It's been a while...

Greetings everyone. As you may or nay mot have noticed, I've been off the grid for what seems like months...well actually, it has been months. There's so much going on I don't even know where to start. But as soon as I can get my head around it all I will attempt to collect my thoughts in some coherent order and fill you in. Promise.

In the meantime, just wanted to share this little splash of awesomeness and let you know that all is, indeed, well.

Very, very well.

Backyard Sunset

Life = Sorted.

Finally...

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.

Opening Pandora's Box

I can't decide which I'm more excited about: the super-cool-new-iPhone-4-that-my-baby-got-for-me or all the fun new very practical apps that I can now distract amuse educate myself with.

My latest rabbit hole is Italian internet radio and automated music recommendation services. As a long-time fan of Pandora (and a never-will-be fan of Dutch radio), I was devastated the first time I tried to log in - all revved up and ready for an at-home DIY body-pump workout - and was denied access because apparently they haven't sorted out all this global licensing business. Bastards.

More importantly, I've been on a rabid search for new Italian music as I am in desperate need of some variety. Constantly listening to Italian songs is my feeble attempt to learn Italian through osmosis.

It's also my latest coping mechanism for not actually being there yet.

I blast Italian songs on my iTunes while I'm biking through the Dutch countryside, mentally transporting myself to Tuscany. Even when I'm in Italy, I love to walk around with my own soundtrack - makes it seem like I'm in a movie and has the added bonus of drowning out the cackle of obnoxious tourists.

According to iTunes, I've played songs fom Ligabue, Tiziano and Laura over 150 times. Each.

Grazie di cuore to Nicole at zoomata for popping my bubble and introducing me to Soundtracker, an internet radio/automated music recommendation service like Pandora that 1) doesn't hold the fact that I'm in Holland against me; 2) offers a lot more Italian music than Pandora did anyway; 3) has an English interface; and 4) is free. It's like it was custom-made just for people me who want to bring a little slice of il bel paese into their lives. Evivva!!!

So here I sit, still listening to Tiziano but also enjoying the musical stylings of Angela Tatangelo, Paolo Meneguzzi and Jovanotti while engaging in a futile search for an app that will do the laundry.

And as usual, my advanced A.D.D. turned this rabbit hole into a wormhole with countless tangential offshoots, prompting me to free-associate Soundtracker to Pandora to Pandoro, a traditional Veronese holiday cake.

Naturally, this inspired me to search for a recipe.

It's also inspired me to post our photos of Verona since the only ones I've shared so far are from the 5 minutes we rolled through during the Mille Miglia. So stay tuned.

Much gorgeousness (and a great recipe for linguine alle vongole) is coming soon...

All in good time

I've been extremely antsy lately.

Last night I jumped on my bike and just started riding. I didn't know where I was going, but I was going to get there really fast.

I got lost. Well, as lost as one can get in Utrecht.

Actually, I knew where I was at all times: On the corner where the little calf jumps around the yard like a puppy. Past the house where the wild boar forages around the dandelion patch. Near that beautiful pair of horses who are always cast in the most perfect tree-filtered light. In some scary ghetto near the train station, literally on the wrong side of the tracks...

Yes, I always knew exactly where I was - I just had no idea where that was relative to anything else. But I kept riding. And shouting at the sky.

I wanted to exhaust myself. To ride until my legs turned to jelly and simply refused to support me anymore. To force myself into submission. So I would have to stop and just. be. still. Whether I liked it or not.

I'm certainly not complaining - no one loves globetrotting more than I do. But I suppose the downside to making 40 international trips over the past year is that we haven't really settled down long enough to decide where we're going to live. In the meantime, I haven't the slightest idea what I should be doing with myself. Should I be trying to make friends here? Find a job? Get my residency permit? Ship the rest of my shoes? Or is that all pointless if we really are moving soon? And if so, where are we going...?

These are just a few of the hundreds of rhetorical questions that I've been asking my husband with increasing frequency and decreasing patience. Thankfully, he is extremely understanding and has not (yet) chucked me into the canal.

I know that my restlessness is pointless. That there is a natural order to all things, that some take longer than others, and that the best things in life are worth waiting for.

And whenever I need reminding of this, I make a risotto.

