Scartoffolaccia!

Say what you will about my increasing irregularity with this blog, I might not be as predictable as the #44 bus in Monteverde Vecchio, but I'm certainly more likely to make an appearance than the mythical #75.

Since my last installment, we've hosted family and friends and partaken in many memorable outings -- the Appia Antica, Colosseum and Palatine Hill here in Rome; Lago di Bracciano, Tivoli and Hadrian's Villa outside the city; the Chianti region of Tuscany; Orvieto in Umbria; the thermal baths near Viterbo; and most recently, the Etruscan necropoli of Cerveteri and Roman ruins of Ostia Antica (the Temple of Ceres pictured) -- many of these jaunts involving illegal picnics with superlative views. Full Disclosure: When it comes to prohibitions pertaining to the breaking of bread amid picturesque and storied surroundings, we are avowed and unapologetic transgressors. As such, we can attest that food tastes best outside and is exceedingly more delicious when you know you are breaking an absurd law.















We've also met dozens of visiting artists and scholars over the past several months, including Kathleen Crowther, the inspirational head of The Cleveland Restoration Society (here in part to persuade the Vatican to preserve some of the shuttered churches and architectural gems of my hometown), photographer Annie Leibovitz (who helped document Giovanni's pasta-making workshop for the AAR community last month while here with her children), and current resident artists poet Derek Walcott and painter Chuck Close. Here's a shot of Annie graciously assisting Giulia out of the Academy aqueduct after one of Giovanni's "family friendly" (aka significantly more raucous than M-Th) Friday night dinners.

Other noteworthy developments include Giulia learning cursive; Giorgio volunteering as Italian translator for a new Canadian girl in his class; Giovanni successfully managing to purchase and register a used car for weekend jaunts (no small feat); and me working as a part time research assistant with a National Science Foundation 3D imaging project. It's only a few hours a week but permits me to spend time milling about the library stacks so that I can take pictures of etchings, paintings and historic photographs. These will ultimately be used to help flesh out an interactive reconstruction of the Roman Forum and Colosseum from approximately 300 BC to the present day. For those so inclined, there's a very good NSF video clip explaining the project here.

I also invested in some new cleats and played in our first inter-Academy soccer match against the Spanish last month. We lost 3-1 and had 6 subs to their none, but were undisputably superior sartorially, if not in terms of skill (see action shot at left). The indignity of being so easily dispatched was blunted by our side's collective rationalization that we were up against several hundred more years of collective and cultural experience with the game. A round of beers with the Iberians thereafter also helped dull the pain. Our next face-off is against the Germans this week and promises to have a more punctual kick off if not a more satisfying result.

Now that it's spring in Rome and the perennials of the Mediterranean have returned en masse to the urban parks and meadows (red poppies, white daisies, purple wisteria, yellow daffodils and unnaturally bronzed male pensioners in form-fitting Lycra® shorts), mothers inevitably turn their thoughts toward reintroducing short sleeves to their brood, incorporating the season's first strawberries into school snacks, stocking up on elastici (Band-Aids), and, in my case, renewing their guest Visas until their dual citizenship application is accepted by the state authorities ("estimated processing time: 2.5 years").

While taxes may not be inescapable here, excessive paperwork is and its proponents ascribe to it a kind of fetishistic power that's unmistakably sadistic in nature. Based on my limited experience and as a non-native unaccustomed to its vagaries of application, I admit to being thoroughly unsettled at the thought of trying to obtain a "simple" extension. I'm not sure there is a word in Italian that adequately captures my overwhelming sense of dread, so I've taken it upon myself to make one up that sounds apt enough:

Scartoffolaccia [scar-toh-foh-LAH-cha]- the fear and/or hatred of seemingly endless paperwork and obscure forms invoked by lesser officials to circumscribe one's freedom (be it with regard to travel, expression, choice of entrée, etc.).

Just saying it out loud can be cathartic. I also find that a sense of blithe resignation can be more rapidly attained/regained if your forceful utterance of the word is accompanied by something resembling a spontaneous and indelicate hand gesture. You can begin practicing and refining these gestures while waiting for the #75 and seeing two alternate buses with the same route number go by at the same time (Exhibit A pictured: two #710s in flagrante delicto. Mating season perhaps?)

