Returns Gladly Accepted

Recently, a friend from New Jersey came to town on one of her semi-annual visits. She's fallen in love with this place since her first visit here four summers ago.

An ancient name for: Ceriana

When she and two of her friends came to town the first time Ceriana was abuzz with their arrival. Being Americans, Rich and I are instantly informed when fellow Americans are in town. The Cerianaschi must assume we all know each other, i.e. "have you seen 'so-and-so' yet, they're from 'such-and-such' is that close to San Francisco?" That summer it was: "have you seen the New Yorkers, do you know them, are you friends?" When we finally met them and learned that they were really from New Jersey we realized that they must have done the same thing most Americans do and "rounded-off" their home location to the nearest place most recognizable to an Italian. My family does it too:  when asked, "da dove sei," instead of saying San José, San Bruno or Millbrae we say, "San Francisco!" Simplification is a necessary thing when language is limited to a few words!

We met "the New Yorkers" at En Tu Furnu where they were holding court with Dario and Esmarelda. The ambience was Bacchanalian as Dario's wine and grappa coursed through everyone's veins. We, Rich and I, willingly joined in the merriment. These were "professional" party people--here for a good time; instantly likeable and bigger than life! One of them, Carol, was an Italian-American on a quest to find her roots in this great country--something I completely understood and appreciated. She spoke an alarming "broken" Italian mixed with Spanish and a few words in a dialect sounding a lot like xeniese--my grandfather's tongue. That night I learned she had grandparents from this region; we had a lot in common!

I made a promise to Carol that someday I would help her connect to her Ligurian heritage using the same method taught to me by my Italian cousins many years ago; namely, a road trip!

It was the 80s when my cousins took me to see the "home" where my grandfather, Giovanni Antonio Allesandro was born! I remember my Grandfather telling me he was born in Chiusola and I remember how excited I was to find it in an atlas; however, on the way there my cousins kept repeating the word, Giandì. After hearing Giandì batted about for the better part of an hour drive, I figured out that that's where we were headed. My cousins were "discussing" the best route to Giandì! I was worried that they were confused, after all, no one in the car actually knew my grandfather as I did; they met him when he visited in the 50s and 60s and even though they were the descendants of Nonno's brother Antonio, I feared they were taking me to the wrong place. I finally spoke up, "non è Chiusola?," I asked. "Si è Chiusola," they answered. "Ma perchè avete detto Giandì?," I asked. They answered with an expression that only a Ligurian-born can properly utter: "eur?" I have no idea what "eur" means or how it's spelled, but whenever there's really no answer to a query, or, if an answer is common-knowledge, "eur?" is uttered. ("Uttered" is the proper word here as the sound of "eur" is bovine-like!) Finally, I saw a direction sign with "Chiusola" clearly spelled out and my frenzied mind relaxed a bit. We took a sharp left and stopped: "Ecco Giandì!" Upon a knoll which the locals “call” Giandì sat a stone dwelling--my grandfather's birthplace! 

Giandì

I cannot write about how I felt the moment I first saw my Grandfather's house so please draw upon an extremely emotional and joyous moment you've experienced; that's what I felt! They took me in the dirt-floored home and showed me the central wood-stove which served two very small rooms. I saw the skylight my grandfather remembered and described to me when I was very little. He told me that chestnuts would occasionally fall onto the skylight and frighten him when he was a little boy. I looked through the skylight and I could make out tree branches and I imagined my Grandfather standing there as a child. My cousins Dina and Fulvio showed me the attic space where they hid from German soldiers during WWII and I sensed the hard-times this home had withstood.

Chiusola, the elusive!

We paid a visit to the local cemetery in Chiusola (yes we were finally in Chiusola). I saw the gravestone of my bisnonni (great-grandparents). I marveled at all the stones with Ghiorzi carved into them. In the States our name was rare but here it thrived--perhaps "thrived" is the wrong word considering where we were standing! 

We then walked to meet my grandfather's nephew, his wife and their son, the only Ghiorzi family still left in Chiusola! These were my cousins and I was especially pleased and relieved to meet the son. Yes, “relieved,” for I realized at that moment that I was not the last Ghiorzi to carry on the family name--it was Renzo's job now!

The next stop was Sesta Godano another name my grandfather mentioned as the comune to which Chiusola belonged. In the Municipio of Sesta Godano I received two certified copies of my grandfather's birth certificate, a document Giovanni Antonio Allesandro had probably never seen or held!

