I remember my best friend’s reaction when I told her I was going on a five-day silent meditation retreat. The retreat was called the Insight Meditation Solstice Retreat and finished just a few days before Christmas. It took place at Spirit Rock, a Vipassana meditation center about an hour north of San Francisco. I would finish an intense semester of teaching at a university, then pack my bags and head up for pure quiet for 5 days before the holidays kicked in (really only 3 full days with a few hours on either side). And by pure quiet, I mean absolutely no communication. No smiling, no eye contact, no body gestures, no reading, no writing, period. Complete silence in every way.

“That sounds horrible!” my friend said. “And painful! I had a friend that went on one of those silent retreats and she said that her butt hurt the entire time. Is that seriously what you want to do during your vacation?”

It was.

When I got back from the retreat, a few friends asked what it was like to experience that kind of silence, to not communicate with anyone, and to meditate for almost ten hours a day. The short answer? Super intense and kind of addicting. This was no “peaceful retreat” where we sat around and drank pina coladas and got massages. This was boot camp for our minds.

I arrived around 5pm on the first day, but we didn’t have to take the vow of silence until 8pm, after our first meditation session. It was a pleasant surprise, actually, because it meant I got a chance to talk to my super-sweet roommate before we couldn’t communicate with each other. We established a couple little rules that we could gesture or whisper a quick message if we had to, as long as it only had to do with our living situation. We were both pretty extroverted and chatty, so it was a hard to imagine not being able to talk about our experience at the end of our day. The talking time also meant I had a chance to chat with an unexpected fellow retreatant: a guy  who looked like Uncle Jesse from Full House. We’d dated for a few days, about six months before the retreat. I wasn’t super happy he was there because I knew it would be distracting. It also didn’t help that–out of a hundred other retreatants–we got placed on the same work meditation (our daily chore): washing pots side-by-side after every lunch.

The retreat officially began with our first meditation in the spacious meditation hall after dinner. Since my roommate had told me to pick out my meditation spot when I arrived, I’d already chosen my cushions and we joined our three teachers for a 40 minute meditation and then an explanation of the retreat and practice. We began by taking the Buddhist five precepts:

1. To abstain from taking life (hence the vegetarian meals). 2. To abstain from only taking what is given (for example, I was given my chore, I didn’t choose it), and we had to eat what they served us (which was amazing). 3. To abstain from sexual misconduct (we had to commit to total celibacy–even married couples didn’t sleep in the same room). 4. To abstain from false speech (lying–not hard when you’re not talking). And finally, numero 5: To abstain from drugs and alcohol.

Lastly, we took the vow of silence, which was really powerful. We vowed not to communicate in any way with each other (not even to write a note), and to not read, journal, use the internet, watch TV (impossible anyway), or call people on the phone. We could only communicate with our teachers, or in one of the small group meetings we had twice during the retreat. The purpose of this was to give us the rare opportunity to have our own distinct experience, with no distractions. It also helped us keep our experience sacred by not trying to explain or intellectualize or compare it. As an extrovert, I have only recently begun to realize how much talking about my spiritual life can often diminish it. Which is ironic, I admit, since I’m writing about it here.

After the first evening of the retreat, I had my biggest watershed moment. I walked into the dining hall, grabbed a mug, and sat down with cup of tea. Then someone in the dining hall sneezed.

And no one said “Bless you.”

It’s hard to describe why that was so monumental. Here I was in a room full of what were likely very considerate people, and none of us said our prescribed polite response. I felt like a monster. I struggled to keep my blessing inside.  I was like Roger Rabbit with the “Shave and a Haircut” song, where he gets caught by the villain because he can’t stop from replying with, “TWO BITS!”

And in that moment, when I sat staring at my mug, biting my tongue, something amazing happened. I realized that I’d been walking around my whole life with a thin cord connected to every person in the room with me, every person that I cared about in some small way. I have always been hyper-aware of the people that surrounded me, as if any disturbance in the force affected my emotional stasis. If they were sad, unhappy, angry, discontent, or whatever, I’d feel it. I’d feel a low level of anxiety. And if I knew the person well enough, I’d feel somehow responsible to get their feelings back to status quo so I’d feel okay again.

“That’s kind of big issue,” my meditation teacher later said, when I told him about it. Yeah, it kind of is. And yet, I’d never really been aware of it. I’d just always felt responsible for everyone and everything in big and small ways. You know, I kinda want to save the world–that’s all. And suddenly, I couldn’t be responsible for anyone. In fact, it wasn’t allowed.

It was as if someone took a pair of giant sewing scissors and cut all the threads. They flopped to the floor. And then I began to reel them back into myself over the next four days, little by little.

