Linens & In-Laws

My husband is a very patient man. He often tells me: "Stai calma. Lasciali fare quello che vogliono fare" which means: Stay calm. Just let them do what they want to do.

This is in reference to linens & in-laws, of all things. In Italy, having adequate linens for your house is very important. In a way, it is sign of the success of the family and of course how good the casalinga (housewife) is.

When I arrived from America with my 3 suitcases containing all my belongings (aka: mostly clothes because the rest of my "stuff" I either sold, threw away or stored with family). Of course the first thing I did was put away my clothes in the armadio (closet). Keep in mind we have a small one bedroom apartment and in that bedroom is 2 closets- one for me and one for my husband.

You can imagine my shock and horror when I realized I had to share one shelf of my closet with towels and sheets. I couldn't believe how many towels were in the closet. I think since I've lived on my own, I've owned at most maybe 4 of each kind of towel. There must have been at least 10 of every kind of towel imaginable. So I asked my husband, "Where did all these towels come from?" To which my husband responded (like any good Italian man will): "E' meglio non chiedere" which in English simply means: it's better not to ask.

Well for those who know me well, it's impossible for me to not ask why. So one day I ask Mamma G. where all the towels came from. She then explained to me the tradition in Italy of how when a couple gets married, it is the responsibility of the parents to buy linens for their children. But not just one of everything- the magic number is "12." I'm not sure why yet it's "12" and not say "10" but that is a lesson for me to learn on another day.

The most amazing part is some Italian families (like my husbands') actually make some of the items, versus buying them. This tradition is not only to save money but to get the best material for the best price. I later found out that the 12 dishtowels were all hand made. Do you know how much work that is? Americans go to a store like Bed, Bath & Beyond and just buy what they need...maybe finding something cute that matches the kitchen or something on sale. That is the most effort I have personally put into dishtowels. But I don't think I've ever heard of anyone making a dishtowel.

Well then one day, came up the subject of tovaglie (tablecloths).

I think in America, I used a tablecloth twice a year - Thanksgiving & Christmas. The rest of the year, I just placed my dishes on the bare table. But here, an Italian wouldn't think of eating on a table without a tablecloth. To them, that would be like a meal without pasta or Christmas without panettone...you just don't do it.

So one day Mamma G. said, "Hai bisogno le tovaglie. Andiamo al negozio per prendere il materiale." So off to the store we went. How hard could it be make a tablecloth? Looking back, I had no idea.

First, we had to look for the fabric. So we went to a shop one afternoon that sold beautiful fabric at good prices. I picked out two fabrics I liked. The next step was for Mamma G. and her sorella, Maria, to come to our apartment to measure the table. Then, they had to wash the fabric first (in case it shrunk). Mamma G. left the fabric with me to wash but I really wasn't sure at that point what was going on so after 2 days of her asking if I had washed it yet, she took it back and said she would wash it. Next, Maria sewed the tablecloth but then had to bring the tablecloth back over to make sure the length was correct before adding the border. Then we had to go to the market to buy the lace for the border. There are many types of lace to choose from so this process alone took 20 minutes. Maria then sewed on the border and then we had to facilitate one more visit to our house to see the final tablecloth in place.

Of course the tablecloths are beautiful and we use them everyday but the American in me just wants to scream, "Let's just go to the store next time and buy one!" But I guess this is what they mean when they say it's more about the journey than the destination.

Natale in Italia

You haven't really experienced weight gain over the holidays until you have spent Natale (Christmas) in Italy. You would think it was one, maybe two days of non-stop eating when in fact, the festa lasts about 4 weeks.

I first decided to go on a diet around the beginning of December, in order to prepare for the weight gain I knew was looming on the horizon. Mamma G. was shocked- "Impossibile!" she cried for in December is when there are "tante belle cose da mangiare" and also many holidays in which eating is actually mandatory. There are 8 holidays for Christmas, starting on December 8th with L'Immacolata Concezione (Immaculate Conception) and ending with La Festa dell'Epifania ("The Epiphany" also known as "Bafana").

Each holiday is celebrated with the family getting together to do what else - MANGIA! Probably the most famous food at Christmas is panettone. When I first came here, I didn't know what panettone was. I couldn't even describe it to people. I asked my husband how he would describe it in English so I said: "It's kind of like a bread but sweet like a cake, vero?" And he said, "No, panettone e' panettone." Oh. Of course.

For those of you who still aren't sure what panettone is, think the American version of fruitcake except much, much lighter. You can get versions with the candied fruit in them, without candied fruit, with almonds on top, without almonds, with chocolate on top...and each one is called something different. And, of course, each one has a lot of calories.

I knew I had eaten too much panettone when one day I was running and a older gentlemen I say buon giorno to in Masate said something to me in Italian and all I could pick out was the word "panettone." So of course I thought "oh no, he's telling me I ate too much panettone and I am fat." I'm not sure what else he could have said to me that contained the word panettone other than maybe he asked me if I ate a good panettone this holiday? No, he was definitely telling me I gained weight...sigh, that's another thing about Italians. They have no problem telling you if you gained weight. I guess that is why the women here are so thin. Everytime they gain a pound, someone points it out.