The good news is that I need to renew my Visa not only to enjoy our summer vacation tooling around northern Europe in our newly acquired 2005 Renault "Scenic", but to remain at the American Academy another year (for those of you who haven't heard, Giovanni will be stepping up to sous chef in the RSFP kitchen and I'll continue to help as a part time midwife concerned with the healthy delivery of the new AAR website and its postpartum care). While we've logged some highs and lows over the past nine months, we're thrilled to be staying on and look forward to becoming even better aquainted with the eternal city over the next sixteen.

We haven't nailed down the particulars of our summer itinerary yet, but I'm advocating that it involve a smattering of imposingly crenellated, moat-surrounded castles, one or two idyllic alpine farm stays and gallons of perfectly chilled Gewurtztraminer. I'm even willing to entertain a pilgrimage to LegoLand in Denmark or Germany and break my solemn parental vow of avoiding all merchandice-based amusement parks if it'll help get us over the Alps with a minimum of whining. No small sacrifice, but I am bouyed by thoughts of returning to Austria after more than 20 years, resusitating some of my moth-balled Deutsch and introducing Giovanni to die weiter Welt der Wurst.

The bad news is that Daddy believes the kids will only be satisfied if they experience EuroDisney as well. I maintain that the bambini would be just as happy, if not more thrilled, to each receive their own roll of duct tape or a large appliance box so we shouldn't even mention it. Besides, LegoLand should more than suffice. What's becoming clearer with each discussion however, is that it's he who's most eager to visit the "Magic Kingdom". It's still early so I'm hopeful that with the dollar in free fall as I type and Parigi being rather far removed from other collectively agreed-upon targets, circumstances will conspire in my favor. God-willing, I'll be able to "slip the Mickey" at least another year.

Tummy Trouble-induced Trash Talk

I can assure you, gentle reader, that my lack of timely updates to this blog does not mean I’m not thinking of you on a daily basis (and I do mean the three of you in Saudia Arabia as well as all you loyal Latvians out there making up my fourth largest fan base). I admit I’ve been distracted and blame the many demands associated with ensuring a steady stream of family merriment during the holidays, several small trips (one to Umbria and another to Abruzzo), two separate bouts battling what seemed to be an eternal stomach bug that sapped my will to go on living (despite each lasting only 36 hours), and some new books obtained via Amazon Italy, including the fascinating new Cleopatra biography by Stacy Schiff which includes interesting anecdotes about the young queen living for at least three months right here on the Janiculum Hill (where I like to think she enjoyed the same view as we do and worshipped the ancestors of the Academy's feral cat population between intrigues).

The good news is that I won both rounds with said bug and as a result have lost some pasta-induced kilos (or at least enough that new acquaintances have stopped unabashedly congratulating me on what once appeared to be my incipient pregnancy whenever I wore a tight-fitting top). Through no conscious design of my own, I’m off to a “leaner and meaner” New Year. And meaner insofar as I found it much more difficult to wisecrack while harboring lit matches inside my innards. That and the fact that we've had to cancel family outings over the last two weekends and miss several days of school because each of us has taken multiple turns convalescing with a mal di pancia.

In addition to being buffeted by our first noteworthy waves of seasonal illness, lately the spotty sanitation practices and utter disregard of public space have also played no small part in contributing to my change of spirit. Leaving out the government vs. Mafia standoff contributing to the intractable Neapolitan garbage crisis and the fact that the largest illegal dump in Europe is right here outside Rome in the aptly named locale of Malagrotta, it’s hard to square Italians’ much vaunted love of all things beautiful with their insouciance when it comes to tossing trash everywhere and walking away after their dogs relieve themselves in the middle of the sidewalk.

Six months ago the detritus was somehow more peripheral and easier to overlook and avoid, but now that it's winter it seems to have gotten worse and I'm feeling worn down. For as much as i Italiani are reputed to love children, the majority of dog owners in our neighborhood of Monteverde Vecchio have clearly disavowed the cliché and agreed that the marciapiedi in front of our kids’ school is an especially good location to walk away from nonchalantly after Fido empties his bowels. Apparently the only place deemed inappropriate for creating Rome's next layer are door thresholds and the curb. So much for the social contract.