The rest of the retreat followed a pretty intense schedule. We woke up at six a.m. and meditated from 6:30 until 7:10, and then had breakfast. Then we had a break until 9:30, when we meditated again until 12:30 for lunch (40 minutes of sitting meditation alternating with 40 minutes of walking meditation). I had my work meditation after lunch with , then we had a break until 2pm. Then we meditated all afternoon (alternating sitting and walking) until 5:30. After dinner we meditated, had a talk from one of our fabulous teachers, Donald Rothberg, Heather Sundberg, and John Travis (all of whom were incredible), and meditated some more. We ended at 9:30pm, and I usually went to sleep by 10. I think we meditated in one form or another for about 10 hours.

So what the heck did we do while we sat on the cushion or did walking meditation? The practice is called Insight Meditation, Vipassana, or Mindfulness Practice. Vipassana is one of the world’s oldest forms of meditation that was apparently re-discovered by the Buddha. My meditation center has this definition: “Vipassana or ‘insight meditation’ means to see things as they really are through the practice of cultivating mindfulness, learning to be aware and present each moment without clinging or aversion. From this state arises clear seeing, wisdom, and compassion.” Basically, mindfulness means paying extreme attention to everything I do. While I meditate, I am aware of my breathing, my body, the sounds around me, the emotions I feel, and the thoughts I have. As I do walking meditation, I feel the ground under my feet and the sensations of the air and environment around me. As I eat, I am aware of the tastes and smells and textures of what I put into my mouth.

The point is to train the mind to focus, to concentrate, and to be fully present, instead of wandering off constantly like an unruly two-year-old and doing whatever it wants. When we are able to observe ourselves and our crazy mind with that kind of detachment, we can also detach (to some extent) from the suffering that our mind brings as well and have that wisdom and clear sight that is at the heart of Insight Meditation.

You can read more about it here.

Let me just say this: It’s not easy. Try being observant of every little thought that blows through your mind. Try being completely present for five minutes without your mind wandering off into the future, the past, or what you want to say or do. That said, it was my only task every day, for ten hours a day (actually, for 16 hours, because I was supposed to be doing that ALWAYS, even while eating and doing my chore, ahem, working meditation). It was no vacation, friends. But it was amazing.

The first day I felt like most people–I shifted in my seat, my butt hurt, my legs hurt, I wanted to cough, move, switch positions, etc. I was uncomfortable. They call this process “arriving.” I called it “annoying.” My thoughts went something like this: Am I really going to do this for three full days? What’s wrong with me? God, my legs hurt. Why does everyone else look so peaceful? How can she sit so still? Am I breathing too loud? Why is Uncle Jesse here anyway? Is there some kind of message in that? Should I ask to switch to a different chore practice? Ugh. Concentrate, dammit! Focus! Did Uncle Jesse just cough? Was that him? And where does that woman get all her cute yoga clothes?

The second day I started to relax more and I was completely exhausted. I almost fell asleep several times while meditating. I tripped out on cool things like the frozen ice crystals on the wooden bench in the morning, that I would watch melt in the sunshine, or the deer that would walk right by me when I did my walking meditation because I was walking so slow and quiet. I would trip out and think things like: Wow! How did I never notice this? What would my life be like if I actually paid attention to these crystals every day? Basically, I was kind of like a stoner, and everything was amazing. I did yoga for 30 minutes during a break, which helped my aches and pains tremendously. I finally figured out exactly what Uncle Jesse’s cough sounded like (he later confessed he could instantly recognize my laugh). My thoughts were a little calmer, but not much, and I desperately hoped for enlightenment on day 3.

The third day I finally arrived. I was present. I was happy to be there. I got really into my practice and began to go deep, to really have the meditation soak in and become an intimate part of me. I did not, however, become enlightened. I did, however, realize how much my mind obsesses over certain topics, over and over again: Men, mostly, relationships, love, etc. I didn’t like that. My thoughts went something like this: Wow. Would you stop thinking about (insert man here: father, boyfriend, Uncle Jesse, etc.)? You do realize that you give this topic WAY too much mental energy, right? I mean, wow. Oh wait, I’m judging myself. I’m not supposed to judge myself. Darn it! I’m just observing myself thinking a lot about the men in my life. And that just is. But seriously, did Uncle Jesse cough again? Does he need a cough drop, perhaps?

And just like that, the silence was over. On Day 5 we broke the silence after our morning meditation. It was awkward, and I didn’t like it. I didn’t really want to talk to anyone but my roommate, so I steered clear of almost everyone else. I didn’t want to talk about my experience or bond with anyone. I didn’t want to share what I’d thought about or struggled with or been inspired by. So I just told people nice things I’d noticed: Hey, thanks for breathing so softly! That was great! Or: Thanks for sitting next to me–you were great at that!

I mean really, what do you say?

But at the same time, it was so interesting to listen to people process, to hear how your breathing, your stillness, your energy affected someone else in ways you had no idea about. That made me think about the affect we have on each other every day, and how powerful communication really is, both verbal and non-verbal, and how we have the power to transform each other’s lives in very small ways we’re not even aware of.

