è la passione

First off, I acknowledge that I’m the worst. Apologies, Mom, for not writing often enough; and then writing and condensing what has been a pretty damn good time into a short series of not-so-thinly veiled complaints.

That’s not what I meant, that’s not how I wanted this to go, this hasn’t been my best effort, I just put my bread in the oven, can I start again?

Can I change my answer?

Over a glass of sparkling wine on a late summer’s evening last night (apparently I will now be sickeningly positive) several colleagues (read: fellow students/friends) of mine were discussing our experiences thus far in Bra and UniSG. Two girls had the idea of checking in on another at the beginning of each month: in one word, what are you feeling right now? It’s like heading back to base for de-briefing and cocktails. (That was for you, Patch. New game: how many movie quotes can I incorporate; how fast can you find them? Sorry, Ka, you’ve already lost.)

Anyway, our group went around the table with our one word, and for whatever reason had to make the corresponding facial gesture for photo-documentation purposes. The overriding theme was concern – why do I still not know what I’m doing with my life? Why is my wallet empty? Will it always be empty? Seriously, will I ever get a job that I enjoy even half as much as I enjoy eating? - but there was also a good measure of cautious optimism, excitement, and energy. Never being one to think well on the spot, I said some combination thereof, and then made some bizarre expression. I’m fairly sure I looked constipated. But after thinking about it, I would like to revise my answer.

It’s passion. That’s my real word.

It turns out that Italians are quite passionate. No, I didn’t just figure it out (give me some credit.) But it’s something that strikes me time and time again in this country, and the thing about passionate people is that they don’t really get old. Even when you don’t share their interest, their passion is nonetheless contagious and invigorating.

I’m talking about Teo Musso’s dedication to creating a culture which pairs food with beer, and not in a pizza & Peroni way; but rather enabling an active discussion on how the complexities of an artisanal beer made from entirely Italian materials can stand up to the richness of Piemontese meat. That man oozed passion out of his pores; he is a rock-star.

But there’s also the more subdued passion, the kind that takes a cigarette and a caffè in order to properly manifest itself in front of 26 eager students on an early morning. This was Mario of Finocchio Verde, a man who somehow pulled off what a lesser man would never have dared: making these formerly eager but quickly famished students of gastronomy wait and wait and wait for lunch…just so he could prepare the feast himself. Before you eat his cheese, you must first understand the process by which it’s made; and the best way to do that is for him to curdle that morning’s fresh milk in front of you (just after spoon-feeding it to you for quality control, obviously.) So even if that meant lunch is delayed by an hour, you can savour all the varieties of sheep’s milk cheese with that much more gusto and appreciation; you have watched him in his element, he has transmitted his passion (which is as equally addictive as his cheese.)

And there was Piero and Maria Nova of Acquerello, who have taken something so ancient and seemingly simple – rice – and transformed it. Why not age the rice in its husk and allow its starch to stabilize and develop? Why must you only use the germ – once separated from the grain after milling – as animal feed? It tastes good, right? Why not melt the fat in the germ and, through centrifugal motion, incorporate it back into the rice? It takes time and passion to go from far-fetched idea to reality, and a pretty tasty one at that. And yet they’ve done so, and will continue to do so.

And of course there’s the most genuinely passionate Cristiano De Riccardis, our Cheese Tasting professor. People are often intimidated by experts, particularly when it comes to something so seemingly subjective as sensory analysis. This intimidation often translates into disdain or dismissal: there’s no way that guy can perceive all those things in this wine. It smells like wine to me, so he must be a pretentious prick. So there was clearly this danger during our class when, after discussing the exterior surface of the taleggio cheese (rough and humid, without uniform distribution of the natural flowery moulds), the nail (thin and absolutely uniform), and the colour of the paste (straw yellow and also absolutely uniform), our professor perceived – and expected us to perceive as well – aromas of beer yeast, rendered (not fresh) butter, fermented hay, apricot, animal hair and sweat, and just a touch of honey (of the acacia variety – chestnut honey being too bitter.) And that was just the olfactory evaluation; the palate provided different sensations of olive paste and garlic; soy sauce and anchovy; nutmeg and toffee and caramel and clove, and of course let’s not forget the cow hair. Always the animal sensations. For some people this would be too much. But I’ve never met anyone who loves cheese as much as Cristiano, and more importantly who wants you to understand, and appreciate, and love it just as much as he does. If he’s taking the time to smell, clean his nose, and repeat, it’s because the cheese has so much to offer, and he doesn’t want to deprive you of its organoleptic wonders.

