Presto – pasta!

I’m convinced I must have been Italian in a previous life. I fell immediately in love with Rome during a whirlwind high school tour eons ago; one of my fondest memories of that trip was celebrating my 16^th birthday in the Eternal City. I was so enamored with Italy, I proceeded to take two years of Italian in college. It wasn’t until last year that I finally got to return to this beautiful country, tagging along with hubby on a business trip through Milan and a little slice of the countryside around Parma and Bologna. We’ve since been back to Milan twice more within the past eight months for quick stays, but I haven’t yet revisited Rome, Florence and Tuscany; or made it to Venice for the first time.

Italian food is probably my favorite cuisine to cook. Pasta, tomatoes, fresh herbs, roasted meats, cheeses, breads, wines — what’s not to like? When you start out with ingredients this fabulous, you really can’t go wrong. Plus, the preparations are usually fairly simple, often requiring little more than a drizzle of olive oil and a few grinds of salt and pepper.

Hubby gave me a pasta machine for Christmas. As in, one of those stainless steel thingys legit chefs use to roll out pasta dough to paper-thin thicknesses. This is the kind of contraption I often find intriguing, but would never in a million years think to buy for myself. Like the waffle iron my brother gave me two years ago, which I’m ashamed to say only saw use for the first time back in October.

One of my New Year’s resolutions is to be more fearless when it comes to cooking and stretch my culinary boundaries. No time like the present to dive right in.

A chef acquaintance recently sent me an email that said making your own pasta at home is one of the easiest things in the world to do. I didn’t quite believe him. I can recall making homemade noodles from scratch on precisely one occasion, and they weren’t great. My last attempt at gnocchi was pretty good, but wow, what a lot of work.

The pasta machine looked a little intimidating when I opened it up, consisting of several heavy parts that linked together and a c-clamp to attach the whole thing onto the edge of a counter or table. All the pieces arrived slickly oiled, and the directions for cleaning warned against washing with water, instead instructing to dust the whole apparatus with flour and then feed dough through every orifice to de-oil.

At hubby’s suggestion, YouTube came to my rescue. A quick “how to make pasta” search uncovered a very helpful tutorial that bolstered my confidence. Mentally telling myself that Italian grandmas and Top Chefs do this all the time without batting an eye, I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.

I say this in all sincerity — making pasta at home is not that hard. It’s true. It just takes a little time and some elbow grease. Flour, eggs and salt are the only ingredients you need. No joke. It literally costs pennies per serving.

The first thing you do is dump a good amount of flour onto your (it goes without saying, VERY clean) surface. Mound it up into a pile and create a well in the middle, into which you crack a couple of eggs. Sprinkle on enough salt to lightly cover each yolk. Then, very carefully so as not to collapse the walls of your flour fortress, you blend the eggs with a fork, slowly incorporating flour all the while until it becomes an oozy, sticky blob.

Once the dough is fairly together, you can start kneading it, adding more flour until it becomes smooth and dense. This part takes some muscle, I was surprised to find. You keep folding the dough in half and pressing it out again and again. It takes about five minutes until the texture becomes smooth and pliable, then you form the whole thing into a ball and let it rest for about 10 minutes.

I felt like a mechanic getting the machine c-clamped onto the counter and cranking a test batch of dough through all the openings. If there’s an adult equivalent of playing with Play-Doh, this must be it. Hubby even got into the picture. Maybe I’m easily amused, but it was so much fun to see the delicate sheets of pasta becoming impossibly thinner and thinner, finally emerging from the cutter as threads of spaghetti and thick linguine. When all was said and done, the entire kitchen was coated with a fine dusting of flour, but we had two cookie sheets full of pasta drying for dinner.

The pasta looked gorgeous, but I was secretly terrified it would turn into a gloopy, floury mess once I dropped it in to cook. I whipped together the simplest of tomato sauces as I waited for my pot of water to boil. Holding my breath, I eased in the first batch of noodles. It held together and after a few seconds, floated to the top of the water, looking like actual fettuccine!

I boiled the pasta for about four minutes as per the instruction booklet, then cautiously fished out one of the noodles and slurped it into my mouth. Joy of joys – it was fantastic!!!

from-scratch fettuccine

I quickly drained the fettuccine and tried my hand at the angel hair. It only took about two minutes to cook, and was terrific as well! Mamma mia, what a revelation. Hubby complained only once to say that the kitchen smelled like boiled eggs when I started cooking the pasta, but he shut right up after I stuffed a noodle in his mouth.

The texture of the homemade pasta was perfect, so unbelievably tender and worlds better than store-bought dried brands. With a light coating of the tomato sauce and a sprinkle of Parmesan cheese, it was a delicious meal, if I do say so myself. I couldn’t have been prouder. Even my picky-eater son and stepson scarfed down their entire servings.

pasta perfetto!