There are a million other things I’m leaving out here (like the post-retreat conversation with Uncle Jesse, sorry if you were hoping for more), but all I can say is that I encourage everyone to give it a try. I have to say though, the five-day retreat was too short for me. Now I’m signed up for a ten-day retreat in June and I can’t wait. My teachers and godfather have said that you need a ten day retreat to really experience the benefits, that it takes at least three days to really arrive. Ten days on retreat without any communication, spiraling deeper into my neurotic mind? Count me in. Sounds like some serious adventure.

Someone said once that years of therapy cannot unearth the things you discover in ten days of silence. After my experience on my short retreat, I definitely agree. I realized so many things about myself and how I relate to others, to myself, and to my mind, that I’ve only whetted my appetite to go deeper. It’s neat, because most of my life I’ve been obsessed with traveling to the foreign all around the world.

Now I’m traveling to the foreign within.

Let’s be honest: None of us want to give or receive useless things. At the same time, however, many of us may want the opportunity to give gifts and honor that element of the holiday, but in a way that’s more meaningful or authentic. So how do we do it?

My family’s answer to this is what I’ll call “One-Gift Christmas.”

Here’s how it works. Each family member is a Secret Santa for one other family member. So for example, I get my dad, my dad gets my brother, etc. I made it a secret this year (to everyone but me), so there would be an added element of surprise. Then we each email the group a list of items that interest us, often sending links to the actual gift to make it easier. Our Secret Santa can only spend $30 to $40 on us, so the total of our gift ideas have to cost less than this.

Everyone then pays me $10 for stocking stuffers, and I go to Cost Plus World Market or Trader Joe’s for food or treats to fill our stockings on Christmas morning.

And that’s it. 50 bucks for my family’s Christmas.

I admit, it may sound a bit mechanical. It may seem as if we’re taking the surprise and joy out of the holidays because we’re not trusting that our family member can see us and know us so deeply that they’ll buy the exact gift we want. But when you consider the alternative: Receiving something we don’t want and may throw away, returning the gift with receipt (even more mechanized), or stuffing the gift in the closet and never using it; it’s really a blessing to actually get exactly what you want on Christmas Day, and it’s more environmentally conscious as well. My family member is happy to see me genuinely excited when I open my present, and I am genuinely grateful.

There are many other ways to approach the holidays and reduce the stress: You can donate to a charity instead of gift giving, limit to one gift and hope for the best, or just forgo gifts entirely. But since opening presents Christmas morning is a time-honored ritual in my household, this is our solution to have the best of both worlds.

What about you? Any thoughts on gift-giving for the holidays and how to make it stress-free and meaningful?

As a writer, I never understood the value of editing until I got my M.F.A. at Saint Mary’s College. Until then, I thought writing largely consisted of channeling a story or a moment I’d experienced into a great narrative. Of course I’d “edit,” but there was nothing overly meticulous about it. The truth is though, good editing is ruthless–and it makes for the best kind of prose. I guarantee you that the best writers out there wrestle constantly with each sentence or word on the page, constantly deciding whether it deserves to stay on the page, to exist. Good writing, in essence, is always on trial for its life.

Graham Hill argues that we should have the same ruthlessness with our stuff–both the things we currently own, and the stuff we want to buy. In a way, this is a familiar concept for me. As a child and teenager, I moved literally every year; naturally this forced my family to whittle down our possessions while packing.

But my twenties took life-editing to a new level. A few short months after my mother passed away,  my then-boyfriend and I embarked on a month-long hike on the Pacific Crest trail in Washington State. He was an advocate  for lightweight hiking (perhaps disciple is a better word), so we had to whittle our possessions down to nearly nothing. Suddenly my possessions all had to justify the weight they would take up in my backpack. Every ounce, he’d argue, impacts your knees, burns needed calories, and slows you down.

Before we left on our trip, we gathered on my little balcony, my backpack contents spread vulnerably before him. I watched, depressed in a way, as he shook his head and vetoed my things. My toothbrush? Saw it in half. Did I really need the bottom half? It would save half an ounce. The sleeping pad? You really only need 3/4 of the length. Cut the rest. That book? You’ll be walking the whole time and won’t have time to read–just bring a journal and write during your free time. That heavy rain jacket? Why not just stash some garbage bags instead and wear those in an emergency? (Note: that one wasn’t the best idea, I learned, while hiking for three days in a trash bag in the rain. Bring a good lightweight rain coat, fellow hikers; it’s worth it.)

But that hike, and the one we did the following year from Mt. Whitney to Tahoe, instilled something in me: Stuff is heavy. Are you sure you want to carry it? I had to consider this constantly as I moved from one place to the next over the following seven years: from Sebastopol to the Bay Area, to Colorado, to the Philippines, to Colorado again, to the Philippines, to Turkey, to Italy, and then back to the Bay Area again. The most essential things in my life got condensed into packages, like little Jennie Durant bouillon cubes. And before I bought anything while living abroad, I’d think: Do I really want to pay to ship that back?