What a day!

Years later, on my 50th, my mother treated our whole family to a trip to these hills where my sisters got their chance to discover family roots as I had years earlier, but with one additional element:  Giandì had earned its own sign!

On this same trip, Dan, my brother-in-law, armed with the name and approximate birth date of his grandfather, got to experience for himself the thrill of discovering family roots in the old country.

Dan's day

When we arrived in Riva Trigoso the first thing we did was ask some old timers if they knew the name: Dentone. Their eyes widened and they began to rattle off who they knew with that name. They asked the spelling and mentioned that "Dentoni" is spelled with an "i" ending and that "Dentone" is pronounced differently; something Dan had heard, and had been questioned about his entire life. In fact, Dan's family had wondered if the spelling of "Dentone" had been changed since they all pronounced the name with an "i" ending. After a lengthy discussion about this, the paesani remembered an old guy known as "Dentunn" and they pointed to their teeth (Dentone means "big-toothed"). After a good laugh, we explained when Dan's grandfather left Riva and where the family settled in America. They also shared the names of their relatives who left Riva for the U. S. , in fact, one man named Stagnaro was related to the well-known Stagnaro's of Santa Cruz, CA.  Dan was the prodigal son returned and the harbormaster presented him with an official Riva Trigoso Yacht-Club T-shirt.  The most emotional moment of the day came when the parish priest found the baptismal record of Dan's grandfather, Felix Dentone.

That was 2007.

And now it was Carol's turn. Her mother had given her a few, rather vague, names of places and a few, more specific, names of people. It's important to keep in mind just how sketchy this information was as it was not Carol's mother's relatives she was naming but rather her "in-law's" information she was recalling. On a list entitled “places” were the names:  Porto, Trebbia, Ponte, Pensa.  With that to go on, I searched my Atlante stradale d'Italia and found a tiny dot on the map labeled Porto, and nearby a river named Trebbia. I couldn't find a Pensa or Ponte anywhere on the map. Carol jumped from her seat on the terrace and immediately called her mom in Jersey! "We found it Ma, we found Porto near a river named Trebbia!" A road-trip was imminent!

We set off from Ceriana and set our sites on Torriglia the largest "dot" near Porto. After a drive past Genova to the coastal town of Chiavari, we aimed for the hills. Winding and winding, up and up we went until we were close enough to ask for directions. A man on a horse pointed us to Santa Maria del Porto.

Porto was abandoned and locked up, "shut as a nun!"--Carol's words, remember she's from Jersey! We knocked on doors and rang every bell we could find but, by the looks of it, the town was deserted. Perhaps Porto had become what many hill-towns in Liguria are now:  a collection of summer residences used occasionally by the decedents of the original families. Refusing to accept this as a “dead-end” we scoured the town for clues checking every mailbox and doorbell for a name that might be on our list. Finally, on the church bell tower was a plaque honoring a priest with the last name of Garbarino--Carol's father’s maternal surname! Without a living soul about, Porto found a way to assure Carol that we were on the right track and with that small sense of accomplishment we drove off to Torriglia for lunch.  

On a wall in the restaurant was a vintage photo of a butcher shop with the name, “Fratelli Garbarino!” As Carol examined the photograph I saw a look in her eyes I’d seen before; the same look my sisters’ eyes had when they entered Giandì; the same eyes Dan had when he saw his grandfather’s name was, indeed, spelled with a final “e” and not an “i” as many had questioned.