Discarica, rifiuti, monezza, spazzatura, immondizia, ciarpame, robaccia, porcheria, schifezza, sciocchezza, pezzente... Italians may have as many words for trash as Eskimos have for snow, I really don’t know. While they seem to all but ignore it piling up in the cities, on the beaches and along roadsides, the profusion of terms suggests that garbage is nonetheless very much a part of the collective consciousness.

Assisi proved a salient exception to the glut of refuse in that we saw absolutely no litter of any kind, not even a cigarette butt, and this undeniably contributed to the ancient redoubt’s otherworldly effect (as much as the gorgeous stone edifices, luminous cathedral frescoes, imposing castello and evocative hilltop mist). Nonetheless, I passed on using the public restrooms when I encountered this sign in the Piazza del Commune. Like most wine-loving tourists, I’m happy to pee outside in a pinch (far from public rights of way of course), but when it comes to Medieval facilities I won’t settle for anything less than 5 stars.

Part of the rural/urban contrast in cleanliness is most assuredly one of small towns where inhabitants take more pride in place (and where all women of retirement age are apparently required to stare disapprovingly at passersby out their 2^nd story windows for at least some part of every day in order to continue receiving their state pension) vs. the relative anonymity of cities where such concerns are more easily relegated as “someone else’s problem” (and anyone issuing disapproving looks from high-rises is more easily ignored).

Part of my problem is that I that haven’t lived here long enough to turn a blind eye to the preponderance of trash. I also admit I still harbor a certain amount of “can-do American spirit” when confronted by seemingly overwhelming challenges. I can’t help thinking of potential strategies for deterring the most brazen malefactors over the course of my many trips negotiating fecal landmines with kids in tow -- or plotting my revenge while scraping malodorous shoes before dawn. A live webcam trained on the street in front of our school might do the trick or at least some posted handbills shaming these antisocial, passive-aggressive, poopy practitioners via humor.

When some other expat moms began complaining about the increasing number of dog-bombs outside school last week, I remarked that were we in the U.S. a parent committee would have already formed and distributed multicolored fliers to address the issue. I’m sure if I actually do decide to engage with the system in an attempt to affect positive change, I’ll be humbled soon enough – most likely after the fifth set of forms to be completed in triplicate (what I imagine to be the Rome Sanitation Department equivalent of being kicked to the curb).

The End of Burlesque-oni?

Now that the monsoon rains have abated, the weather has taken a decidedly wintry turn (that means temps in the upper 40s-low 50s in Rome). We have our found evergreen branch propped up by a window and suspended cunningly with string lights (thanks to Giovanni) and decorated with red globes and homemade pasta ornaments (thanks to me, the kids and the microwave oven). Naturally I was dubious at first, but admit the overall effect in our relatively austere apartment is a success as it smacks more of holiday spirit than enforced frugality.

Other seasonally noteworthy items include: the Academy Christmas tree now decorated in the salone; the fellows’ holiday play and the kid’s school choral performances coming up this week; the mountains of torrone candy at the entrance of all grocery stores; a few skating rinks; special markets throughout the city center proffering Christmas tchotchkes and “La Befana” witch puppets on broomsticks to mark the Epiphany on January 6^th; and (arguably more cheer-inducing) the anticipated downfall of the Burlesque-oni government this afternoon.

Could it be that enough Italians have finally had the epiphany that continuing to support Silvio, their longest-serving playboy premier, is no longer in their best interest? We shall see. Even if there is a change, I doubt the next liver-spotted, gam-oggling uomo will have the power to change much (like getting toilet paper back into the public schools). If anything, there will probably be a temporary hiring hiatus when it comes to naming leggy dental hygienists to government posts. I wish I were exaggerating. Unlike toilet paper in Italy, there is no shortage when it comes to articles like this: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/italy/7265423/Silvio-Berlusconi-shortlists-dental-hygienist-as-political-candidate.html.

In other news, Gio’s handiwork in the kitchen continues to please (as does his preternatural talent for silken carbonara sauce), the kids are learning a lot of Italian carols at school and building their gladiatorial skills and making winter clothes for their stuffed animals at home, and I'm helping the Academy redesign their website www.aarome.org so that it’s more intuitive and user-friendly when they relaunch it this spring.