Now that I’ve returned to the Bay Area to put down roots and pursue a career and a family, the real challenge begins. I feel the temptation to acquire burning inside me like the first hints of a fever. That’s why I like this video and its simple tool to help me as I move into the holidays and the more stable stages of my adult life, where a closet, an attic, or a garage full of space tempts me with its storage capacity. Before I choose to buy something I must remember to ask myself an important question: Will this really make me happy? Really? Should I really spend my money on this thing?

My guess? The answer will almost always be no.

My first introduction to Italy’s Roma community–
known by many as gypsies–happened late at night on the train, traveling from Lake Como back to our home. Guido and I had just settled into our seats, when a drunken man shoved a woman and child onto the train. The woman held a small violin and wore a long green skirt that swished over her feet as she walked. The dark-haired boy held an accordion that stuck out awkwardly from his skinny arms.

The man began yelling at the conductor, then crying, as the woman hurriedly ushered her son into a seat. The train conductor remained calm–I would have hated to see the result if this had happened in the fiery south of Italy–and finally let the man on the train, I’m assuming the family hadn’t paid at all. The man staggered between the rows of chairs, the scent of alcohol on his breath assaulting us as he walked past. I asked my boyfriend what was happening.

“They’re gypsies,” he said. “Roma. It’s quite common for the man to force his wife and child to perform and beg while he does nothing but get drunk–like this guy.”

I felt nervous the whole way home, but since the conductor sat a few seats in front of us, I didn’t say anything. I just listened to the man grumble and shout as his wife and child intermittently and breathed a sigh of relief when they got off the train a few stops later.

My second time was an early morning a couple weeks ago, as I rushed to meet a friend at another train station. I ran into the bathroom to use it before my train arrived. The door to the bathroom was closed–though there were several stalls inside–and when I tentatively pushed it open and walked in, three large women crowded at the sinks, their long tatty skirts covering their legs, their bras barely covering their pendulous breasts. They were trying to wash themselves and weren’t happy to see me. When I tried using one of the sinks, one woman yelled at me and told me it wasn’t working (it was). Uncomfortable, I quickly rinsed my hands and ran out of the bathroom.

It’s hard to know what to think about the Roma population in Italy, a big news story these days in Milan. Originally a nomadic group that migrated to Europe from South Asia, Romas have had integration issues for ages. They tend to maintain a tight knit, clannish mentality when they emigrate, causing backlash–sometimes horrifying–such as the persecution of the Romas alongside with Jews during World War II. When Romania joined the EU in 2007, the number of Romanians in Italy, a large amount of whom are Roma, tripled to 800,000. Italy hasn’t really known what to do since.

When I mention Romas to native Italians (and to other Europeans too), there’s a real underlying anger for how the Romas have failed to integrate into their culture: they’re considered liars, beggars, cons, and murderers. Yet the question remains: is their failure to integrate a cause or an effect? Some say that the Romas don’t integrate because they face social resistance: as soon as their Roma heritage is on the table, no one will rent to them, no one will give them a job, services are refused. But others say that the problem lies on the Roma’s shoulders: they don’t want to work, they teach their children to beg and steal, and they don’t want to integrate into Italian society.

Something tells me that the truth, as usual, lies somewhere in the murky gray area between the two perspectives.

In response to the 2008 murder of an Italian woman in Rome by a Roma man, as well as a supposed surge in other Roma-related crime, Milan has begun to dismantle Milan’s largest gypsy camp, Triboniano, while also bulldozing hundreds of smaller, impromptu camps around the city.

“These are dark-skinned people, not Europeans like you and me,” said Riccardo De Corato, who is Milan’s vice mayor from Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi’s ruling party and who is in charge of handling the camps. He later added: “Our final goal is to have zero Gypsy camps in Milan.” –The Washington Post

If that’s the prevailing reason for these actions, then I’m horrified. These statements are rascist and not far enough from Fascist and Nazi propoganda for my taste. But the reality is that many of the Romas have not integrated. There are huge Roma communities pulsing with crime. There are many Romas who steal from tourists and locals and who live off government funds, payed for by hard working taxpayers. While all Romas are not the problem, some are, and something needs to be done.

This immigration challenge reflects a troubling situation that Europe has found itself in: how to support immigration and integration while retaining a European identity, and protecting its natural-born citizens. As immigrants from Northern Africa, Turkey, and Eastern Europe flood Europe’s cities and work force, this has become a real crisis. How lenient can Europe be?

What’s the right response to this situation? Who gets protected? Who gets punished? And how do we sort through this mess while maintaining respect for basic human rights? Thoughts?

Check out a news story about the problem below:

…and then this one about gypsies stealing from tourists. I don’t particularly like the tone, but as a traveler, you have to be aware of the scams that are out there and be careful. Many people have way less money than you do and they’re desperate. Be informed and be safe.

My love affair with Chef Moreno’s cooking classes began in April of this year, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. I had barely squeezed into Italy after a canceled flight due to the Iceland volcano, and so the whole trip had a slightly “I am one of the chosen ones” miraculous feel anyway.