Debbie and Giandì

After lunch we walked to the church and found a woman inside who was cleaning the altar area. I asked her if we could check the church archives for Carol's grandmother's baptismal record. She gave us a time to return when the parish priest would be able to help us. Outside the church there were several men and one woman playing bocce and I asked them where we could find a Garbarino? It so happens that Torriglia is filled with Garbarino's and not all of them are related. We were instructed to find the oldest Garbarino who lived in the white house in Pontetrebbia. “Pontetrebbia?” I asked, “sì, sì!” they answered. “Ponte!" Carol screamed, "Trebbia-- the places on my list!" We were off to Ponte where we spent an hour with Eddolo Garbarino and his wife. Eddolo was celebrating his 87 birthday that day and his mind was sharp. He recalled all of the members of his family who immigrated to the Americas but could not connect to any of the names Carol provided him except one. His grandmother and Carol's great-grandmother had the same maiden name:  Casozza! That was enough for Carol; she had found a long lost cugino! Pictures taken; grappa consumed, we explained our appointment with the parish priest and bid our goodbyes to Eddolo and his wife. We returned to Torriglia where a stern pipe-smoking priest granted us 10 minutes to search the archives--10 minutes and not a minute more as he was a busy man. After the better part of an hour, and with a sly grin the priest uttered, "ha ha haaaa." He turned the leather-bound book around and pointed to an entry and there were the names of Carol's great-grandparents and the name of a baby girl baptized on March 30, 1884. The record indicated her name, as being Palmira but Carol's family knew her as Zira. The priest reckoned that Palmira was shortened to Mira and, suggested that, Mira, a fairly common name in the region, became a more endearing Zira. On the margin of the page it indicated Palmira's place of birth as Pensa— another name from the “places” list! The priest also found Zira's sister Paola born in 1886 in a record complete with all of the other confirming names. At that point the tears flowed and the pages blurred. The priest gave us directions to Pensa (an unmarked town), which was nothing more than a knoll (hmmm, sound familiar?) with a couple of homes on top, one of which, we were certain, was the birthplace of "Zira." Our day ended at the cemetery in Porto where we found the headstone of Carol's great-grandfather Giovanni.

There is something about seeing “our” names in old leather-bound books or on tombstones; it affirms the stories we, as the grandchildren of immigrants, have been told by our parents in an effort to keep alive our ties to the old-country. We, at least those of us who listened, seem to share a common "need to know," and as our elder’s memories fade and they, eventually, die off one by one, this “need to know” intensifies in us.

Ours, is largely an oral history, paperwork is often scarce, incomplete or incorrect as we piece together our pasts.  How many names and spellings were changed by an overworked cleric on an average day at Ellis Island? How many of our ancestors were illiterate and accepted whatever name was given them just to get on with their new lives? My dad’s mom, Luigia, could only scratch out the six “letter-shapes” of her given name when she arrived in the U.S. under a mysterious surname; a surname which isn’t even close to the name I eventually found on her birth certificate!  

We'll probably never have a complete picture of the past, there will always be nagging, unanswered questions which might haunt us, in a bad way,  or cause us, in a good way,  to set out on a new adventure. Book your ticket!

Picky, Picky, Picky . . .

In this blog, I’ve made a conscious choice not to write the verbal equivalent of a TWA poster (yes, it’s an old example, in fact, I’m hoping a few readers have no idea what a TWA is). Those posters with their iconic views promised an Italy filled with glamor, poetry and romance. I don’t want to dismiss that entirely, it’s just that life here, like anywhere in the world, is not without challenges; however, life’s challenges here are often quaint and perhaps a bit; well, romantic.

Take for example the grape harvest (la vendemmia). Most Cerianaschi have several compagne or lands that they cultivate. Along with their orti (vegetable gardens) many possess olive groves (oliveti), in one or several locations, and sprawling vineyards (vigne), usually in one location but on several terraces or fasce. The vineyards are the most prized of their lands and, usually, take the most tending.  Pruning, tying, burning, spraying, worrying and complaining about their vineyards is serious business here and most Cerianaschi make it sound like a thankless, lonely job. Ultimately this endless toil and woe leads to the harvest; whereas the work mentioned above is done and complained about by one or two contadini, la vendemmia demands: “all hands on deck!”

I was invited to my first vendemmia by a friend whose boyfriend’s family makes some of the tastiest wine in Ceriana. Work was to start at 8:00 a.m. sharp and a delicious lunch, prepared by the boyfriend’s nearly ninety-year-old mother, was to follow. The lunch was the lure for me; I’ve tasted Rina’s cooking before!

We, the workers, were first guided up to the highest terrace of their land and instructed to pick only the reds. Huge bins, I’d say the size of microwave ovens, were distributed, and with pruners in hand, we each chose a row and began. Once a bin was full it was carted off and an empty would appear. The youngest and strongest of the workers became the bin-porter and with six others picking and filling bins, our young porter never had a moment’s rest.  We worked our way down the terraces towards the rustico where a focaccia break took place. After this brief respite we continued down to the lower terraces. We picked and picked and the bins were loaded into a waiting Panda and taken off to a cantina where the grapes were given the rough crush. By 11, the red grapevines were stripped of their produce, all except for a few, whose stalks were wrapped in newspaper—we were asked not to pick these vines; a mystery? yes, but I was too tired to ask why.