Some interesting discoveries made over the course of my online research include learning that the Rome Sustainable Food Project had considered launching a minisite with the "RSFP" acronym for simplicity's sake, but was forced to consider other alternatives by the Rope Skipping Federation of Pakistan (www.rsfp.org). It also explains why my previous blog posts mentioning the RSFP garnered so many page hits in Pakistan – presumably each visitor clicked away crestfallen to find I was merely focused on food. Who knew that rope-skipping was a competitive sport? Apparently no small number of South Asians and now everyone in the AAR kitchen, that’s who. Rather than lament the loss of virtual real estate, I propose that the Academy pursue this rather unique opportunity for cross cultural exchange and increased understanding. At the very least, it would be cool to swap some swag.

Culturally speaking, I've been able to take advantage of some interesting walks and tours over the past month, including one to Rome's historic Testaccio neighborhood where there remains a sizeable hillside made solely of ancient amphorae. We hiked up in the rain but were treated to a great view at the summit and saw many distinct pot sherds along the way. Once the olive oil-filled containers were delivered from the colonies by boat and emptied into warehouses situated along the Tiber, the Romans disposed of them by breaking and stacking them over centuries to create a veritable terracotta mountain. Archeologists have since been able to ascertain that most of the vessels were made in Spain, that lime was spread between the layers to mitigate the stink of rancid oil and that the extensive warehouses still remain largely intact under the district's residential pallazzi. Che figo! Too bad it can't be replicated to address today's scourge of plastic bottles.

I was also able to tag along with a handful of fellows for a private tour of some of the wonderfully preserved and recently discovered beachside ruins outside the town of Ardea about 35 km southwest of Rome. Some assert that this is where Aeneas, the reputed progenitor of the Romans, landed from Greece. Baths and temples figure prominently of course and many mosaics are still intact because they were covered by beach sand for centuries. They only started excavating 10 years ago so more layers are sure to come.

On a final note, my apologies for those who may be bothered by the sudden appearance of advertising on my heretofore commercial-free blog. I still haven't received my replacement credit card since that dreadful day back at Porta Portese and kids' vitamins cost about $18/bottle so yes, I've decided to hold my nose and "monetize". Honestly, I'm kind of curious to see what kind of ads these "smart engines" will serve up to sync with my scattershot musings. Viagra since I mention Berlusconi? Brand name olive oil perhaps? Or is it still just acai berries all the time regardless of topic? Whatever pops up, I invite you to embrace any such commercial incursions as a few clicks here and there might just help keep us stocked in vitamins and vino.

A Terrible, Horrible No-Good Day at Porta Portese

Lest anyone think that our life abroad consists solely of forays to the countryside to stuff ourselves on gourmet vittles while taking in unparalleled vistas or speeding off to private villas for cena when in town, I experienced a decidedly unfortunate incident Sunday morning at the Porta Portese market that rebalanced the scales. Yes, I was robbed.

It just proves that drawing attention to oneself when things are going well (or even better than average) is ill-advised. Especially in a country where streetside shrines to the Madonna fall under the category of “public works”. (See example pictured at left for one in my neighborhood I’ve dubbed “Our Lady of Burgeoning Energy Consciousness”.) Fact is, the mere act of complimenting a baby on its good looks is considered reason enough to tempt fate here, so the practice isn’t encouraged. To wit, summarizing our extravagant dining experience at the Villa Aurora a few weeks ago for friends and family in this blog would not go unpunished.

It all happened in the customary manner. I was negotiating with the proprietor of a stand after trying on various reading glasses (sadly, my long-running 20/20 spec has come to an end) and when I reached for my wallet at the bottom of my purse to pay for a pair of rhinestone-encrusted frames, my beat-up Chococat® wallet was nowhere to be found among the wads of extra napkins I carry as carta igenica (Italian public bagnos are notorious for lacking such amenities). While continuing to rifle futilely through my borsa, Giulia interrupted me mid-panic to explain that “a man just put his hand in your purse, took the wallet and ran off with it.” I asked her why she didn’t say anything and she responded, “because I don’t speak Italian.” I laughed and said that next time she sees someone with his/her hand in my bag, she should just scream “Mamma!” as loudly as possible (and not worry about verb conjugation).