But something seemed unbelievably miraculous about this cooking class, which I found online. First of all, I learned how to make three different dishes and their sauces: asparagus risotto, handmade tagliatelle with a tomato zucchini sauce, and gnocchi drenched in Gorgonzola cream. Then I got to eat them all. I also ate parmigiano and salami during the break (see photo on right), and had an unlimited amount of wine. Plus he gave us all the recipes in our own measurement system (!), AND he gave us free pick-up and drop-off at the nearest train station. By the end of the day I’d spent five hours learning about Italian cuisine and anecdotes about the region, I was full on incredible homemade pasta, and–I admit it–I was slightly tipsy.

All for 35 Euros.

So it’s not hard to imagine why I wanted to take one of my best friends, Marsha, to a lesson when she came for a visit from Romania. The magic of my post-volcano trip somehow carried over to this one–we barely, unbelievably really, made all our train connections and ended up at the restaurant early, drinking cappucinos and soaking up the warmth of the quaint and cavernous room

The Lago di Como region is in the north, just at the base of the Italian Alps. What I love best about Moreno is the way he tells stories about the gastronomy of the region, a perspective that’s so important but often lost in the shadow of southern Italy’s dominant cuisine. Here in the north, dishes like polenta and risotto are quite popular, butter and cream often replace olive oil, and grains like buckwheat and spelt are often used in pastas. While Chef Moreno says that the cuisine of the south is actually better than the cuisine of the north–I don’t know if I entirely agree. They’re just different. Though after watching the amount of cream, butter, and handfuls of parmigiano he tossed into the saucepan, Italy’s southern cuisine might arguably be healthier.

When Moreno’s grandmother returned with the meat, his great-grandmother would cook the tough organs for hours, softening them, then serving the meat stew in a depression made in the center of a bowl of soft polenta. Moreno described how they’d grab a pinch of polenta and touch the meat with it, then eat it. The name of the dish is Polenta Toccala (touch it). The grandparents and the babies usually got to eat the best pieces of meat–they were the ones who needed the nutrients the most.

Even though Moreno’s cuisine is fairly traditional, the restaurant reflects Chef Moreno’s eclectic personality. A somewhat discomfiting portrait of Madonna hung on the wall behind Moreno to his right, and a collection of pastel mermaid paintings to his left. Moreno likes Led Zeppelin’s Play for Change CD and dreams about Route 66. Moreno even has roots that stretch over to the United States: Moreno’s grandfather left Italy years ago shortly after the San Francisco earthquake, and ended up harvesting old growth redwoods in the Sonoma and Marin counties of California–ironically the same redwoods I taught redwood preservation in, not so long ago.

Moreno’s highly fluent English has lots of charming flaws, though it’s completely understandable. So it’s always a bit of a surprise when he seasons his lectures with American slang but then commits somewhat jarring English mistakes. When I told him I render the fat off my chicken and use the lard, he called me “old school.” But when asked if he drank while cooking in his restaurant, he replied, “I saw a lot of bad drunkie chefs and I said myself, ‘Don’t do that, save your brain.’”

While we learned how to make homemade tortellini with pumpkin and amaretti cookies and sage butter sauce, tagliatelle with an eggplant and tomato cream sauce, and risotto with fresh porcini mushrooms, we talked a bit more about the many influences on Italian cuisine. So many times I just think about how Italian food is everywhere–Italian restaurants line the streets in Seoul, Korea, for example–that I forget about the other cultures that shaped Italian cuisine first. The northern region was full of Austrians and Germans for centuries. As a result–who knows, in the end, who influenced whom–Northern Italians favor many of the same tastes and ingredients that their northern neighbors do: veal, creamy cheeses, poultry, stewed meats, risottos, and gnocchi. In the south, a lot of the cuisine has Spanish and North African influence, demonstrated by strong flavors and the use of tomatoes, chick peas, and strong spices.

By the end of our six hours, Marsha and I were stuffed with knowledge, wine, and pasta. It was another fabulous foray into Italian cuisine, and I can’t think of a better way to spend 35 Euros. If you’re in northern Italy–especially Milan–take one day to hop on the train to Varenna and arrange a cooking lesson or a dinner with Chef Moreno. He teaches cooking lessons during the week, and his intimate restaurant is open on the weekends with a reservation. You can contact him on his website here. In my opinion, it’s the best deal in Italy.

Marsha, me in the middle, and Chef Moreno

I was looking for the photo I wanted to use to change my header for this blog, and I suddenly found myself perusing all my photographs from the last year. It stuns me to think about where I’ve been since August 2009: I visited Costa Rica for two weeks, moved to Turkey and lived there for ten months, visited Egypt for ten days, moved to Italy in June 2010, then went back home to visit the United States in August. What a ride!