And most recently there’s Gianfranco Fagnola, of Panetteria Fagnola in Bra. Without hesitation, his mamma and pastry maestra welcomed two sweaty students into their bakery to share their stories and goodies. Frolla con gianduia, you will be the end of me. Upon his arrival, Gianfranco fed us piadine di kamut con coppa, grissini al cioccolato, and whatever other treats we wanted. His life and work are not just about passion, but humility. Mai avere la presunzione di essere arrivati; never be presumptuous enough to think that you have arrived. Your bread can always be better, there’s always more to learn, and everyone has something to offer. So get out there, explore, exchange experiences and knowledge, learn and teach, and have another cookie in the meantime.

Simple ideas pursued with unwavering passion. All it takes is some time and a question or two, and people will share with you what they know and what they do, and you’ll probably get some great beer/rice/cheese/bread/more cheese/treats out of it.

So screw “concern.” It’s the passion that comes to mind, and passion that matters most. Sometimes we say things are trite when really it’s because they’re true.

settling & adapting

Well, where to start…?

Have I really been in Bra for over three weeks? Can I still not process everything that is going on? Is this actually my life? More importantly, is everything always closed? And did I actually eat that much cheese?

In a word, yes.

In the past three weeks, I have gotten over an ear infection, met 26 new faces with whom I will be studying, eating, and drinking for the next year, hiked from Alba to Barbaresco through rows and rows of nebbiolo, met Carlo Petrini, been spoon-fed fresh sheep’s milk from a contadino langarolo, tasted coffee caviar, been confused by the concept of coffee caviar, buried a classmate in aging Acquerello rice, tasted the first truly artisanal Italian beer (including one aged in a Laphroaig barrel,) been encouraged, discouraged, overwhelmed, frustrated, stuffed, elated, stuffed some more, and suffered a cheese-induced coma. Did that phrase make any sense? Probably not, but that’s how things have gone so far.

I should first say that studying food in Italy isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be. Coming to a young Italian university with an American (and Canadian) educational background can be frustrating, if not infuriating, especially when you consider the tuition all’americano. (Seriously, there are no student dining facilities…at a gastronomic university? The library is only open…during class hours? And there is one textbook available for fifty students? Touché.) In fact, when I first arrived and met most of the students from Section A - our program was divided into two sections; one began in March, the other in May - I was surprised by the responses I got when I asked, “so what do you think about the program so far?!” Let’s just say a sigh, followed by “weeeell,” isn’t quite what you want to hear after packing up, paying up, and settling down.

But wait just a minute. One of our Italian advisors told us on our first day to relax and “adapt to the flow of the Italian reality.” Revealing and astute observation, or awkward translation? I’ll go with the former. You can’t hold this institution up to the same standards as McGill University or any other American school. There are things that need to be improved upon, and it seems that many students are dedicated to working to do so. But I’ll take the bad with the good, and since I’ve lingered too much on the former, can I just repeat that I was spoon-fed raw milk from Mario the farmer? That never happened at McGill.

These past several weeks have been quite the practice in sense-memory. It’s the little things that have uncannily reminded me of different moments of my life, making everything almost entirely familiar, despite the new setting. To be crass, it’s been a bit of a mind-fuck. Take, for instance, my first olfactory impression of Bra: the almost nauseating scent of jasmine. Growing up, the only time I was exposed to its perfume was visiting my cousin Samantha (shout-out!) in Berkeley, whose home was surrounded by the flower. The comically large key to my apartment almost perfectly resembles the one I with which I opened my door in Bologna, where I would eat my oatmeal on the terrace just as I did this morning. I wake up early every morning to catch the bus to school, though Loch Raven reservoir pales in comparison to the hills of the Langhe. And Dulaney High is no Savoy castle. Each of these sensations have taken me back for a moment, and however brief it may be it stills makes me remember, and smile. It’s sort of like the flashes of recognition in the Lost finale. Yea, I went there.

But enough sentimentality, what have I been doing? Most recently – as in five minutes ago – I’ve been making bread dough. Apart from the fact that freshly baked bread is my favourite food, the pane di Bra – the bread of the town, which apparently has a consortium to promote and protect it – is so unpalatable it makes me angry. But after my anger dissipates, I think how sad it is that Italians are so accustomed to eating bad bread that they have come to accept it. (Would this qualify as the soft bigotry of low expectations?) Seriously though, I am the ultimate novice baker. I follow the simple no-knead recipe and bake it in an oven whose maximum temperature is almost 400 degrees. And it puts pane di Bra to shame. So I’ve been experimenting the past several days, and making some damn good bread, if I don’t say so myself.