I was so full (and fat) that by New Year's Day, I was starting to feel sick. My husband actually called his parents to tell them I wasn't feeling well so we couldn't come over for the big family lunch on New Year's Day. Should we save some food for you, in case she feels better later? No, no, we cry, we'll be okay. But by 1:30 p.m., I was feeling better and craving some good Italian cooking. I was also thinking maybe the big lunch would be over and we could just eat a little and not eat tutto (everything). Ehh....no! We arrive at 2:00 and they are actually only on the second course and they saved some of the first course for us. Because in Italy, you don't just eat in silence....you talk about current events, issues in the family and, of course, calcio so each course takes some time. You also talk about the food and how it could have possibly been cooked better (this is when the conversation can get heated so I tend to stay out of this part).

Now that the holiday season is over, the whole family is on a dieta. Or so they say. I arrived home from Rome a few days ago and what had his parents bought? Panettone! When I asked why they bought it, Mamma G. said "Era in vendita!" (It was on sale).

Oh dio...non e' facile (it's not easy).

To Market - Part I

When I talk to my friends back home, many have the same question: "What do you do all day?" I used to be a bit of a workaholic, always on my blackberry to now, wondering what I am going to cook for dinner while I hang up the clothes to dry. But what I realized is this: everyone can be busy, if they decide they want to be. For me, being busy means shopping.

There is something amazing here that America doesn't have. It's called il mercato. It is an open air market where you can buy everything you can think of. From fruit, to fresh fish, to cleaning products and yes ladies CLOTHES. And there is a market everyday. The market moves around to different villages everyday.

For me, the market is a lot of fun. You walk around, you look at everything and if you go to the same market every week, people start to know who you are. And Mamma G is pazza (crazy) for the market too. In her mind, it is not possible to buy anything at a store that you couldn't buy cheaper at the market. And what I have learned since I've been here is that she is right. I now buy everything at the market and must admit I am a little obsessed- to the point I am in a bad mood if for some reason I can't go to the market and I have to go to a supermarket instead.

So we go to the market together every Monday and Friday. Every Monday, the market is in Cambiago, where Mamma G. lives and Cris grew up. Here we have a strict routine. It's not just walk to the market, buy what you need and leave. Sei matto? (Are you crazy?) Going to the market is a job. We leave the house at 9 a.m. which means I have to wake up at 7 in order to shower and look my best (for those who know me well, I am very slow in the morning and need at least 1-2 hours to prepare for anything). My husband thinks I'm crazy as the alarm goes off so I have time to shower, drink my coffee, eat breakfast and do my hair.

But the preparation is important. For you can't go to the market in jeans. Jeans are for ragazzi (young people). If you are married and going to the market with your "suocera" (mother-in-law) you need to be dressed nice with good shoes (preferably heels) and a good jacket. Many women wear skirts and dresses here which is actually kind of nice as you do feel more feminine. But being a lady isn't easy. And then of course I have to be at Mamma G's on time- by 9 a.m. And then it's off to market we go.

Probably the best thing about the market is walking away feeling like you got a "deal." Mamma G is brava per questa. The first step is to establish a relationship with the person that runs the bancarella. This is accomplished by frequenting the bancarella when possible, establishing it is worthy (good quality, good prices) and then asking for a discount, if you find an item you are interested in. A typical discount is enough to buy a cup of coffee (1 euro) or if there are 2 of you "un caffe' per me e per lei" (a coffee for me and for her). The amount of the discount can increase over time, depending on how much you spend at the bancarella. So instead of coupons or sales like in America...there is relationship-building and a bit of bantering. But in the end, you walk away feeling accomplished- like you just purchased the most beautiful thing in the world for the best possible price.

Can you tell I like to shop? I think this is the best job yet.

Dinner With the American

This past weekend my husband and I went out to dinner with four of his friends from high school. I was a little nervous as although I speak Italian now, it's not perfect and it's always hard to speak a different language with new people. Everyone has a different speed and accent when speaking.

So we get to the restaurant and there are eight of us in total. Little did I know, Italian men like to sit together- away from the women. My husband is like, "Don't you want to sit at that end of the table with the women?" To which I responded with a big, fat American "NO. I don't even know them."

Don't get me wrong, I am not shy. It's actually been said that I can talk to anyone, anywhere. In fact, I met my husband on a plane! But the thought of sitting with my husband's friends wives while they asked me questions about my life in Italy, made me nervous. What would we talk about? They all have kids so are they going to ask me when I'll have kids? Or where do I shop? Or how often do I go for facials? Because FYI, Italian women have amazing skin. I guess I am not really a "girly, girl."

So there I stayed, with the guys, and tried to follow the conversation the best I could. But in case you didn't know, dinners in Italy are LONG. There is antipasto, primo piatto, secondo piatto, dolce e caffe'. You take your time even when you order. You don't order the second dish when you order the first dish...no, no! Are you crazy? You order the first dish...wait to get it....eat it....and then you order the second dish. In America, we order everything at once and then we tap our foot and wonder why the food is taking so long.