I feel so enormously blessed for all the incredible things I’ve had a chance to see, and find myself wishing that I’d been even more grateful for and curious about the places I stayed while I was there, instead of in retrospect. Yesterday I had a great conversation with my godfather, Bert. When I told him about my life in Italy and my thoughts on relocating here, he said I sounded like I was in a pretty good space with my life, that I had a healthy perspective on the situation. I answered: “Right this minute I do, anyway,” remembering my near-breakdown earlier this week. And he replied, “Well, that’s all we ever have anyway, right? This minute!”

It’s so true, isn’t it? So that’s my challenge while settling into life here in Italy: to be as fully present as possible. I’m coming to terms with the fact that I may always have a bit of melancholy for some other place, and that it’s okay, but I need to work on being fully present here too. When I was in Turkey, for example, I longed to be in Italy or California. When I was in Italy, I missed my family in California. When I was in the U.S., before all this traveling, I constantly dreamed about the next place I’d visit, and the life of traveling and writing that I longed to begin. And now that I’m in Italy I often miss California and sometimes Turkey–but I’m also happy right here.

Maybe this is just my nature. To always be a little bit uncomfortable, to have a little bit of longing at the fringes of my heart. Maybe I kind of like it. Maybe it deepens me somehow. I think the constant slight discomfort and awareness of what and who I love burns me into something with more shape, more tenderness, more surfaces and angles. It’s as if the hole in my heart makes me more aware that my heart is there, beating.

So I spent a couple of hours today, looking through photographs, indulging my longing. I remembered drinking cups of tea on a ferry floating down the Bosphorus near Istanbul, making cookies and having a barbecue with my students in Isparta, goofing around under the shadows of the Great Pyramids, and falling in love under Pisa’s leaning shadow. I collected a sampling of my most lovely moments and photographs from my last year, some seemingly mundane, others monumental.

More than anything I felt overwhelmed with such gratitude for all the people I shared this last year with–some pictured here, some not. Each of us carries a little scrap of memory from that shared moment, a different facet of the same prism. Thank you so much for your laughter and compassion and loveliness…and most of all your presence. My memories of you are the best of all.

There are two kinds of people in the world, coffee drinkers and tea drinkers. I am definitely in the tea drinking camp. If you asked me to describe one of my favorite pleasures, I would say: Drinking a cup of tea–black with milk and honey in the morning and mint or rooibos in the afternoon and evening. Add a rainy day, a fantastic novel, snuggling on the couch, or chatting with friends, and I’m as happy as a Milanese woman with a new Furla purse.

The problem is, no one really drinks tea in Italy. This is the land of espresso. But it’s not like I pictured it would be: people sitting around in cafes, chatting as they savored their cappuccinos and lattes. Oh no. That’s France. In Italy, people drink coffee like they drive–friggin’ fast. A typical Italian walks into a bar during her morning break, orders an espresso, then stands at the counter and kicks the coffee back like a shot of whiskey. She’ll chat with her work friends for a few moments, finish off her brioche (croissant) then head back to work. There is no lingering.
Coffee culture is different in the U.S., and in some ways it’s a recent phenomenon. I remember many high school nights, when I slipped off to the new cafes that had popped up around the Sacramento suburb my family lived in. My friends and I thought we were so cool and independent as we sipped our mochas, listened to live folk music, and flirted with the boys. It wasn’t just me falling in love with the bitter drink: ever since the mid-nineties, with the advent of the Starbucks effect, coffee has become an increasingly large part of American culture.

Now over fifty percent of Americans drink at least one cup of coffee a day. Now it’s possible to order decaffeinated mochas with soymilk and mint (I know, because I have). But I have to say that despite the appeal of a sticky-sweet pumpkin spice latte (you know you want one), I’ve become a fan of the less adorned Italian espresso drinks. As one article put it, “Italian espresso drinks are the liquid equivalent of Italian cuisine—dependable, straightforward, and delicious in their simplicity.”

I think I kinda like simplicity.

But which espresso drink do I choose? The cappuccino is nice, but it’s too milky and filling for me. And the espresso goes by too quickly; I like to savor my drinks a little bit, like my cups of tea. In fact, I was beginning to think there wasn’t any hope for me to enjoy a cup of coffee with my Italian teacher and the other students in my class. I had begun to follow them to the bar only to watch them drink their espressos while I looked on idly, feeling a bit jealous.

But then Guido suggested I try a marocchino. And this is why I love my boyfriend: he knows me well. I LOVED IT. My friend Sara, who keeps the Ms. Adventures in Italy blog, calls the marocchino “Heaven in a Cup,” but I’m going to refer to it as “Orgasm in a Cup,” for reasons that are probably a bit obvious.

A bit about this tasty drink. Marocchino means “little Moroccan” in Italian, but don’t let that fool you. This drink doesn’t come from North Africa. Apparently, the marocchino is named after the Moroccan leather used in Italian hat making, because the perfect marocchino should have the same subtle brown hue as the carefully tanned goatskin. But before you start making associations that might make mar your marocchino experience, let me bring you back to the basics: chocolaty coffee goodness, topped with a frothy cloud.