There are a few secrets to a good risotto, but none so important as time. Anna del Conte, one of my favorite Italian food writers, insists that "risotto requires a generous amount of butter (and usually cheese] to achieve its lovely, creamy consistency." However, in an attempt to reduce the amount of butter and cheese I've been consuming (particularly since moving to Europe), and I can personally attest to some of the loveliest, creamiest risotto dishes being made without an ounce of either.

If you want to make a proper risotto - I'm talking about a truly transcendent bowl of warm, gooey deliciousness - you need to get comfortable in front of your stovetop. Contrary to popular belief, it is neither butter nor cheese that gives risotto it's creamy texture - it's the gentle action of continuous stirring that loosens the starch from the rice grains and releases them into the cooking liquid.

I've not the slightest idea whether substituting butter and cheese for stirring time would work. To be honest, it never occurred to me to try. Risotto is one of my guilty pleasures. The enjoyment of this dish lies not only in its divine texture or its ingredients, but in its making.

How often do we allow ourselves one uninterrupted hour of time to stop and think, to chat with a friend, to enjoy a glass of wine before dinner and flirt with our spouses the way we used to when we were trying to hard to impress them...

For me, it is the culinary equivalent of meditation - only when you're done, there is a kick-ass dinner waiting for you as a reward.

This one in particular set off a string of spontaneous F-bombs in our kitchen.
And I mean that in the best possible way.

Sun-Dried Tomato-Basil Risotto with Balsamic Vinegar
adapted from my friend Karie's recipe (thanks girl, we owe you one!)
Serves 4

5 cups vegetable broth
2 small tomatoes, peeled and chopped (about 1-1/2 cups)
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 yellow onion, finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped or pressed
1-1/2 cups (250g) arborio rice
1 cup red wine
4-5 sun-dried tomatoes (about 3 oz), cut into bite size pieces
1-1/2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
3 tablespoons flat-leaf parsley, chopped
salt & pepper to taste
20 fresh basil leaves, cut into thin strips (chiffonade)
2 oz goat cheese, crumbled (optional)

Pour the veggie broth into a saucepan and add the chopped tomatoes. Bring to simmer and reduce to warm, but don't take it off the heat. It's important that the cooking liquid is always hot to facilitate the starch release.

While that's happening, warm the olive oil in a heavy-bottomed pot over medium heat. Add the onion with a teaspoon of salt - this will soften the onion and keep it from browning. Then add the garlic and saute until soft.

Next, add the rice and stir with a wooden spoon until the rice is thoroughly coated and becomes translucent. Nicely toasted rice is another secret to great risotto.

Add in a cup of red wine (and pour one for yourself while you're at it) and stir until the liquid is absorbed. Then add a cup of the broth and tomatoes and stir. And stir. And sip. And stir some more.

When the broth has been absorbed, add another cup and keep stirring until the liquid has again been absorbed. Feel free to pour yourself another glass of wine. Call your mom. Make out with your husband. But whatever you do, keep stirring.

Continue adding the broth a cup at a time. When the rice starts to soften (test a couple of grains after 2-3 cups), stir in the sun-dried tomatoes then continue adding rest of the broth (a cup at a time) and stir-stir-stirring until the rice is al dente (tender but slightly firm in center).

When the rice is nice and creamy, stir in the last cup of broth along with the balsamic vinegar. When these have been mostly absorbed, remove from heat, add the chopped parsley and season with salt and pepper to taste. The traditional texture is all'onda (wavy). It should spread out easily, but not have a watery perimeter so be sure not to cook the liquid out completely.

Risotto should be served and eaten immediately or it will continue to cook itself in its own heat which will dry it out and make the grains too soft.

Spoon onto individual plates or bowls, garnish with the basil chiffonade (and a few crumbles of goat cheese if you like) and serve with the remaining red wine.

Through the looking glass

I met the most incredible man today.

Gianmaria Ciferri was an amateur painter when he stepped onto the international art scene in 1969. Unlike so many promising new artists who are launched out of pre-pubescent obscurity, Ciferri was already 44 years old. And for the past 42 years he has enjoyed a brilliantly successful second career as a world-reknowned artist.

After having met him, the photo above looks to me like the Gianni Ciferri who held whatever position he had in whatever company he worked for, while the Signor Ciferri of today reflects my stereotypical vision of a classical artist: blue-striped ascot and blue walking coat with an intense set of piercing blue eyes that confer an otherworldly aura, not so unlike a cross between this self-portrait of Vincent Van Gogh and Vincent Price.

