The right way, the wrong way & the American way

My husband often tells me I'm stubborn. He also often tells me I'm American.

I often think he uses the two interchangeably.

In the spirit of being an all-American girl, I've been in search of a cocktail with which I can proudly raise my glass today to celebrate independence with my fellow Americans, both at home and abroad.

My libation of choice:

The Americano.

This fizzy refreshment is a variation on the Negroni, the classic Italian cocktail that has appeared more than once in a few of my infamous misadventures.

I think it quite befitting that my favorite cocktail can be made three different ways: the right way, the wrong way and the American way. As anyone who knows me well will tell you, I believe this applies to any commingling of spirits, alcoholic or otherwise.

As an expat in Europe I find myself in a great many discussions about cultural differences and the pros and cons of various approaches to things ranging from healthcare, social services and taxes to less politically-charged matters such as tipping and (what should be) the highly objective take-a-number system.

I certainly don't presume to tell anyone what is right or wrong (with the exception of the take-a-number system, which I firmly believe should entail some form of linear organization), but what I stand by most adamantly, what I defend most vociferously, is my fundamental right to choose.

This, my friends, is the true definition of independence.

It's the freedom to make your own decisions.
To choose your own adventures.
To excel or to fail in your endeavors.
To be all that you can be, whatever that might mean to you.
To take control of your destiny.
To arm yourself with information.
To transcend where you came from or who you were born to.
To follow your dreams, to change your fate, and to create your own happily-ever-after.

Happy Birthday America.
Right or wrong, I salute you.


The Americano

Originally dubbed the Milano-Turino for its two main ingredients, Campari from Milano and Cinzano (sweet vermouth) from Turin, this delicate drink was popularized by American tourists during prohibition and renamed as a compliment to the Americans...

When was the last time something like that happened in Europe?

Made with equal parts Campari and sweet vermouth, it's topped up with an indiscriminate amount of club soda so you can adjust the taste to your liking.

It can be further set apart from its Italian cousins by preparing it in a highball instead of an old-fashioned glass, and garnishing it with a lemon twist instead of an orange.

Personally, I like to get sassy and have both.

1 oz Campari

1 oz Sweet Vermouth

club soda

lemon twist or wedge

Fill your glass with ice and add the Campari and vermouth. My personal preference is Cinzano, but you an also use Martini & Rossi or Boissiere. If you're feeling adventurous and want to pop for the more expensive Carpano Antica, consider using a half ounce of that with a half ounce of one of the others if you find the herbal flavor overpowering.

Top it up with club soda, adding as much or as little as you like. If you happen to live in Europe where even liquor store clerks (and apparently some bartenders) haven't the slightest idea what "club soda" is, try asking for seltzer or carbonated water, NOT tonic.

Garnish with a lemon twist.

Or, if you'd rather have the orange slice, go ahead, knock yourself out. It's up to you. That's the beauty of the Americano.

Once upon a time...

(August 19, 2007 to be exact)

...in a far-away land, a young urban Chicagoan had a meltdown.

Incensed that her then-current boyfriend was off visiting his family in Switzerland for the entirety of August whilst she had nothing equally fabulous on her holiday agenda, her insanely competitive ego went rogue and autonomously composed the following text:

"Anyone want to go to Paris or Rome for Labor Day?"

This S.O.S. was immediately disseminated to her gallivanting girl gang with the hopes that their fervent enthusiasm for spontaneous escapades might extend across the pond.

She didn't think for a moment that anyone would seriously consider dropping everything to pop over to Europe with ten days notice, but that was fine with her. She was used to traveling solo and of course, in her pathological bid for oneupmanship it would be much cooler (and far more mysterious) to go by herself anyway.

In the end, following many sincere expressions of interest and promises to check on flights, one person actually came through: her little Butter Cookie.

That would be Jen, the heroine of this particular tale...

Yes, that's right. My fairy tale starts with an awesome girlfriend rather than a boy. Following one of the all-time greatest and utterly bizarre first dates ever, Jen and I had been inseparable for the past 18 months. She was my rock. A co-conspirator and expert enabler whom I could always count on to say, "Yessss!"

Luckily, this trip was no exception.

Since we had both been to Paris within the last year - and because we share an insatiable obsession with all things Italian - we opted for Rome. Within 24 hours we had our flights booked and Jen scored us a wicked cool deal on a hotel.

We had to celebrate. At Quartino. With pizza.