My friend Tamzen says that “once you feel the bump, it’s already over.” In my case, I never had a chance to distinguish the ladro's bump from the incessant crush of bargain hunters. All I could think to do at that moment was to calmly ask Giulia what the thief looked like (she said she didn’t know as she only saw a hand) and then find a Carabinieri to let off steam. Once I located a suitably uniformed official and informed him of our misfortune, he wrote down a phone number and instructed me to call the district police office on Tuesday to see if my empty wallet (and driver’s license) turns up. Apparently the weekly harvest of discarded portofolios is significant.

So there you are. We headed to Rome’s biggest and longest-running Sunday flea market to secure a camouflage shirt for Giorgio’s 5th birthday, extra forks for the house and perhaps a few sundries and all we ended up with was a cheap pair of reading glasses (the proprietor was nice enough to hand them to me upon realizing my plight) and a sad story. Che sara', sara'. Somewhere in this ancient city there's a disembodied hand with 150 Euros in cash, some baby pics, my driver's license and a cancelled credit card, but if that's the price for putting the universe is back in alignment, I think we got off easy.

Giulia said she felt so bad about what happened that she had a tummy ache and I assured her that it wasn’t her fault and that she was far more important than the stuff I lost. We rode the #8 tram home by processing our terrible mishap - as many others before us no doubt have - and learned an important lesson (to keep our purses zipped at all times and/or our money in our underpants). We also had a very good conversation on the way back up the hill ranging from divine jurisprudence to Oliver Twist. Here's an excerpt:

Giulia: “Mommy, not all robbers wear masks you know.”
Me: “Yes, I know sweetie.”
Giulia: “I think Santa’s gonna bring that robber some coal.”
Me: “Without a doubt. Now let’s get home and cancel my credit card before Fagan orders everyone in his crew a bistecca Fiorentina and pays with my credit card.”
Giulia: “What's a credit card and who’s Fagan?”

Once home, I immediately went online to cancel my card and Giulia got to work creating this picture of the incident for the police report.

If the karmic wheel spins again and we somehow end up at Berlusconi’s table in the next few months, I’ll at least have the good sense to keep my head down and the details to ourselves (that is, of course, assuming there isn’t an inquest and we aren’t forced to give testimony).

An Unanticipated Evening at the Villa Aurora

Giovanni and I are still digesting the fact that we ate dinner at the Villa Aurora last Saturday night. We began our day without any particular plan in mind besides soccer practice (me) and preparing lunch for the fellows (Gio) and ended it by joining the Prince and Princess Ludovisi for an extremely formal repast complete with hovering staff, French service, candelabras, a miniature white poodle circling the table and bottomless glasses of wine followed by a private viewing of the only known Caravaggio fresco in existence before strolling down the Via Veneto to hail a cab home. It was surreal -- and could have been an outtake from La Dolce Vita.

Why were we asked you might ask? Because our dear friend and neighbor Corey Brennan, the Mellon Professor in charge of the Humanities here at the Academy, was invited to the historic Villa that night with his wife Antonia and a group he’d been entertaining all week from the National Trust for Historic Preservation. Unbeknownst to the hosts, the total head count for dinner was 13. Once the Principessa realized this sfortunata she actually refused to serve dinner until at least one other person was found to join the table and defuse the bad omen. Luckily, Corey knew Gio and I were enjoying a round of negronis back home on the communal terrace of 5b with friends and called us as likely first responders to aid them in their "social emergency" (as he deemed it).

We informed our eight trattoria-bound amici of our once-in-a-lifetime opportunita’ and they cheered us on while we doubled up on Corey & Antonia’s baby sitter, kissed the kids goodnight, threw on our most formal attire and jumped in a cab. Ten minutes later we arrived at our destination and were met by a footman in red jacket and lace-aproned maid at the base of a long candlelit promenade near the Villa Borghese. The priceless moment of the evening for me was when they both nodded to us as we crossed the street and gestured courteously inside as we approached the cherub-topped columns flanking the main gate. I’m not kidding. It was one of those rare moments when I could suspend and savor disbelief to the point where I forgot all about being yelled at for the majority of the afternoon by my four-year-old son (inconsolable apparently because he couldn’t find the right poster of a tank at an Italian military show held at the Circus Maximus hours earlier) and bask in the overwhelming sense of anticipation.