I hope he wouldn't find that offensive. I mean it in the best possible way.

It was an amazing experience to just sit with a coffee at his dining table. To see his wife, Luciana, in a highly-stylized portrait that captures her beautifully, albeit esoterically. To be led through his home down the galleria, past countless pieces of priceless art scattered amongst everyday snapshots of their cats. To enter his small studio where the afternoon sun overexposed the white walls and organized chaos.

He has the most dignified air about him. The kind that seems to immediately identify a true artisan. Sophisticated. Cultured. Decisive. Knowing. Humbled by cataracts and an elegant walking-stick that belie a veritable force of nature.

In an instant I saw my life flash-forward to 2056, the year I would be his age.
I felt like I'd just stepped through the looking glass.

I worry sometimes that time is flying by too quickly, that all the fun I've been having has distracted me, and that my newfound appreciation for the role of a casalinga has dulled my ambition as a result. I should have been living in Italy for the past year by now. Fluent Italian diction should be rolling mellifluously off my tongue. I should have my personal administration in order, my taxes finished, my websites up and running, and my businesses fully-functional. At the very least, I should have the entirety of my belongings in one country - yet all that's managed to make it over the pond is 200 pounds worth of cookbooks and kitchen utensils.

In a futile attempt to regain control of my destiny I've been furiously running around like the White Rabbit: "I'm late! I'm late! For a very important date! No time to say hello, goodbye! I'm late! I'm late! I'm late!" Moving to Europe was supposed to force me to slow down, but I find myself scrambling more than ever.

My consciousness returned to the apocalyptic story Signor Ciferri was telling about his latest piece, an explosion of color featuring a pregnant woman, a child and a 7-headed dragon. Man, and I thought I was multi-tasking.

Then he showed us his other works: calm, serene, refined women who embody the same grace and elegance with which their creator carries himself. This, I decided, was a worthy aspiration.

There is something incredibly powerful, but also genuinely lovely, in moving slowly, deliberately, purposefully. Almost as lovely as the tortellini Luciana gave us to take home for dinner. Almost...


Luciana's Tortellini with Sage Butter Sauce
Serves 4

For the pasta:
3½ cups all-purpose flour
4 eggs, beaten
Salt

For the filling:
1-1/2 tablespoons unsalted butter
4 ounces pork loin, diced
2 ounces turkey breast, diced
4 ounces prosciutto, diced
4 ounces mortadella, diced
2 eggs
1 cup Parmigiano-Reggiano, freshly grated
Nutmeg
Salt and freshly ground pepper

For the sage butter sauce:
4 tablespoons butter
a handful of fresh sage leaves, chopped

If you've never made homemade pasta before, have no fear. It's really not that difficult, but it's a bitch to roll out the old-fashioned way. I recommend using a pasta machine but to be honest, you can also use store-bought pasta dough.

If you decide to go for it, Luci's "best guest" as to quantities are listed above.

Mound the flour and make a well in the center. Then add the 4 beaten eggs and a pinch of salt. Using a fork, work the eggs into the flour until a dough forms. Form the mixture into a ball, and knead it for 10 minutes, adding more flour if necessary. Wrap it in plastic, and set aside for 30 minutes. If you need a visual aid you can find about a million online. Here's a pretty good one.

This recipe includes turkey breast in the filling, one of the few variations accepted by tortellini purists. The filling can also be made a day ahead, covered well and kept in the refrigerator.

In a large skillet over medium heat, warm the butter. Add the pork loin and turkey breast, and sauté until cooked through, about 10 minutes.

Place the pork, turkey, prosciutto and mortadella in a food processor, and process until well-mixed but still slightly grainy. Place it all in a bowl, and add the 2 eggs, Parmigiano and a pinch of nutmeg. Season with salt and pepper to taste, mix well by hand, and set aside.

Using a pasta machine, roll out the dough until you reach the second-thinnest setting. Cut the pasta sheets into 1½-inch squares. Drop ½ teaspoon of the filling in the center of each square, brush the edges of the square with water, then fold opposite corners over to form a triangle. Press to seal the edges, then bring the opposite corners together, and pinch them to form the tortellini.