Lunch was delicious, Rina made a lasagna and her son-in-law braised wild boar (cinghiale—and if you’ve read my previous blogs you’ll understand the next line)—revenge is sweet indeed!

My second vendemmia, just yesterday, came about rather suddenly and not by direct invitation. We’re having our roof redone and one of the workers was talking to a neighbor on a terrace across from ours. To the worker she ranted and raved that I’d helped other Cerianaschi with their vendemmia but I had never offered to help her; so he volunteered my services. I guess he figured, since I’ve been sitting around doing nothing but watching the work progress, that I'd love the opportunity to get out of his hair . . . I mean—the house, of course!

So let’s keep score:  two vendemmie less than a week apart; two vendemmie, yet two very different experiences.

The two vineyards were as different as could be; whereas, the first was well kempt with all the grape clusters well exposed and dangling at nearly the same, workable, level, the second vineyard was overgrown with weeds and brambles; bunches of grapes were intertwined with all sorts of flora and each bunch had to be teased out of its growing place. Oh, I picked my share but I, being the youngest of this vendemmia, soon became the porter. My neighbor didn’t have bins to port, but rather used plastic bags once holding manure—they were cleaned of course . . . I think.

There were five of us working:  two guys from Sanremo were stationed at the rustico crushing grapes; two pickers, both neighbors of mine; and yours truly, the porter!

The pickers worked amazingly fast, obviously experienced at finding grapes in the rough. Filled bags were left for me to find amongst the vines et al.  The bags weren’t always easy to find, and I’m still not sure I collected them all. At one point I looked down a row to find that I missed a bag amongst the brambles; as I got closer I discovered that what I thought was a overly filled bag turned out to be the ass-end of a pet goat. 

There was no easy way down or up from one terrace to the next, but somehow all of the grapes ended up at the rustico for processing.

Like my first vendemmia, the second included a lunch. As we approached the table one of the “crushers” grabbed a few tomatoes from a vine and a handful of basil and made a delicious salad as an antipasto. Our hostess came running from the kitchen, yelling and screaming that he’d spoiled her entire menu. At this point in the day we were all conditioned to her mad rants and raves, so we kept on enjoying the tomatoes.  What came to the table was a primo of homegrown cauliflower in a béchamel made with fresh goats milk followed by a fricassee of rabbit, fresh killed.

While I was glad to devour the cinghiale at the first vendemmia, I must admit, at my second vendemmia, I had a hard time downing the rabbit whose direct descendants, just an hour earlier, were carefully watching me as I hauled bag after bag past their hutch. 

Oh yes . . . red wine was served with the boar and white wine was served with the bunny.

Keep Off The Grass!

I remember reading a short story in Jr. High called, “Leiningen Versus the Ants.”  It spoke of a horrific encounter between a farmer and a colony of ants overtaking his land.  I remember Leiningen digging ditches and filling the ditches with petrol then setting them ablaze.  I don’t remember who won the battle; the ants or Leiningen, but I remember thinking about Leiningen last fall when my winter garden was destroyed; not by ants, but, by boars (chingiale)! 

I am currently planting a spring/summer garden and simultaneously planning a fence-building project, which should help keep the “big guys” out of my garden! 

Rich and I have been diligent in our effort to create a garden out of a long neglected terreno.  He’s become an expert dry-stone wall builder and I’ve mastered the rototiller; we’re both paying the price of this education in sums of sweat and pain. We’ve become very good at convincing each other that the result of this toil will be worth every ache! Funny how “acre” and “ache” sound so much alike!

Next to our baracca (shack) we were once shown the whereabouts of our septic tank and warned where we shouldn’t dig too deeply.  It’s a triangular bit of land which spends part of the day shaded by a huge bay-laurel.  Since we cannot plant anything substantial there it’s a perfect spot for a lawn, or what the Italians call a prato inglese – the term itself means “English field” and when an Italian pronounces “prato inglese,” it accompanies a facial expression which suggests, “what a waste of land, time, and water!”

Using the rototiller (motozappa) and heeding the advice of the former landowner, I simply broke the surface of the area making it easier to grade.  After raking, to fill-in the hollows and level the high spots, I used a water-filled roller to compact and smooth out the land. 