Following our long, magically illuminated stroll up to the imposing 16th-century edifice, we were met by more sartorially impressive staff and greeted beyond the threshold by our much-relieved and simpatico hosts Rita and Nicolo Boncompagni Ludovisi. Naturally, the eleven others waiting in the sitting room were elated to see us.

Soon after exchanging salutations and pleasantries we were interrupted by another red-jacketed staffer proffering a tray of cordials and caviar which we were all too happy to sample before proceeding to the dining room lined with sombre paintings of the Prince's bejoweled ancestors, including Pope Gregory XIII -- the guy responsible for the calendar. I repeat, I am not making any of this up.

The subsequent conversation flowed like the Gewurtztraminer from Alto Adige and the setting was worthy of a Merchant-Ivory production what with all the plaster-cast putti spilling out of the ceiling overhead and four different glasses and eight pieces of flatware assigned to each of us. Thankfully, I didn’t spill my prosecco or mention Napoleon Bonaparte. Turns out, as I would reread the following morning in a Times article written just this past summer about the Villa, “The Little Corporal” had abolished the Ludovisi family’s state holdings in 1801. That seems like only yesterday in Rome time.

Following a round of espressos and more chitchat back in the sumptuous sitting room, the elegant Principessa gave Gio and me a condensed tour as late comers, indulged us all in some group photos in front of the family coat of arms in the foyer and insisted that we come back “any time” as she bid us buona notte. I intend to keep her offer in mind – after all, we did do everyone a huge favor by derailing all that bad juju that was heading their way.

In retrospect, my only missteps were not indulging in seconds of the fresh pasta with lemon cream sauce and failing to leave our number should the Ludovisi's find themselves in a similar bind in the future. If she does ever ring, I hope it's before I open another can of tuna and when the kids aren't screaming.

Post script: For those interested in more background on the Villa Aurora, our generous hosts and their ongoing restoration efforts, check out the The New York Times article and slide show at http://www.nytimes.com/2010/07/16/greathomesanddestinations/16iht-rerome.html.

Mostly Mushrooms

We spent a glorious autumn day last Sunday in the hills outside Viterbo and the town of Bassano Romano where Claudia, the head of housekeeping here at the AAR, grew up and has an uncle who excels in the mycological arts. I’ve never been mushroom foraging before and was eager to join the Rome Sustainable Food Project (RSFP) kitchen crew on their group outing and also get the kids out of Rome and into the campagna. Mind you, I firmly believe that no dish is so good that it warrants the risk of spending the rest of our year abroad on life support awaiting new livers (imagine the paperwork here alone!), but I considered our chances of surviving any subsequent funghi-based repast to be extremely good given that we were to be in the hands of an established expert -- and the fact that this was a repeat visit to Zio Vincenzo’s farm.

Notwithstanding my mother’s email that same morning imploring me in all caps to “AVOID ABSOLUTELY ALL MUSHROOMS!” we may happen upon in the wild, there also were plenty of cautionary tales of overconfident amateurs to bear in mind. I’ve read scores of stories of recent immigrants to the Bay Area dropping dead after ingesting what they thought looked like a trusted fungus back home (typically China it seems) thriving in the mist of Marin County, so yes, I remained circumspect, but my curiosity and desire to participate in the hunt ultimately won out. I resolved on the ride up that if our guide wasn’t a stooped and wizened native with some trace of facial hair (and that stipulation applied to female foragers as well), or if s/he relied on a field guide to identify questionable candidates, I was prepared to politely decline the porcini bruschetta no matter how good it smelled coming off the make-shift grill. I wouldn’t deign to try any mushroom we picked that wasn’t vetted by a local who looked at least as old as the surrounding terroir.

As luck would have it, Zio Vincenzo (pictured at left) fit the bill and reassured the novitiates with his sparkling elfin-blue eyes, infrequent speech and forthright manner. We were handed buckets within minutes of our arrival and set to our task forthwith. The way he wielded his perfectly smooth and gnarled walking stick reinforced that we were in the calloused hands of a seasoned authority who had clearly been savoring the subtleties of spore-borne specialties long before any of us were born. Any remaining traces of lingering fear were obliterated by the reassuring presence of his smiling wife (who appeared very much alive as well) and three playful kittens that followed faithfully behind us as we clambered through the native oak and chestnut forest in search of its damp delicacies. Here’s a shot of the calico tagging along with the kids as we enjoyed the fresh breezes and dappled autumn light.