As you make them, arrange them on a floured surface so they don't stick together.

In a large pot, bring the stock to a boil. Season the stock with salt and pepper, add the tortellini and cook until done, about 2 minutes.

Meanwhile, in a small saucepan, melt the butter over medium heat and add the sage. When it starts bubbling up, it's done.

Ladle the tortellini into soup bowls and sprinkle with Parmigiano-Reggiano. Finish by pouring some of the sage-butter on each serving.

It's a delicate dish, well suited to be enjoyed slowly, deliberately and purposefully...

Buon appetito!

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.

For those who keep sweaters in their ovens

In a mad fit of domestic bliss, I felt like making brownies today. Yay!

But we don't have an oven.

Boo.

Unless you think this counts...

Technically this makes me no more handicapped than people like my friend Stacey who keeps sweaters in her oven.

I find it ironic that the one and only commonality she shares with Carrie Bradshaw is the quintessentially definitive trait of a character who, if she existed on any level of reality, would in all certainty be her nemesis. Well, that and I'm pretty sure that if ever either of them were ever afflicted with a rabid craving for brownies, they would satisfy theirs at the nearest overpriced coffee shop.

Sadly, this is not an option for me.

I've recently discovered (at at most inopportune moment of Stage One Chai Withdrawl) that the only two, TWO, Starbucks that exist in all of Holland are at the airport and Nike headquarters. And God only knows what's in a brownie at a Dutch "coffee shop".

Actually, I'm pretty sure Stace knows as well.

In my despair, I turned to Jennfier at Sweet on Veg.  Her adorable website always puts me in a good mood and I desperately needed a good shot of bliss. As if by divine intervention, I spotted a yummalicious recipe for Katrine Volynsky's raw vegan brownies which, Hallelujah and Aaaay-men, don't need baking.

Behold! Salvation is close at hand.

No-Bake Vegan Brownies (a.k.a. bRAWnies)
Makes 4-6 servings*
Time: 30 minutes

1 cup walnuts
3/4 cup plump raisins (make sure they're fresh - if they're dry they won't stick)
1 tablespoon maple syrup
1/8 teaspoon alcohol free vanilla extract
1/3 cup raw chocolate powder or finally ground cacao beans
1/2 teaspoon coconut butter*
1 teaspoon grated raw cacao butter*
* if you don't have these handy, Nutella or any nut butter (peanut, almond, etc) will work fabulously

Guilt-Free Lemon Date Frosting
1/2 cup lemon juice (I use 2-3 fresh lemons but the bottled stuff works in a pinch)
1/2 cup soaked dates

*FYI - these quantities will not yield Starbucks-super-sized squares so if that's what you're looking for, you might want to double the batch. In a glass baking pan of 18x26cm (7x10in) they end up being about 2cm (1in) thick, which is actually fine because they're really dense.

Anyway, moving on...

Soak the dates for at least 30 minutes. For those of us who aren't accustomed to raw food preps, that means stick 'em in a bowl of water.

Next, process walnuts, raisins, chocolate powder, and raw cacao butter (or Nutella) in a food processor. This will yield a gravel-like crumble of nutty chocolate bliss. Resist the urge to start taste-testing.

Now, add the add vanilla, maple syrup, and coconut butter and blend until batter forms into a ball. The first time I made these I ended up with a big bunch of nutty chocolate gravel that bore no resemblance whatsoever to a ball. Turns out the raisins were too dry. If this happens to you as well, you can try adding a little more maple syrup to bind it all together. Or add more Nutella. Nutella fixes everything.

Either way, spread the batter into a glass pan about 1 inch high. If you end up with a pan full of gravel like I did, just spread it evenly and start at one end to mash it down into an even layer until it looks solid and somewhat cuttable.

Place in freezer for at least 15 minutes.

Once the dates are gorgeously mushy, blend them with the lemon juice until it's all smooth and creamy.

I swear this is the yummiest icing I've ever tasted and it's only got two ingredients - both of which are fruit. Crazy good and good for you. Super score.

Supposedly these guys will keep in refrigerator for up to 3 days. This I cannot attest to. They barely lasted 5 minutes in our house.

Update 6.16.11
If you'd like to see what these are supposed to look like, you can take a peek here.

The art of making something out of nothing

It's almost 7pm. All over Milano people are bustling about for aperitivi. This was one of my most favorite things about living there.