The next morning I faced a selection of lawn seed at the “Home Depot equivalent” and chose one called Prato Rustico, which in my mind would be more acceptable to my Italian neighbors because of the word rustico in its title – yet, I’m sure they’ll still shake their heads as they round the corner in their apes and behold my prato!  I was anxious to get home and have this planted by lunchtime.

Following the instructions to the letter, I raked the plot to loosen the surface, distributed the seed and covered it with six 50 liter bags of top soil.    I “moderatamente” watered the area and hoped for the best.  The instructions suggested that the area be watered to a depth of 2 to 3 cm each day until the sprouting grass reaches a certain height and then I could decrease the amount of water.  There are also instructions on when first to mow the grass; however, I saved that part for future reference.  I left the compagna with a great sense of accomplishment and pride.  I imagined the barbeques we’d eventually have and the cool shaded patch of lawn inviting us to stretch-out for an afternoon read or nap.       

Walking to land the next day, the issue of fencing was again clouding my mind.  Now that we’ll have a lawn, we’ll need to get going on the boar proofing, lest they destroy our perfect picnic spot!  One thing leads to another after all.

Upon arrival, Rich went off to his walls to fill-in the chinks with small bits of stone; I immediately attended my newly sowed lawn.  As I turned the spigot and watched the hose twitch as the pressure built, another movement caught my eye.  It seemed too bizarre to be true because at first glance the entire surface of my future lawn was undulating.  I’d yet to drink my daily quota of vino, so I wasn’t tipsy and even though I’d left my glasses at home, it wasn’t a bit of blurred vision that was causing this wavelike motion—surely it was an illusion of sorts, like the mirages one sees on a hot highway.  On my hands and knees for a closer look, I was horrified when I encountered the source of this illusion.

I had become a latter-day Leiningen as I beheld legions upon legions of ants marching as ants do; and each one of them holding in their pinchers one perfect prato rustico seed.  Thousands and thousands, rank after rank; they were carrying off the seeds in one direction and after presenting the spoils to their queen, back they came eager for more.  Thousands of seeds were disappearing right before my eyes. I screamed for Rich to witness what couldn’t be happening.  Could they possibly carry off all the seeds I sowed?

Following the direction of the seed laden critters, Rich and I discovered the entrance to their lair and decided that a good stream of water and a good soaking of the area should solve the problem and stop further degradation.  I blasted the hole with a full stream from the hose and then proceeded to spray the entire area with more than the recommended “moderatamente” amount.  I’ve heard of ants ruining a picnic but it was absurdly ironic for them to destroy a future picnicking spot!

The water did nothing but cause a temporary work stoppage.  Soon they were back to work and (perhaps I’m exaggerating?) making up for lost time!

The next day we returned to the store to seek out a more drastic solution to our little invasion.  Self, the “Home Depot wannbe,” had many solutions to our problem, which reassured me that we were not the only ones in Italy with ant issues. However, after reading the directions, contents and warnings of several anti-formiche solutions, we decided to take a more earth-friendly approach; after all, we were planning on eating the produce grown in close proximity to this lawn. Rich had heard that ants cannot digest cornmeal; yet, they’ll eat it anyway and take it to their queen.  After a sip of water they’re supposed to explode.  Being a sceptic I did a little bit of research on the internet and, sure enough, Rich was right! Cornmeal! It was worth a try. 

Yesterday I drove out to the land with a 1000 gr. bag of polenta.  I heaped a ring of cornmeal around the hole of the anthill and poured some in the cracks of the cement around the baracca where I’d seen ants once before.  Thinking that it certainly wouldn’t hurt the “seeded” area, and wondering just how much grass seed was left anyway, I broadcast the remainder of the bag on what will be a prato inglese someday -- dammit! Was it just my imagination or did a see an ant or two drop his grass seed and make a beeline for the cornmeal?  Will it work? Chi sa?

Today, I’m writing this and have yet to work up the nerve to see just what’s going on in our cursed blessed compagna!

Maybe the neighbors will accept this?

For All The Saints

I'm old enough to remember when national holidays were celebrated on their proper days.  Lincoln's birthday was always February 12th, Washington's was February 22, Columbus on October 12 and Veteran's Day, November 11; as a kid this meant NO SCHOOL!  Banks and other businesses would close too, after giving their clients plenty of warning by posting signs in their windows a couple of days prior the event.  If a holiday fell on Saturday or Sunday well. . . tough luck kids, sorry gang, back to the regular grind!  