Want to make it at home? Try this recipe I got off the Italy Magazine website. You’ll need an espresso maker to replicate it exactly, but you could probably make a decent version of it just using an Italian Moka, cocoa powder, and some warm frothy milk. Yes, it’s a bit girly. But who cares? It’s orgasmico!

To Make a Marocchino:

Use 7g (.25 oz) of freshly ground Italian espresso blend and let your coffee percolate for 25 seconds—that’s crucial to extract all the pleasant flavors from the coffee and none of the bad ones. You should end up with 25ml of coffee at 67C (153 F), which you should serve in a demitasse cup.

Sprinkle cocoa on the espresso (or add the cocoa to the empty cup and pour the espresso over it), then add the frothed milk and top with more cocoa.

Enjoy!

I miss my dad. This time of year my dad and I both really love cooking and planning our big family gatherings like Christmas and Thanksgiving. Now that I’m in Italy, we’ll have to plan our separate menus over the phone. Living in Italy is really wonderful, but I can’t lie–being away from my family during the holidays hurts.

One dish my dad and I love to prepare this time of year is squash soup. It was a tough decision in the past, because he and I were the only ones who really enjoyed it. Growing up, my brothers were so much younger (by six and nine years) that the flavor didn’t appeal to them. My mom wasn’t crazy about eating a sweet soup either. In her mind, soup should be savory–like the gumbo she grew up with in the south–and squash soup was a strange anomaly that rebelled against her philosophy and taste. Squash soup was right up there with tapioca, or fish eyes and glue, as she used to call it.

I’ve come to realize that cooking is not just an art for my dad, but also a form of love and service. Because he had a philosophy that we ate meals as a family and we ate what he put on the table, he usually preferred to make dishes that everyone would enjoy, not just one person. But when I came home from my first year of college and proclaimed that I was a vegan, holidays got a bit more complicated. Suddenly, he had a family member who couldn’t eat turkey or the other meats he usually prepared with such love. Suddenly he had to figure out how to serve just me.

Looking back, I think it’s partly why I love squash soup so much. It’s not just the creamy texture, the vibrant color of fall leaves, or the perfume and taste of autumn that lingers long after I’ve finished. There’s something more emotional behind my attachment. It’s about remembering being a young woman, trying out a new identity, even rebelling a bit against my father’s cuisine.

I remember my father’s face when I told him about my decision to be vegan, the look of disappointment and the sense of rejection. My dad is very emotionally connected to his food, and in a sense, rejecting his food was a way of rejecting him. We also used to be conspirators in the kitchen: I watched him cook, I listened to his stories about cooking, I ate everything he made with gusto. By choosing to be vegan, I’d abandoned him for my own path. I’d chosen to eat on my terms, not his.

I wasn’t sure what my dad would do after I told him; in truth, I was a bit scared. But he recovered after a while and announced that he would make a big bowl of squash soup to substitute for my portion of turkey. I distinctly remember breathing a sigh of relief, and eating my bowl of soup at Thanksgiving dinner with an extra helping of gratitude.

Now that I’m a bit older, I understand just what that squash soup meant. By making that soup, my dad gave me the gift of my independence by allowing me to experiment with a path that went against his. He let me be me, and instead of protesting, he made an individual dish so I would feel included. To him, that bowl of squash soup was an act of love.

Okay, now I need some kleenex.

This is a very simple version of that squash soup, fast and easy. There are ten million varieties of this soup and incredible things you could add (like this recipe with sage), but if you just have a few ingredients in the house or want to keep it simple (and more Italian, though this soup isn’t really Italian) than give this one a go. I’ll add variations at the bottom–feel free to add yours!


Simple Squash Soup

Servings: Three medium-sized soup bowls

Ingredients:

• 1 lb (approx. 500 g) of peeled fall squash (weighed after peeling); delicata, pumpkin, acorn, and butternut squash are my favorites.
• 1 potato, peeled and chopped
• 1/2 an onion
• 1 clove of garlic
• 2 Tbs of olive oil, more if needed
• Vegetable broth or water
• Salt and pepper to taste
• G-Spot Ingredient: Freshly grated parmesan

Pre-cooking note: You can do this a couple ways. I recommend that you bake the squash first, until tender. Or you can simply peel and cut the squash raw and add it when suggested. I also put a pot of water or broth on to boil before I start up the onions so I can add hot water or broth instead of cold, which is better for cooking.

Saute the onions in olive oil until almost translucent, then add the garlic and cook for 30 seconds. Add the potato and saute for a few minutes, then add the baked or raw squash and coat with oil and cook for a couple more minutes.

Add your hot water or broth, enough to cover the squash. While cooking, continue to add or cook down the broth until the soup is the flavor you like, and add salt to taste. I don’t like watery soup; I like mine a bit thicker. So I tend to drain out a lot of broth into a cup before blending, so I can add it back in if I like, or use what remains as a tasty broth for rice the next day.