We, however, are still in Holland. But I will not be deterred. So whilst my husband is running late from work, I decide to do something "wifely".

Our fridge is painfully bare at the moment, as we are leaving tomorrow for a week. The sad inventory: 6 slices of prosciutto, 5 olives, and 3 tubs of sprouts that I had to have (I've been on this weird sprout kick lately) but now am not quite sure what to do with.

Italians are masters of l'arte d'arrangiarsi, the art of getting by. Or (for all you Eat, Pray, Love fans), the art of making something out of nothing.  Whatever you want to call it, it's time for me to step up and earn my red, white and green stripes.

Game on.

Pickled & Prosciutto-wrapped Broccoli Sprouts

In a small bowl combine 1 small clove of minced garlic, a dash of salt, a grind of fresh pepper, and 1-2 teaspoons of red wine vinegar or mirin (Japanese rice wine vinegar).

Add a large handful of broccoli sprouts and toss lightly.

In a small skillet, heat a tablespoon of olive oil over a medium flame for about a minute. Take it off the flame before it starts smoking, pour it over the broccoli sprouts and toss.

Throw the broccoli sprouts against the hot pan (just to wilt them a little) and roll them in the slices of prosciutto.

Arrange on a plate with olives and grisini - or whatever was left in your fridge.

Mission accomplished!

Kitchen karaoke and Brussels sprouts

In a valiant attempt to force myself to eat something "raw" for lunch today, I found myself trying to justify an impulse purchase of Brussels sprouts.

Since when do THOSE two concepts come up in the same sentence??

I vaguely recalled a salad of raw Brussels sprouts from Quartino (the bar where me, Jen and the 10 East crew were near-permanent fixtures for the better part of 2008) and in a mad fit of culinary delusion, thought I'd attempt to duplicate the deliciousness...even though I had no recollection of any other ingredients.

But I pressed on, mindlessly chopping a dozen of the little suckers into razor thin shreds, eagerly awaiting some divine inspiration.

I'm partial to olive-oil based salad dressings but was afraid too much might drown out the flavor of the sprouts, so I put a tablespoon in my trusty Misto and gave them a couple of spritzes with a shot of sea salt.

By this time my enthusiasm started to wane. And I was getting hungry.

I stared at them for a moment, half-hoping they would start whirling around like a tornado and suck in the appropriate ingredients by virtue of some innate flavor magnet.

But they just stared back at me...waiting.

I stuck my tongue out at them. They didn't even flinch. I really wanted to hurt them. Perhaps a tablespoon or two of lemon juice would sting a little. Hmmm. Worth a try.

No response.
They were silently mocking me.

Now faint with hunger, I absentmindedly grabbed the pepper grinder, which I forgot I had used the night before to grind some corriander seeds, and started twisting away. I got through a few turns before I realized that it was corriander (NOT pepper) that was flying about. But what the hell, I was feeling sassy. And a little light-headed. So I kept twisting...

Revived with an inexplicable sense of accomplishment for this obscure spice experimentation, my confidence grew and I proceeded to dance around the kitchen, knocking over the fruit bowl with one grand sweep of my microphone...er, fork.

A lone pear rolled itself away from the protection of the pack towards my cutting board. Sadly, this story does not end well for him.

While mixing in his yummy little bits, I spied some pumpkin and sunflower seeds and a pile of dates leftover from the Vegan Truffles I made the night before. A handful of each met with the same fate.

Before I knew it, a lovely, fresh, surprisingly delicious salad appeared before me.

Of course, the real test with be dinner with the FranKats tomorrow night!

Update: The recipe was taste-tested the following night and garnered rave reviews.
Here's the recipe, Cara. Enjoy!

Citrusy Pear & Brussels Sprout Salad

12-16 raw Brussel Sprouts, washed and thinly chopped (toss cores)
1 pear peeled and chopped
A handful each of raw sunflower and pumpkin seeds
A handful of dates, pitted and chopped
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil (or a few Misto spritzes)
2 tablespoons lemon juice
Ground sea salt and cracked black pepper (to taste)
Optional: a couple of turns of ground coriander seeds (accidental but good)

yields: 2 cups (approximately one soup bowl or two small plates)

And they lived happily ever after

Well, here we go...

The big day that is simultaneously a beginning, middle and end.