(Holidays with underlying religious themes were always surrounded by either a one or two week school vacation and hopefully, if you chose the right god, your holiday was surrounded by "time-off!")


With the invention of the Monday holiday, everything changed. No more whimpering employees and schoolchildren feeling short-changed when a holiday fell on a Saturday or Sunday. Everyone was now guaranteed a day-off and all was fair and equal. 


Yesterday was Martin Luther King Jr. Day (observed) and the only U. S. National Holiday honoring a non-president.  Dr. King was born on January 15 but he, like Lincoln and Washington, was assigned a Monday position to create a three-day "weekend." 


Celebrating someone special's "special day" is a wonderful way of honoring that special someone; moving that "special day" is a way of honoring the needs of the celebrants. That model seems to work well back home, but that would never fly here!

San Antonio, Levina (IM)

Yesterday was Saint Anthony of Egypt Day and to an Italian that means "January seventeenth."  Regardless of where in the week January 17th it falls, it is always a holiday.  A national holiday? no, does everyone celebrate it? no, but if you're named Antonio, after the saint, or if Anthony is the patron saint of your town, it's a holiday and your employer will just have to deal with it! 


And so it is and forever shall be.


San Antonio is not the patron saint of Ceriana; however, every January 17th a few dozen Cerianaschi and Cerianesi make an hour's drive to the small town of Lavina to help the locals celebrate its patron saint, St. Anthony.  This "pilgrimage" literally doubles the population of Lavina.  


I'm told that this tradition started decades ago when a Cerianese woman, born in Lavina, was concerned that a dwindling population there would soon forget their rituals.  She sang with Ceriana's women's choir, le Mamme Canterine and, as a fellow musician, she enticed our band members to play in Lavina by organizing a luncheon for them.  Still alive, but now unable to participate, I hear she was a wonderful hostess who would entertain her "guests" with a, sort of, cabaret well into the night!  

To this day, an ensemble consisting of members of Ceriana's band and, I assume,
 what's left of Lavina's band, leads the procession of the Saint and provides music throughout the day. 

Like many traditions here, Saint Anthony's Day in Lavina is a blurred mix of the "sacred and profane." Although yesterday's event included two masses and a solemn procession I suspect that most of the celebrants were, at least, equally interested in nourishing more than their spiritual appetites.

The Lunch, il pranzo, started with a different kind of procession-- a procession of "small plates," gli antipasti.  


--Before continuing I'd like to share what I've learned about the word, "antipasto." "Pasto" is the Italian word for "meal" and "anti" is Latin for "prior to" or "before."  Therefore, "antipasti" (plural) are things consumed before the main meal.




The Lunch, il pranzo, started around noon with, gli antipasti:
                                                                                                              

1. Vegetable tart (la torta verde)
2. A cheese filled fried raviolo
3. A puff-pastry filled with truffles and garlic
4. Salame and marinated olives
5. A cod-filled fritter (friscioi)
6. Sliced veal in tuna sauce (vitello tonnato)
7. Fried frogs--whole (rane)

After an hour of antipasti we were treated to the primi piatti, or "first plates".  In restaurants you'll see "i primi piatti" on the menu and usually one chooses one primo piatto; at this banquet we were served three primi piatti:

1. Risotto con quattro formaggi (Rice with four cheeses)
2. Ravioli al ragu
3. Tagliarini al pesto

The third hour of lunch consisted of three "second plates,"
i secondi:

1. Roast veal with potatoes (vitello arrosto con patate)
2. Braised goat with beans (capra e fagioli)
3. Fried eels (anguille fritti)

The sweets, and there were three, were served on a single plate. 

• tiramisu
• millefoglie
• semifreddo

At last, coffee.

"croak"

Start to finish, lunch took about four hours to complete and, at this pace, it's not impossible to consume all of the plates listed above, although I must confess I "passed" on a couple of the; shall I say, "slimier" items.  Of course, the red wine flowed and I drank my share.  




Next year (and I've already marked my calendar) St. Anthony's Day falls on a Tuesday. 


Imagine what the conversation would be like if you had to ask your boss for that particular day off.   Her side of the conversation would sound a bit like . . .


"You say you'd like the day off . . . for what? . . . a religious observance? . . . I see . . . . St. Anthony. . . where? . . .Lavina?. . . do you think you could just go to Mass and come to work late? . . . oh, I see. . . and you play in the band . . . a procession . . . uh huh . . . oh, a luncheon follows . . . well, maybe you can come in after lunch and work late . . . it's a four hour lunch? . . . I see . . . 