A week later, we were on our way...

Pizza Quattro Stagioni (Four Seasons)

First of all, let me just say that real pizza is thin-crusted. I am passionately committed to this position and have, from time to time, considered starting a campaign to ban the use of the term "pizza" in relation to those crazy deep-dish pies that we make in Chicago. But at the moment my activist energy is being channeled elsewhere.

I offer up this recipe with the caveat that it is virtually impossible to reproduce in a home kitchen that which can only be borne of a brick oven. So if your kitchen-ego can handle that, go for it and have fun.

Two secrets to creating a great pizza, one with a well-crisped crust that finishes baking in the same time it takes the topping to cook, are intense heat (upwards of 800 degrees) and direct contact of the dough with the heat source.

Since most conventional ovens top out at a mere 500 degrees, the closest you can get to recreating this environment at home is to use a pizza stone by placing it in a cold oven (per the manufacturer's directions) and letting it preheat with the oven. I also recommend using a pizza peel - those wide wooden boards with the long handles that you always see hanging in pizzerias - to safely slide the pizza onto the stone.

I hope to master the art of dough-making one day, but thus far I've not made the attempt. If I were to try it, I would probably start with this recipe. In the meantime, I have pretty good luck with store-bought dough and have found the par-baked crusts from Fox and Obel to be highly successful in emergency situations.

Whatever you choose, the rest goes something like this:

1/2 cup tomato sauce or chopped canned tomatoes
3-4 marinated artichoke hearts, quartered
5-6 black olives packed in brine (you'll want the sweet variety)
1/2 cup finely sliced mushrooms
2 ounces finely sliced ham, shredded
1/4 pound shredded mozzarella
a handful or two of arugula (optional)

Spread the tomato and the mozzarella. Technically the other four toppings should each be housed in its own quarter of the pizza, but here is where I deviate from tradition as I prefer the Quartino's version with everything mixed together. Either way, drizzle with a few drops of olive oil and bake according to your dough instructions. If you like, throw some fresh arugula on top just before serving.

Best enjoyed on a summer patio with a good friend and a pirlo.

The luxury of hindsight

I should have started this blog in 2007.

But back then I had no idea that the events that were about to unfold would change my life forever. I expected it to be a fun girls' weekend in Italy, no doubt full of stories worth telling, but at the time it was just another randomly-inspired freak-out trip.

Ok, in all honesty, it wasn't really that random. But more on that later...

I was going to date my posts as they occurred chronologically, in an effort to lend some structure and context to what would otherwise be a chaotic stream of consciousness that even those with a Ph.D in crazy-talk would find challenging to follow.

But stories are organic, living things. Over time, they change, adapt and evolve as we do, distilled in hindsight as the emotionally-biased perspectives of real-time slowly separate themselves from the raw truths that come to define our history.

So I think it's important to acknowledge if and when something is being written in retrospect with the luxuries of time gone by: wounds healed, laughter shared, lessons learned. And the all-important opportunity to implement revisionist history.

I'm back in Chicago for a couple of weeks to pack more of my stuff. I'm going back to Holland soon and this time, it's for good. Really. At least until summer...

Turns out Chicago isn't the only one having trouble letting go. Which is ironic because I've been trying to leave here for years.

After living in LA for 2 years following some hare-brained idea to go to law school (even though I had no desire to be a lawyer) I moved back to Chicago and immediately started working in Florida where I commuted every week for nearly 5 years. Two years ago I was planning to move to DC until I went to visit Tanya while she was studying Spanish in Spain. A month later I started taking Italian classes and made up my mind to move to Italy. Last year all that changed and I took a detour - a big one. This year I  am a newly-wed expat sort-of living in Holland. Sheesh.

I don't really know where this story begins. In theory one could say that everything we've ever done leads us to this exact time and place in our lives. Actually, that proves itself up in practice as well. We are planning to be back in Rome for the upcoming Mille Miglia. On deck is a walk down memory lane.

With that, I invite you back to the beginning of this particular story:

Chicago, circa August 2007, and the random text that started it all.

"Anyone want to go to Paris or Rome for Labor Day?"

Thundersnow

For years I have loyally defended Chicago against those who think we are insane for putting up with its crazy weather. In return, I have been spared from having to deal with the worst of it.