Once we returned with our ample catch (pull?) of large, umbrella-shaped massa tamboras, delicate clusters of bright yellow chiodinis and stocky porcinis, we enjoyed a hearty antipasto spread and convivial pranzo of Zia’s beans and sausages with a Montepulciano d’Abruzzo and savored some of Mona and Mirella’s exceptional cookies for dessert. Interestingly, no funghi were served (probably because our hosts had refrained from picking any beforehand in anticipation of our arrival and they didn’t want to analyze our harvest on an empty pancia). I of course had to continually implore the kids to eat while the kittens mounted their cuteness assault against the patio windows. I couldn't recall any news stories of children starving to death because they forgot to eat while playing with cats so I gave in and excused them from the table after three bites of sausage.

Following our post prandial espresso, Zia filled the gatti’s bowl with the leftover fagioli and we headed out to reassess our treasures. I was careful to refrain from sorting any buckets myself lest an errant entophyte picked by an over zealous neophyte get past Zio’s careful eye and result in the demise of an esteemed fellow or two back at the Academy at lunch on Monday. “Fatal Fungi Fells Fellows Following Fossicking Fieldtrip” might have been the headline a few of us had in mind as we ceded the sorting table to those more experienced. Zio and Mona set to work and meticulously picked over our collective harvest while the rest of us snapped photos of them in action and the kids continued to practice their burgeoning kitten-carrying techniques. We headed back to Roma in the Academy van with several crates of the freshest funghi available and fond memories of a particularly exceptional day. Grazie a tutti!

Cibo glorioso!

For those of you who have been waiting patiently for more AAR food shots, here are a few to whet your appetite. The meals are glorious and the fellows are continually singing the kitchen's praises. A typical lunch spread includes soup, pasta, and a variety of seasonal salads followed by fresh fruit and organic yogurt with honey.

Dinners are a more formal affair, excepting Friday "family night" when parents can enjoy at least a few minutes of adult conversation while the kids do laps around the cortille after dessert. The biggest challenge the fellows face while here may be refraining from overeating at pranzo so that they have at least some room for the superlative cena offered in the evening.

The impressive loggia pictured is where the resident fellows and visiting artists and scholars enjoy their delicious mid day and evening repasts.



Giovanni is enjoying being back in a bustling kitchen and picking up new tricks. There's a lot of comraderie among the staff and interns and residents and fellows are invited to volunteer on Saturday mornings. One especially exciting development is that a photographer was here last week snapping shots for the Rome Sustainable Food Project's upcoming soup cookbook and she took pictures of Gio and the RSFP staff as well as all the kids and families on site for inclusion. It won't be out in print until next year, but promises to be a great keepsake. I'm hopeful that the one of Giorgio eating zuppa di fagioli con ciccoria next to the Academy's Hercules fountain will make the cut.

Here's a shot of our favorite visiting artist in action cleaning fresh funghi porcini for dinner.

For the record, Daddy is by no means the only gastronome in our apartment. Giulia and Giorgio are both making bread at school these days and Giorgio has a scheduled field trip this month to Aprilia where he and his classmates will be participating in the "vendemmia" or grape crush. Let's hope they send the kids home with a sample of the finished product for the parents.

Here's a shot of Giulia sharing her handiwork with Giorgio.

...and another of her enjoying some pasta carbonara in Trastevere.

Other, more general gastronomic observations about Italy for those interested:

1. If Rome figures in your plans, you will inevitably start to smell like an aged pecorino by day three - regardless of how many showers you take.

2. The mozzarella is only truly fresh if it makes your teeth squeak when you bite it.

3. Word to the wise - Don't try complimenting anyone on their homemade preserves unless you know to avoid the term "preservanti" when speaking Italian. It's one of those linguistic "false friends" that will put you at risk of proclaiming how much you enjoyed someone's condoms instead of their jam. "Marmellata" should suffice.