Home again, home again jiggity jig!

I've heard that, "home is where the hearth is" and if that adage is correct then we've been homeless since selling #10 Cumberland Street. 

Our last true hearth!

We went "home" for the holidays for first time in our lives and, to be frank, it was a bit surreal; being "home" yet, not having a place to call our own. 


We had an eventful time staying with friends and relatives and everyone's hospitality was indeed top notch! We were; however, constantly reminded that we were indeed not home but, rather, in a locale we called "home" for many many years. 

Delma and her boy, Rich!

The first week of our visit was hampered by a nasty flu which limited our visiting time and challenged both of our "must-do" lists. The rental car sat parked for the first three days until we felt well enough to drive it to the storage unit where we would "pay our respects" to our "homeless" household items. 


Our mission, that morning, was to take home [there's that word again] some items to make life in Ceriana even more fabulous, but when I raised the rolling metal door, a pall fell over me, darkening my already miserable mood. There, surprisingly neater than I remembered, sat our things; our stuff; our cantlivewithouts; our impulse buys! The few items I had on my "take-home" list were buried deep in a stack of treasures each one triggering a memory, or, a mystery; as in, "why did we keep that?" 


On Rich's "must find and take home" list were the "oxygen" pillows we paid a fortune for and which greatly reduce one's snoring. I, on the other hand, was after my collection of Voightländer 35mm cameras--I have a romantic attachment to heavy german mechanical things. [I still intend to blog about shipping over our Benz!] 


Ill, overwhelmed and slightly depressed, we returned to the rental car with two items: Rich with a hoody, and I with a leather jacket, now too tight--must have shrunk!


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We went on with our holiday: Christmas Eve at my sister's in San Jose and a Christmas Day Drive to Rich's brother's in San Diego. Good people, good food, good times! We returned to the Bay Area to prepare for our departure.


Our last two days home were spent checking the last few items off our respective "lists." We saw three movies, sorted out various computer problems with third party apple™ geeks and had one last burger.


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I'm happy to report that after a third visit to Public Storage we left with the following: two oxygen pillows, four german cameras, a socket wrench set, Rich's favorite sweater, my STRS paperwork, and a half bottle of Howards® feed and wax--"Really?"


I returned the leather jacket to its grey bin.




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And now we're home again surrounded with the old treasures we've acquired when purchasing this 800 year old house and a few new items from our former lives back. . . home?






Time to get crackin' on the old armoire with the Howards® and some "0000" steel-wool.

Turn your head and cough!

The Italian Healthcare System is ranked 2nd in the world. Impressive, yet I'm not sure what it means. It seems everyone gets what they need out of the system.  They get to choose their own doctor, receive treatment, obtain meds, undergo surgery, etc., all courtesy of the Italian Government.  I haven't used the system yet, but today I signed myself into it.  No exam, no questions, I just handed over my Codice Fiscale (SSN) and my Carta D'identità (ID), chose my doctor and signed my name twice.  I received a print-out of my Doctor's hours and a temporary health card; the plastic one arrives by mail within a month. 


Then, it hit me. . . 


I'm not working; I have no income; no job; no job prospects; I'm waiting for my state teacher's  pension to start in July 2012, yet, my healthcare is covered by merely claiming my Italian heritage through  jure sanguinis and becoming a citizen. 

The Boys in Rome

You won't hear many complaints in this blog about life here or there,  even though there's always something rubbing me the wrong way or amusing me to no end; it seems that much more can be learned from what works well--either here or there!  A nation's challenge is applying the knowledge of "what works" as needed, so that all may benefit from what is good and right!


Bravo Italia!

Sister Supermodels

Thanksgiving comes early!

Mom's Arrival in Nice

Mom's been here since October 22nd and we've had a great time so far.  We shopped in Sanremo on the 23rd and attended the Chestnut Festival on the 24th.  We drove in the scioneri to La Spezia on Monday to pick up our car which just arrived after a four month transatlantic crossing; the crossing didn't take four months, it's just that the shipper's estimate of 45 days, door to door, was a bit optimistic (a subject I'll blog about when I calm down enough to be objective).  She had her hair done at a local parruchiere on Thursday and shopped for a jacket at the only clothing store in Ceriana.

Hot Stuff!

Salute!