But now that I technically no longer live here, the flight that was to carry me to my new home in Europe has been grounded by the worst blizzard in nearly half a century. I am housebound with no phone or internet as all the electricity in the neighborhood seems to be concentrated in the snow lightning outside.

I love you, too, Chicago. But you can't keep me here forever. I promise I'll be back. But definitely, definitely not till summer.

A deafening thunder responds in the distance as gale force winds come shrieking across the plains of suburbia, rattling the entire house like a scene from a bad horror movie and scaring the living bejezus out of me. I swear I can hear these creepy demonic whispers through the walls ...

"You can't leave. We won't let you. You belong here."

As an eerie chill creeps up my spine, it dawns on me that this storm is the physical manifestation of everything I have been feeling - or should I say, trying not to feel - in these last weeks while I have been packing up to leave. A cold, dark, black hole of separation and loss looming in the distance, as if waiting - indeed demanding - to be recognized and duly respected.

I've moved many times, but this time it's for good. In all the excitement over my new life, I have not really had the time to mourn my old one. A rich, gratifying life full of incredible people and priceless memories. Of course I expected to miss certain people, places and things, but it never occurred to me that it would be this difficult to leave.

Alas, my mother-in-law is far more intuitive than I. She knew it immediately after being here for the wedding and meeting my family and friends. I have something very special here. Something that will not, cannot be replicated anywhere else in the world.

I am thrilled about my life in Europe, my amazing husband, my wonderful new friends, and all of the grand adventures that lie ahead for us all. But as I bid my family, my friends, and my fair city adieu, I will leave behind a part of my heart.

Buried here, under a beautiful pile of snow.

The tipping point

It's 4am in Chicago. I can't sleep.
Jet lag really sucks.

It just occurred to me that in the few months we've been married I've been in Chicago almost half the time. I start to wonder if I still haven't fully comprehended the fact that I am, indeed, M-A-R-R-I-E-D. And if not, does that make me a bad wife?

I mean damn, it's a little early in the game to start racking up demerits already.

I stare out from a 23rd floor window at the black void of the lake and search for answers in the streetlights that freckle the park in braille. My eyes rest on the strong, stable skyline that has been the backbone of my existence for 40 years.

No matter how many times I've left to live or travel elsewhere, this has always been home. I could come back any time I wanted. Now, for the first time in my life, that isn't so.

Bloody hell.
What have I done?

In physics, a "tipping point" is the point at which an object is displaced from a state of stable equilibrium into a new, different state.

That could certainly describe several events of the past few years.

So I pause to identify that exact moment in time that changed everything. There is a plethora of obvious candidates: our wedding day, the day(s) we got engaged, our reunion in Milan two years after our first meeting in Rome, or perhaps the night I stood under the moon at San Galgano and I decided that I wanted to live in Italy...

Auspicious as these events may have been, I'm not sure any of them propelled me into a wholly different state. Different countries perhaps (bad pun intended), but that state of stable equilibrium - my sense of balance and order, a conscious awareness of my relative position to all things - that had followed me all over the world.

Ironically, I wasn't the least bit nervous about getting married. My husband is the most amazingly perfect partner that I could ever invent for myself. My last thought the night before the wedding was that I'll never get to sleep on my side of the bed again, but that seemed like a small price to pay for happily ever after.

But not being able to fly home whenever the hell I feel like it? Damn. That honestly never crossed my mind. Nor did it occur to me that I would find it this unsettling.

As I sit here looking down on the world below, I am overcome by a sudden attack of vertigo as I realize that for the past several months (maybe even the past several years) I've been standing on this precipice, postponing the inevitable moment when I would have to leave the nest (for good this time) and dive into the mysterious ether that is to be the next phase of my life.

Whether I'm ready or not, it's time. This is the tipping point.

No resolutions, no regrets

If you're still in the market for a new year's resolution, this is a pretty damn good one.

As 2010 drew to a close I was overwhelmed with the realization that I could spend the entirety of 2011 counting the blessings I was graced with in the past year alone. After asking myself, "What did I do to deserve all this?" and struggling to come up with a valid answer (despite the fact that it was meant to be a rhetorical question), I posed this not-so-rhetorical challenge: "What am I going to do to deserve all this?"

I immediately set about listing all the good deeds and positive actions that I intend to undertake in the coming months and by 12:05am on January 1st, the clean slate I was granted at midnight was already impossibly full.  Best of intentions notwithstanding, I can confidently forecast without a shadow of a doubt that, as in each year prior to the one that lies ahead, I will fall woefully short of my overly ambitious aspirations. But that certainly won't stop me from trying. Each day, each moment, is a new opportunity.