So after 3 1/2 hours, we were ready to order dessert. At this point, I had a headache from trying to follow the conversation and I couldn't wait for some coffee. So when I ordered my crema catalana, I asked for coffee as well. I thought the waiter was going to fall over and the men were like "Cosa?" ( "what?"). Little did I know, you can't drink coffee with your dessert. Coffee is always last e sempre da solo (and always alone). One of his friends actually joked about sending me back to America...then of course a conversation about Americans ensued. How all we eat is burgers and fries and how we don't really cook that much. I always defend the American way of life for I will always be American and proud. But when it comes to food, Italy has us beat.

So the Italian lesson for the day is this: take your time when you eat and don't think about what you are eating next. Think about what you are eating now...and savour it. Ogni morso (every bite).

And for heavens sake, whatever you do, don't order coffee with your dessert.

Sunday Lunch

Lunch on Sundays is a big deal in Italy. It is traditionally the day where the family gathers at the table to enjoy a big meal insieme- together. Kind of like Thanksgiving in America except it happens every Sunday.

There is one big rule though- don't be late.

My husband is notorious for being late for Sunday lunch. He has never been late for work one day in his life but getting him to la casa della famiglia in time for Sunday lunch is a job in itself. For some reason, he likes to lay in bed until about 11:30 (please note lunch starts promptly at noon and it takes us 10 minutes to get there- door to door).

Why should I care, you might ask? Well I am the wife of an Italian which in itself is a big responsibility. You have to make sure your husband is fed, his clothes are clean and well-ironed and that we are never late to family affairs.

He also is notorious for spending a lot of time in the bathroom. I don't ask what he is doing in there but I know that it takes at least 1/2 an hour.

And I just hate to walk through the door late. Cris just walks through the door smiling with a sing-song "Ciaaaooooo!" His mom glances up from her plate as she is eating and asks, "Perche' sei in ritardo?" But it's a question that never has the right answer. Soon voices are raised and there is a lot of yelling in Italian (not always can I understand it) and before you know it, his mom is serving the pasta. Like nothing happened.

For no matter what the issue is, eating food when it is hot is key to a good meal. And no issue is more important to Italians than a good meal. Especially on Sunday.

And Then There Was Coffee

I never thought it could be possible to be so excited about coffee. But in the land of espresso, finding caffe' Americano is like finding $10 in your pocket on laundry day - complete joy because it is completely unexpected.

So you can imagine my delight while browsing through the coffee aisle at Esselunga with Mamma G., I found American coffee- and even better- it was flavored! Because nothing with me is easy- I don't just want American coffee- it has to be FLAVORED American coffee. There is nothing better to me than a cup of hot, flavored coffee in the morning. But not flavored with those sicky, sweet syrups some coffee bars put in the coffee- the flavor has to be roasted with the bean. I know- AMERICANS! That is my husband's response on this topic.

What a process it has been so far to even have it on hand. For my birthday in March, I asked my dad to send me some. And he did but it cost $40 to ship (costs more for the shipping than the coffee) and the supply was gone in three short months. Then came the frantic call to my mom to ship me some coffee....once again, gone in a few months. I then tried stocking up while in the U.S. this summer but I didn't estimate correctly how much I would need to get me through until the next trip to America and alas, that stock was depleted by September. At which point we were in Greece and I did find American, flavored coffee but again, I didn't buy enough. You would have thought I would have learned by now to stock up on supplies like I did when I lived in Miami during hurricane season but.....no.

They say it's the little things in life that bring the most joy. Now, meno male (thank god), I have found coffee in Italy.

From Miami to Masate

It is day 4 now of no sun in Masate....nebbia actually which is the Italian word for fog. Welcome to "autunno" in Italy. I have lived here almost a year now with my wonderful husband who grew up only 3 miles down the road in Cambiago. It's amazing how Italians never move far from home. For the first 6 months we lived here, his mom mentioned at least once a day that he made a mistake buying a home in Masate and not Cambiago. To the point where eventually he had to say "Basta!" In America, if you moved 4 hours away, you were considered close.

It was around this time last year we decided it would be best I quit my job and come to Italy to live with him. We were, after all, married so it made sense but the thought of living in Italy seemed so huge to me for I had lived in the U.S. my whole life. But here I am...from Miami to Masate.

Masate is a small village about 30 minutes east of Milano. It is a typical Italian village- just enough shops to get by: two small stores to buy groceries, one pharmacy and 3 coffee bars (cafe' e' molto importante in Italia!). At first I didn't know what to do with myself- where was the big grocery store where I could buy everything? And then I discovered the beauty of buying food everyday - FRESH.

After living here for about 6 months, I finally got up the courage to go to the store here by myself. Right away they knew I wasn't Italian. The American accent is like a flashing light on your forehead. But they now call me by name and hold my favorite bread for me daily and going there has become my religion.

So I have found the beauty here in Masate...a beauty I could not find in 3 years in Miami. E' una bella vita.