiple levels of chicken wire in two of it's many growth stages and has finally had to have an extra wing put on to it's acreage in order to accommodate it's latest growth spurt. Basically, it's taken on the Bay Area motto of "If you can't grow out, grow up". I'm glad our plants have learned to manage urban sprawl.

You can probably see now why I'm looking so skeptically at my own wee tomato plants that, while reasonably productive, have way failed in the big 'n crazy department. Especially when compared to my neighbor's interpretation of tomato plants. I mean, can you even call this a tomato plant anymore? It's taking on the proportions of a one-car garage for godssake. A garage with a tunnel attached. Perhaps she is trying to annex my side of the fence by growing her plants, high and low, onto my property. Or, perhaps, she has just mastered the art of tomato growing and not-so-much the art of garden management. Who's to say?

Anyways, cool no?

Also cool:




Yes, these are sunflowers gifted to me by the aforementioned neighbors. Yes, the plants are some of the most successful in my garden. No, I am not jealous or bitter. But I am wildly proud of my super extra special resilient melon crop. You know, better to try to redirect the attention to *anything* in my yard that I can at least claim partial credit for.

Again, very, very self-involved.

LOOK AT IT HARD AND THINK FANCY THINGS ABOUT ME AS A GARDENER:



For those of you who are hard-of-counting - that's three new fatty melons in there. Woo! I will eat them and think about what a genius I am.

And not about sabotaging my neighbors garden when they're out of town.

In time for fall. Officially.

It is now Tuesday, two days post-landscapey project completion, and I am just able to once again move my arms and legs through their full range of motion and hobble to the computer to raise my (our - hubby was a godsend) hands in triumph.

Let me just say that I knew that shoveling nearly 5 cubic yards of dirt and bark wasn't going to be easy, and that I'd anticipated being somewhat worse for wear, but I was not prepared for my patience to be just as tired and sore as my, say, shoulders and hamstrings.

So, imagine for a moment that you, yourself, have ordered 5 cubic yards of dirt and bark (no matter how unlikely this scenario might be), and you have your shovel and wheelbarrow at the ready for the scooping and hauling of your future yard. You have meticulously planned the timing and execution of your landscaping project and even have the plants, other materials, sprinklers and hubby in their proper positions awaiting installation or call for immediate rescue. What could go wrong? Try to imagine.

Now guess.

Oh yes, having your 5 cubic yards of (surprisingly) heavy dirt and bark dumped a half block from your house instead of in the driveway as ordered/confirmed/reconfirmed because the driver of said dumping vehicle is an impressively unmotivated hammerhead who has never heard of customer service, damsels in distress, bitches on fire, women scorned and the like. He has obviously never run into any of the "service"people who have crossed me in the past. Otherwise, he'd have known the poor judgment he was displaying for all of my neighborhood to see. But, I have plans to deal with him on a separate occasion.

And thanks to my fabulously generous and helpful neighbors, who came wandering over to our piles with their own wheelbarrows and shovels, we managed to properly relocate the stuff to my yard and driveway where it could be properly molded into mini-hillsides suitable for hosting my leafy birthday presents from hubby. From the photo above, it is hard to really see the trees, since they are still a little on the wee side, but maybe this will help:

Japanese Maple (Bloodgood) and some frisky grasses

Japanese Maple(Winter Flame) and some other frisky grasses

And, before you say anything about the sparse nature of the layout here, it is all by design. Really. I'm planning something of a natural-ish hillside, so will be adding more grasses and native-type plants to the burms as we go. It's something of a work in progress that doesn't have to be mowed.

Perhaps I'll post photos when it starts to fill in a little. So you can stop making fun of me. Like some of the non-helpful neighbors who didn't come over to help scoop the dirt. (And I know they have shovels.)

I am proud to say, though, that of the neighbors who did help, they each came by to proclaim the fabulousness of the yard makeover, despite it's obvious lack of vegetation and supreme disregard for the value of sod. Self-congratulatory pride? Perhaps. Nonetheless, I limped my way to each of their doorsteps on Sunday morning with containers of Thank You chocolate chip cookies and the most heartfelt gratitude I could muster while in every variety of muscle distress. Which actually benefited them since each of them took turns mocking my festive 49ers t-shirt, and I was unable to take a swing at a single one. Luckies!

And now, with front yard landscaping accomplished, we will turn our attentions to the woefully rickety backyard fence that will (hopefully) house our future dog(s). As you can see here, the current fence can't even restrain a simple rose bush. Oh no, this will not do. Not for the kind of hell beasts we plan to bring home.