Oh, and I also go to school. Our first class and exam has already come and gone; Food Environment and Sustainability with Dr. Colin Sage was a thought-provoking, if not depressing, way to start the year. It introduced the theme – most likely a recurring one - of a visiting professor parachuting in for a week, preaching to the choir, leaving earlier than expected with the exam administration in the hands of a tutor. After a couple lectures on terroir and photography we had our first stage (field trip) around our home region of Piemonte. I’ll save the details of our coffee-rice-beer-cheese-wine-filled week for another post.

So long story short, Mom – things are great! I’ll promise to write more often. And you should be so glad I’m not baking all this bread and making a mess in your kitchen.

cacca di vacca è felicità

Or, cow shit is happiness.

And that's what Carlo Petrini told us today on our first day of class. And some other stuff, too. But due to fatigue and sensory overload, details will have to wait until I can more coherently write them.

Italia: ti voglio bene, ti voglio male

Well, I never saw that one coming.

After taking multiple planes, trains, and automobiles to get from Baltimore to Philadelphia to Frankfurt to the Turin airport and finally to the Turin train station, I find myself thwarted by one of those little inconveniences that makes living in Italy a total clusterfuck. Rather than settled in at a cozy room in Bra, my future home for the next year, I’m watching Bridget Jones’ Diary, dubbed in Italian, in a Holiday Inn across from the train station in Turin. Uno sciopero – a strike?! I shake my fists thusly at you, you scheduled 24-hour train workers’ strikes! Well, at least Colin Firth is still dreamy even when his overdramatic deep Italian voice doesn’t match up with his mouth movements.

As expected, once I finally stopped complaining about packing and locked myself in my room, it actually got done. Though it was hard to part with my multiple pairs of five inch heels and vintage dresses that only “weird – underlined, underlined, underlined” people would wear, I had to remind myself of how much of an asshole I would feel after towering over every Italian man and then having to ask for a hand after wiping out when a heel got caught in the cobblestones. Not that that’s ever happened to me. Despite streamlining my wardrobe, I still managed to overstuff two suitcases; yes, it would only make my multiple-leg journey more difficult, but I should have enough black shirts and dark skinny jeans to blend in with the Italians. Now all I need is to grow out my hair and ridiculously over-pluck my brows. Babysteps.

Long story short, I was ready to go. Yes, I was doubting my ability to physically handle one hundred plus pounds of luggage, and I was feeling like shit (shout-out to my cousin, Sam, for giving me a terrible cold days before I left - thanks, Sam! Soooo glad I came to your graduation, it was totally worth it.) but I was as ready as I would ever be. And then I was off.

So fast-forward to landing at the Turin airport: I’m relieved that my eardrums haven’t burst, though my head is ringing and I can’t entirely hear…anything. I’m excited to use my Italian again, but dreading this last and most difficult leg of the journey. I jump on the first train I see, expecting it to take me to the main train station in downtown Turin. That was my first mistake. After a twenty minute ride with a bunch of adolescent Italians whose combined hair gel would suffice to supply the entire state of California for a whole year, I get dumped out at some random non-Torino Porta Nuova station. A minor hiccup, I think, but nothing my facility with the Italian language can’t handle. Second mistake. Not only can I not really hear anyone, I can’t hear myself trying – and failing – to speak Italian. I’m pretty positive I sound like Charlie Brown’s teacher. Cue the strange looks. As if I already don’t stick out as the straniera, what with my cropped blonde hair and enormous suitcases. I’m also sweating profusely.

I eventually find the bus that should take me to the station, and of course run into a whole host of characters, most notably the older Italian woman who keeps yelling at me: “Devo scendere, come faccio a scendere con queste valigie? Dai, spostati. E che freddo che fa con l’aria condizionata!” Yes, I realize that my bags are slightly in your way, but do you realize that this bus is packed and no one is willing to help me move my suitcases to a space that doesn’t even exist in the first place? And I’m sorry to hear that this air conditioning is a little much for you. Forgive me as my back sweat drips onto your white linen pants.

At this point I’m peeved. Actually, I would say I’m incazzata. – pissed. And I still have no idea where this train station is. Thankfully another, kinder older woman sees my distress and points out to me that the next stop is mine, and then not so kindly yells at everyone else to get out of my way as I get off the bus.

I breathe a sigh of relief as I walk into the station, thinking that I would just have to catch a train and then be checked into my hotel within an hour. It’s these thoughts that distract me from the reality of a crowd of people staring up at the Arrivals & Departures board. Just staring, not boarding any train.

I patiently wait in line to buy my ticket, then kindly ask for a one-way trip to Bra. But ragazza, non ci sono treni. C’è uno sciopero fino alle 9. I have to ask again to make sure I have heard correctly; but yes, there are no trains until nine tonight because of a strike.