Festa di Castagna

Early in the week she mentioned how nice it would be to plan a few dinner parties, most especially one for the Zappia family, our home's previous owners.  The Zappia's threw a bash for us three years ago and mom wished to thank them with a dinner at our/their old home; not just any dinner but a traditional "American Thanksgiving Feast!"

Since Italians don't celebrate Thanksgiving; in fact Pino had never heard of the holiday, it didn't matter that we'd planned the event for Saturday October 30th.  Mom and I decided to keep the menu as traditional as possible with the exception of her stuffed zucchini and onions she learned to make from my Ligurian grandmother and which are, arguably, as good if not better than the one's Giovanna makes right here in Ceriana.  The verdure ripieni were our only antipasto and the only Italian dish of the evening.  The Zappia's gobbled them up with gusto; a sign that they were authentically Ligurian!  I announced that there'd be no primo and that the rest of the meal was, "an authentic 'American Thanksgiving Feast!'"

Creating this "american tradition" was anything but easy out here in West Italy!  First step:  tracking down the star attraction! 


I've never seen a whole turkey displayed in a butcher case here. Turkey breasts and legs are always available and I've seen ground turkey but I wanted to present a whole roasted bird with stuffing pouring from its cavity. . . "cavity" is such a polite term isn't it? Long before mom's arrival I had planned to have a little turkey dinner before she departed on November 22nd so I asked the macellaio at Ekom if he could obtain a whole turkey (tacchino intero), "volentieri," was his reply, "come vuole" . . . basically "no problem," "whenever,"  "order today we'll have it tomorrow," etc., etc., etc!  He then asked, "quanti chili, otto. . . nove?" After a quick calculation, eight or nine kilos would be a perfect size with plenty leftover!


When the day came to actually order the bird, the friendly enthusiastic butcher had been replaced by a less encouraging gentleman who suddenly imposed a minimum 13 kilo size to place an order. My mind went immediately to turkey-hash, turkey-soup, turkey-Tetrazzini and who knows what else to do with leftovers! Worried, but it didn't show, I replied with a cheery, "va bene!"  That was Wednesday. We arrived at 10 a.m. that Saturday to pick up the bird, our bird; the only whole turkey on the entire Riviera, it weighed-in at a whopping 16+ kilos; almost 36 pounds!  We were instant celebrities as we wheeled the body through the crowded Ekom shop and out into the parking lot towards our elegant Panda/Scioneri;  I, worrying all the way, "is this gonna fit in the trunk?"


Mom laughed all the way up the scorciatoia as I attempted to discuss the task of cooking this monster.  I fixated on the presentation while Mom, between chortles, was being practical and suggested cooking half the bird or maybe just the breast.  When we reached Ceriana I dropped Mom and "Tom" at the square and drove off to find parking.  As I approached Mom and her "companion" sitting patiently on a stoop, I broke out in a cold sweat. Surprisingly, we managed to carry the corpse down all the carrugi without being noticed.  I mentioned the cold sweat because I fully expected to be stopped by curious Cerianaschi along the way and I wasn't prepared to explain the absurdity of our plan.

Bob and Tom

In the kitchen, finally, I heaved the behemoth onto the cutting board and immediately started massaging and manipulating its huge rigamortised legs hoping that I could set them into the "position" we all know and love.  This was a stubborn bird; a very naughty, stiff, and stubborn bird. The damn legs wouldn't budge from their sprawled pose no matter how forcefully I pushed his missing head against the backsplash!


And then, an epiphany. Even if I could achieve a fully dressed and trussed turkey, this particular specimen would never, ever, under any circumstance, fit into an Italian, Nardi oven.  I collapsed under the pressure and reluctantly grabbed my steel and sharpened my boning knife.


Sometimes being a son-of-a-butcher is handy. I boned-out the whole breast and butterflied out some thicker portions into flaps to flatten the thing.  Next, I placed the stuffing onto the center of the breast and rolled the breast meat around the dressing.  I then excised the skin from the turkey's back and used it to help close the stuffed breast as I tied it with butcher's twine.  Fresh herbs from the terrace, salt, pepper, olive oil and butter and channeling Jacques Pepin and Julia Childs the whole time, my capolavoro was ready for the Nardi!

Mom, Bob and Frankenbird

I could have blogged about the pumpkin pies I baked (try to find canned pumpkin in Italy) but, in fact, turkey is the main attraction on our most American holiday--Happy Thanksgiving!