The last couple of years have unfolded like a fairy tale which - I'm not gonna lie - has been nothing short of awesome. But the thing with fairy tales is, in an effort to leave us on a high note, they never actually get to the end.

Little girls around the world are systematically programmed to aspire to the implied promises of "happily ever after" even though we have no bloody idea what that actually looks like. After the book is closed or the credits roll, we are left to imagine that it's whatever we want it to be...

But no one ever tells us that we are responsible for making it so.

There is good news and bad news in that.
You can decide for yourself which is which.

There is no question that I got my Hollywood ending. I married the dashing Italian in a beautiful vineyard and we have ridden off into our share of dramatic sunsets.

So...what happens next?
Your guess is as good as mine.
Wish me luck...

Home is where the heart is

We're cleaning house today.
Literally.

A bit challenging considering that The Fort is a veritable homage to minimalism and now we have to find space for me, my stuff, and my shoes...

this should be interesting.

Lately we've both become raging eBayers trying to make space here and lighten the load coming from there. So if you've ever coveted anything in my closet, feel free to check out my eBay store to see the latest stuff on the block.

Spatial issues notwithstanding, I'm having quite a lot of fun settling in.

For a former storage unit, this house gets an incredible amount of natural light from the full-frontal window on the ground floor, a single window on the second floor, and strategically placed skylights on the third floor.

The most beautiful feature is the two-story common wall that is shared with the adjacent house. The plaster was removed to expose the original brick, originally laid in 1890, making the outside of our neighbor's house the inside of ours.

The haphazard, almost chaotic character of the century-old masonry is a whimsical and welcome relief from the orderly, even-handed symmetry of the heterogeneous brick facades that line our quiet street.

I really love this wall.

The light is spectacular, opening the kitchen up into something of an atrium. Together with the exposed wall of our neighbors house, it creates a wonderful sense of being outdoors.

The wood blocks that make up the stairs and the lofted second floor were all cut from a single French Oak. It has such a lovely organic quality that breathes life into every part of the house.

I find an inexplicable comfort in being completely surrounded by this tree, feeling both supported and protected by its sheer enormity.

It has become something of a friend to me. And I often wonder about its stories. Where it has been, what it has seen, and who else might have enjoyed its company before it came to rest here with us.

The buddhas offer a calming sense of peace as well.

I feel safe here.

Andrea's mom once said she felt sorry for me having to live in this space. I don't recall when exactly, but I think it might have been shortly after seeing a picture of me entangled in extension cords, trying to dry my hair while precariously balancing a step-stool between the floorboards outside of the bathroom.

Why should this be necessary?

Because the mirrors are affixed at such a height that the average Dutch person can see their head from outside the bathroom. And I am nowhere near the height of the average Dutch person.

There are also no outlets in the bathroom because it's basically a giant rain shower with a massive jacuzzi encased in zinc...

...that open into the living room for a clear view of the fireplace and TV.

Although it appears to favor form over function, The Fort is truly an architectural masterpiece that strikes a brilliant balance in both.

Upstairs, the entire bedroom wall also opens up - or more accurately, opens in - providing access to the 3rd floor terrace, the site of many aperitivi.

And home to our groovy little bamboo Buddha garden.

For any architecture/design buffs who are interested, here's a link to the architect's website that features The Fort as a "Laboratory of Living" along with some of this other work. Really amazing stuff. He's a cool guy and a friend of ours now. The new place he built for himself is incredible.

On a more social note, I'm already a regular at YogaMoves, where they thankfully teach in English, as well as Natuur Winkel, the organic market where I'm still learning how to pronounce everything.

And I can often be spotted cruising around on the super-cool-new-bike-that-my-baby-got-for-me.

All in all, it's been quite a seamless transition and I'm sad to announce that we'll be saying farewell to the Chicago loft shortly after the wedding party there.

The cars are going too - yes, all 3 of them - so if you know anyone who's in the market for a Lotus or a Porsche, please let us know. But the Moto Guzzi is definitely coming with us to Italy - sorry guys!

It may not look like it, but there's plenty of room for guests (at least by European standards) so please, please feel free to come visit anytime. Seriously.

I love the new place and am thrilled about our new life, but I still miss you guys every day. Every day.

I'm afraid I have no recipe for you today.
We're ordering pizza.