I suppose it was bound to happen at some point. There are strikes for every possible union in Europe, and train operators’ strikes are particularly frequent and usually scheduled, allowing for passengers to make alternate travel plans. Except when said passengers missed the memo. Throughout my entire year abroad in Bologna there were many strikes, none of which affected my travels. So yea, it was my time. But did it have to be today, when I’m jetlagged and sweaty and sick?

Hence the title of this entry, which I’ll translate as “Italy, I love you, I hate you.” Most foreigners, and many Italians for that matter, have a love-hate relationship with this beautiful but broken country. I obviously love Italy; this year is not my first studying at an Italian university. But it’s always a challenge living in Italy, one that’s even bigger than the challenge of physically getting here. And it’s not just the inconvenience of a strike, but other “details” that I won’t get into as the loopy-ness of my jetlag and cold start to settle in. I’ve always hated the question: do you like living in Italy more than living in the US? Things aren’t better or worse here, they’re different. Sometimes comparisons are useful, but more often than not such statements give no real insight and help no one. I’ve gotten used to the ups and downs enough to recognize that this moment will soon be forgotten when I finally get to Bra, and that reality finally sets in. So I can deal.

I really enjoy the expression ti voglio bene. You hear people say it all the time to friends and family, and though it’s one way to say, “I love you,” in my mind I’ve always translated it as, “I want good things for you.” It seems more complete. I’ve never heard someone say, ti voglio male; in fact I’m fairly sure it’s not an expression and means nothing, but in my mind it means “I want bad things for you.” It would be a dickish thing to say. But it also succinctly describes my mood this afternoon when I heard that there were no trains to Bra. I figured I was nearing my breaking point, and that it was only a matter of minutes before I curled up in the fetal position and rocked myself to sleep. Rather than make a scene in the station, I went across the street and checked into a Holiday Inn. It wasn’t the most budget-friendly option, but this way I’ll be able to recuperate tonight and head to Bra tomorrow morning…hopefully.

So Italy, I love and hate you, and I wouldn’t have you any other way. In the end Colin Firth’s dubbed Italian voice was right: mi piaci molto cosí come sei, I like you just the way you are.

l'inizio

It all began with Bologna.

It was prosciutto and parmigiano, aceto balsamico, lambrusco and san giovese.

Or maybe it began before, on my first trip to Italy. Maybe it began with family feasts in a medieval Tuscan villa, and whole spit-roasted chickens in Sunday markets. And gelato. Yea, it was definitely gelato.

Or did it start even earlier, on my first trip abroad; was it the warm summer evenings on Parisian rooftops, or carpaccio and cow’s tongue? Was it the solitary clandestine morning treks for a fresh pain au chocolat?

As I anxiously anticipate the start of my next adventure, I find myself looking back, trying to determine its genesis: how and when did I decide that gastronomy was for me? Though the more pressing question is, why the hell haven’t I started packing? Yes, in four days I am once again leaving the States and going to Italy, this time to complete a year-long Master degree in Food Culture & Communications at the University of Gastronomic Sciences.

Of course there was no easily traceable and definitive moment when it all began. It’s been many meals and people and tastes and memories: empanadas de trucha in hidden Patagonian villages, Carmen’s perfectly braided repulgue and the squeak of warm chipá; one late summer’s tomato lunches with Fiamma in Cilento and many summers’ outdoor crab feasts in Baltimore; hearty cavatieddi al ragú di cinghiale on Easter and Graziella’s cocoa tagliatelle on Thanksgiving.

My hope for this blog is – oddly enough – to be the opposite of everything I’ve just written. (It seems I’m off to a great start.) Actually, I don’t know how this blog will turn out, just as I’m not sure what to expect from this next year. But I enjoy writing, and people (also known as my Mom) said I should start a blog again. So hi, Mom, and I’ll try to avoid writing more pretentious laundry lists devoid of any context or explication. This one was just for me, to remind myself of why I love what I’m about to study, and how fortunate I am to have had all these experiences.

So here goes. Here’s to writing and eating and drinking and sharing and remembering and conviviality and more varied and developed sentence structure. Here’s to working hard and doing something well once I’ve finally gotten started (this applies to both my blog and my empty suitcases.) Here’s to warm nostalgia and overwhelming gratitude, and many more reasons to feel so in the future.

It’s exciting yet odd to know that not only will this year be very different from the last, but to be fairly positive that this year will be uniquely amazing. Not that I have high expectations or anything. But come on, what could possibly be bad about studying food culture in Italy??*

*student debt, inevitable weight gain, the clusterfuck that is living in Italy, and don’t even ask me what I intend to do with this degree. Seriously, don’t ask.