So this year, rather than scrapping my resolutions when they prove to be more difficult than they sounded whilst under the spell of sky lanterns, fire twirlers and far too much Prosecco, I will merely park them on a shelf for a while and focus on living up to this simple yet powerful statement:

"Do not let this universe regret you."

I was going to offer my version of what this mantra means to me, but I decided that my personal take on it is relatively unimportant to anyone but me. So I will leave it here now and let it stand on its own, to be interpreted by anyone who stumbles across this in whatever way speaks most authentically to you. If you care to share your thoughts on it, please do.

Happy New Year Everyone!

As American as apple pie

So as I was tossing apples for a pie, I started thinking about this post.

Then free-association kicked in and went something like this: Apples. Ideas. Ideas. Apples. Ideas are like apples. Apples are like ideas. Ok, not really. Apple pie. How did that jingle go? Baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and Cheverolet. Cheverolet? Ugh. Wait. Corvettes are Cheverolets. Cool! What's so American about apple pie anyway? It preceded us by thousands of years. Maybe apples are like ideas. Can America really be summed up by those four things? They aren't very inspiring. How are ideas inspired? Inception. Where do dreams come from? Probably not all designed by brain hackers. Good movie. It would suck not to be able to go home. Home sweet home. These apples are really sweet. Need to buy organic sugar...

Later, I attempted to make a coherent post out of this mind muck.
In summary, this is what my stream of consciousness yielded:

I'm an all-American girl.
I really, really am.

The more time I spend in Europe, the more obvious this little cliche becomes.

Europe is beyond awesome. The diversity of its history, culture, and natural beauty is truly mind-blowing. The expansive world-views of the people I come across is fascinating, enlightening, humbling. And the food...don't even get me started on the food. There isn't a morning that I don't wake up excited about my life here.

Still...

As I watch the corny airplane video on the long approach to O'Hare and see the Chicago skyline growing  larger on the horizon, I start getting a little teary-eyed. Although it's mostly boring instructions on how to successfully navigate the immigration holding pen, the closing montage of people from all walks of life saying "Welcome" like, 100 times, literally gives me goosebumps.

By the time they get to the end, every hair on the back of my neck is standing up and I have chills down to my fingertips...

"Welcome to the United States of America."

Whoa.
My heart is practically bursting out of my chest.
It gets me every time.
In fact, I'm getting all teary-eyed and goosebumpy just writing this.

Sadly, I'm told the actual customs officers aren't nearly as cordial in reality as the actors who portray them in the video. This absolutely breaks my heart.

So every time I go through Passport Control (which is a lot these days) I've started asking whether they really say that to visitors. And while they are staring through me like human neural-scanners trying to determine whether I have some illicit motivation for distracting them or am just being a smart ass, I tell them I'm asking for my friend Edi. Yes, that Edi. An awesome kid who lives on a small island in Croatia whose dream of coming to visit America very specifically includes hearing those exact words. I tell them it's important. That it's not just marketing crap. I tell them that people really do love to hear it. That I love to hear it. That it means something. And I thank them in advance for remembering, just in case Edi ever makes it over for that visit. Then I move on before I start bawling my head off.

Why am I so proud to be American?

This is a question I ask myself a lot lately, contextualized by the irony of me seeking life elsewhere. There are many reasons, but ultimately they all boil down to one thing.

Hope.

Of all the forces that make for a better world,

none is so indispensable, none so powerful, as hope.

I love this quote. And I love that no single person is credited with authoring it. It could have been said by anyone. It holds true for everyone. This is American ideolody at its core.

In the timeline of history, we are infantile in our 200+ years of existance compared to thousands. But whereas other countries are often defined by the past, I believe America is better defined by the future and the infinite potential, not only to envision and imagine, but also to chose and to change.

Endless and achievable possibilities. "Achievable" being the operative word which marks that tangible point in time and space where dreams and reality can begin to converge. The inception of hope.

Americans are famous for our belief that no matter who we are, where we came from, what we have or what we have to overcome, we are individually and collectively empowered to create and control our destinies. Of course, this means that the accountability for our lot in life pretty much lies in our own hands, thus making us responsible for our happiness rather than a government, monarchy, religious leader or some other such blame-magnet.