Blend the soup in a food processor or with a hand blender. After blending, add a tablespoon of parmesan, some croutons if you like, a quick drizzle of olive oil, and some black pepper. Serve hot.

Buon Appetito!

Variations:

I am crazy for Thai food, so I highly recommend this recipe (and this blog) for Thai-spiced pumpkin soup: 101 Cookbooks’ Thai Curry Soup Recipe.

You can also try adding cinnamon and a bit of milk to the soup at the end (make sure you keep it really thick so adding milk doesn’t make it too watery). You can also add curry and coconut milk for a more Indian inspired version like this recipe at Allrecipes.com or this one at Epicurious.

Yesterday Guido and I went to the questura, which is the Italian word for “hell” (okay, it’s what they call the local police station). I’m in the process of finishing the fabulously labyrinthine process for my permesso di soggiorno, which is sort of like my green card/identity card for my next year in Italy. Anyway, we had an appointment slip for 8:16am and thought that we’d walk right up to the window at the ever so exact time printed on the paper. I mean, why else would they say 8:16am, unless that time slot was specifically for us?

We showed up around 8:16, only to find out that everyone else in Monza, our city, got the same appointment time, or something within 30 seconds of it. We had to pick a number and wait until it was our turn, and since the number counter currently said 66 and we were 88, things didn’t look so good. One hour after our arrival, they’d made it to 68. Italian classes for the day? Out the window. Guido’s day of work? Dream on.

Government offices do not bring out the best in my otherwise patient and Buddha-like boyfriend. The inefficiency and apathy drive him nuts. After living in Turkey and the Philippines, I tend to just shrug it off, but Guido likes to pace around the room (imagine a very, very small waiting room at a DMV) and analyze what each clerk is doing, how efficient they’re being, and what is causing the holdup. Then he reports back to me with updates: The computer broke down–can you imagine? The computer in a police station doesn’t work. Then: Some guy just gave a lecture to five people for fifteen minutes–why? Who knows. Followed by: The only clerk working has been on the phone for thirty minutes. I said thirty minutes. A string of quietly muttered expletives followed, as the hours ticked slowly by.

I had to get Guido out of the waiting room, so we slipped out for a cappucino and brioche (Italian croissant) three hours after our arrival, sometime around person 75. During the refreshing walk we passed one of my favorite things ever: a corner vegetable store. I dragged Guido in after the coffee and we wandered around the small shop for a few minutes as I lovingly ran my hands over the beautifully arranged pears–all five varieties of them!–and oggled the dark red endive (gorgeous!) and the plump roma tomatoes.

The vegetable I was most surprised to see, however, was a bunch of asparagus propped next to the cash register. Asparagus is a spring vegetable and I still don’t know why we found it in the market. Knowing that I likely wouldn’t see asparagus again until after winter, we purchased some with this recipe in mind. Thank god for the trip to the cafe and the vegetable shop–we walked back to the questura blissful and happy and got our paperwork processed shortly after our return. But I just keep thinking that if it hadn’t been for the four hours in Dante’s inferno that prompted our neighborhood stroll, I’m not sure we would have ended up in paradiso with this fabulous dish.

So, without further ado…

Roasted Asparagus Wrapped in Prosciutto

Servings: A side dish for two, possibly three, if you’re generous, which I am not.

Ingredients:

• 1 bunch of asparagus
• 6 to 8 slices of thinly sliced prosciutto crudo di Parma (not prosciutto cotto, which is cooked)–you can find it in Trader Joe’s. Cut the strips in half.
• 1 Tbs of olive oil
• 2 tsp of lemon juice
• Salt and pepper to taste

Preheat your oven to 400 degrees F, or 200 degrees C.

Wash the asparagus and slice off the white ends, leaving only fresh green stalks. Place the asparagus in an oven dish (like a casserole dish) and drizzle with the olive oil, the lemon juice (feel free to add more or less, depending on your taste), and around a teaspoon of salt and some freshly ground pepper. Roll the asparagus around in the oil and lemon juice on the bottom of the pan, coating each spear.

Place the pan in the oven and cook for about eight minutes. After eight minutes, turn the asparagus with a spatula (just roll them around) to make sure they cook evenly. Cook another five to eight minutes, depending on how you like your asparagus and how thin they are. If they’re thin, you’ll cook them between 10 and 12 minutes, and if they’re a bit thicker like mine were, between 12 and 15 minutes. You’ll have to test them near the end, but they should still be pretty stiff and fresh, but tender. They should not be mushy at all. If you’re vegetarian or don’t have prosciutto on hand, serve immediately and enjoy these tasty bites.

Otherwise, cut your strips of prosciutto in half while the asparagus cools, if you haven’t already. Then when the asparagus cools enough that you can handle it, wrap the prosciutto around the asparagus. Serve warm and try to control yourself in front of your guests. The combination of the slightly oiled and roasted asparagus with the salty prosciutto will almost certainly drive you wild.


Buon appetito!