Personally, I'm ok with that.

Americans are also stereotypically known throughout the world to have an overdeveloped sense of ego. I'm told it is perceived to be a somewhat unsavory arrogance, this drive that propels people to have more, do more, be more. To be dissatisfied with the status quo. To question authority. To challenge the system. To defy limitations. To pursue happiness. To dream, perchance to dare.

To this I can only say, "Absofreakinlutely."

So when Dad asks me why...why, when both my parents' families worked so hard to come and build a life here, why would I turn around and go right back to a place they chose to leave? If I'm so bloody proud to be American, why am I living in Europe? Why? Why? Why?

The answer instinctively wells up from the bottom of my heart and reverberates in my soul like the echo of a thousand whispers:

Because I can.

My father's family didn't want to leave Italy. They left because they had to. My mother's family endured years of separation, parents from children, husbands from wives, as they slowly immigrated from the Philippines, saving for one plane ticket at a time. They didn't have the luxuries of frequent flyer miles, Facebook or Skype to maintain their connections to home. It is because they left everything behind that I can enjoy everything that lies ahead.

My homage to their bravery, their tenacity and their dignity is to do what they couldn't: to live a simple, peaceful, quiet life in il bel paese. Not because I don't have a choice. But because I do.

Andrea and I talk a lot about the differences between here and there. The cultures, the politics, the societal norms - they are vast and many and always provide fodder for a healthy debate. The dark side of relentlessly passionate ambition is that it's hard to know when enough is enough. When is it ok to sit back and enjoy where you are and what you have, here and now? When should you stop seeking something better and simply be happy with your life?

Admittedly my definition of happiness was severely out of whack for a quite while (I'll let my eBay store serve as further elaboration on that particular point), and I credit my time spent living and working abroad with helping me find a healthier balance between craving and contentment.

But the choice of where I fall on that continuum on any given day is mine, and mine alone. That is beyond priceless.

So for as much as I love living in Europe,
I never lose sight of the fact that what I really love is being an American living in Europe.

This is not to say that I'm not terribly embarrassed by the narrow-minded attitude of emperialistic entitlement that characterizes the "Ugly American" traveler or that I wholeheartedly (or even half-heartedly) support the actions of some of our leaders.

But America is not and cannot be defined by its leaders or even by its people. Nor is it a place that can be defined or contained by its boundaries and borders.

America is a collection of ideas, values, and dreams. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Fortunately, all of the above are portable.
And it for this reason that I can feel at home no matter where in the world I am.

I don't live in America.
America lives in me.

May I offer you a slice of pie?


Crunchy Caramel Apple Pie
This awesome recipe comes courtesy of Lenore DeMaria & the Crocodile.

9" or 10" pastry crust for a deep dish pie (someday I'll make my own, but not today)
1/2 cup sugar
3 tablespoons flour
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon salt
6 cups apples, peeled and thinly sliced (I use Fuji, but dying to try HoneyCrisp)
crumb topping (recipe below)
1/2 cup chopped pecans (or candied walnuts for a super sweet treat)
1/4 cup caramel topping

Crumb Topping
1 cup packed brown sugar
1/2 cup flour
1/2 cup quick-cooking rolled oats
1/2 cup butter

First, the topping: Stir together the brown sugar, flour and oats. Cut in the butter until you have a bowl of coarse crumbs. Set aside - ideally out of reach if you share my tendency to taste-test the entire batch.

Then, the pie: Pre-heat oven to 375. In a large bowl stir together the sugar, flour, cinnamon and salt. Add the apple slices and gently toss until coated. (Free-association is optional, but pleasantly cathartic.)Transfer the apple mixture into the pie shell and sprinkle crumb topping on top.

Put the pie on a cookie sheet so the drippings don't jack up your oven. Cover the edges with aluminum foil and bake at 375 for 25 minutes. Your kitchen should be smelling like Heaven right about now. Ditch the foil and bake for another 25-30 minutes.

Remove pie from oven, sprinkle with chopped nuts and drizzle with caramel. Cool on a rack and enjoy this gooey bunch of deliciousness warm or at room temperature.

Don't forget to count your blessings.

Note: Unless you are a baking wizzard (or I am just a moron) you may find yourself with a hot mess that lacks the consistency you seek. It took me seven years. But don't stress. It's still delicious. Just serve it in a bowl instead of on a plate and be thankful that this is the worst thing that happened to you today.