I can’t wait to experiment with different shapes and creative add-ins for the dough. Next up, cannelloni. Or perhaps ravioli. Maybe a fettuccine alfredo. The possibilities are endless… buon appetito!

Murder on the Italian Express

Busy few days!

For our last day in Milan, hubby went back to the trade show and the toddler and I headed back downtown on the tram. Through one of the tourist magazines I found in our hotel room, I discovered it’s possible to take an elevator up to the roof of the Duomo for some interesting bird’s-eye views of the city.

Il Duomo

 

The tickets to go up cost a very reasonable 8 euros, and the experience was pretty awesome. You take the elevator up to the back corner of the roof and wind your way among the spires and gargoyles, up and down stairs around to the front. Eventually, you emerge into a flat space in front of the very tallest spire where you can simply breathe and take it all in. I can’t even describe how magnificent it is to commune with all that gorgeous architecture up close and personal. Just put it on your agenda if you’re ever in Milan.

on top of the Duomo!

The last supper in Milan Tuesday night was our farewell visit to Il Pavone. My meal was a delightfully light and pillowy gnocchi with a rich gorgonzola cream sauce and a few toasted walnuts scattered around the plate for good measure.

Il Pavone gnocchi con gorgonzola

I think hubby had a pizza diavolo, but I was too focused on my own food to care much. The three of us split what seemed to be the Italian equivalent of a crème brulee for dessert and bid the beautiful Maria a fond arrividerci.

the lovely Maria

Because I hate to fly so much, we had determined to take an overnight sleeper train to Paris Bercy, departing Milan around 11:30 p.m. Packed up and ready to go, we grabbed a taxi to Milano Centrale train station and waited for our ride. I thought it might actually be, dare I say it, a fun adventure. Silly, silly me.

I had a sinking feeling when I bought the tickets the day before that this trip may not go quite as planned. I couldn’t get my point across to the guy behind the counter, but he gave me reservations for beds for two adults, so I knew we’d have some sort of place to rest our weary heads at the very least. Or so I thought…

I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting, but having taken very nicely appointed trains elsewhere around Europe, I figured this journey would be fairly similar. Ho ho ho.

The train pulled in and we waited to embark among a large, milling crowd. It looked old and rather run down from the exterior, not at all like the nicer ICE trains I’d ridden before. I grew more nervous with every passing minute.

Finally it was time to board. The narrow passage proved a tight squeeze for all our baggage plus car seat plus stroller plus baby, so hubby lugged it all in piece by piece while I kept watch over the little guy outside. Every time hubby reappeared to grab another item, the looks he gave me grew more and more ominous. I quickly began to realize that this decision was going to be a mistake of colossal proportions.

The toddler and I climbed aboard. Fortunately, our beds were in the very first group of berths, so we didn’t have to go far. Unfortunately, the space was so tight, our largest bag wouldn’t fit into the “room.” We had to leave it in the hallway, and we were warned by the train staff not to leave it unattended. The hallway itself was narrow as well; people literally had to climb over the suitcase if they wanted to get by us.

Tickets are available in various classes — first class for a private section of berths, and peon classes where you may or may not find yourself sleeping with people you don’t know. Which do you think I’d managed to procure? Yep. You guessed it.

Our room, if you will, consisted of six bunks packed in like a sardine can, three on each side with well-worn, not-so-clean upholstery. When we came in, some fellow travelers were already there, two 40-something Asian ladies claiming the middle bunks. Our reservation denoted that we were to occupy the top two. Not exactly smart when there’s a two-year-old in the mix. The women were kind enough to trade us beds and immediately made themselves comfortable in the top bunks. Oh, did I mention the entire car REEKED of mothballs? I found myself mouthbreathing so I wouldn’t gag.

Everyone got settled in and we started to roll. Keep in mind, it was well after midnight by now. The toddler, who so graciously fell asleep in the taxi and stayed asleep right up until we boarded the train was now completely alert and ready to party like a rock star. The Asianettes hunkered down to sleep, yet the toddler was singing round after round of “Wheels on the Bus” and “Old MacDonald” at the top of his lungs. There was no hope of getting him to lie down without an all-out screaming tantrum; we just had to wait him out.

We eventually took the toddler out into the hallway so our companions could get some rest and hubby took a seat on top of our lonely suitcase. The looks he was giving me went from ominous to murderous. The vocal stylings continued as the toddler then launched into an enthusiastic rendition of “Itsy Bitsy Spider” followed by “Farmer in the Dell,” the Wonder Pets theme, “ABCs” and whatever else came into his little brilliant mind. At least the Asianettes didn’t mind, hubby poked his head in to get something and found them snoring like buzzsaws.

Hoping to wear the little guy down, hubby took him for a walk to find the dining car. Service was closed for the night, but at least it was empty and gave the little dude room to run around and play without disturbing anybody. I stayed behind to keep watch over the bag and tried to read. An hour later, they came back, hubby looking utterly defeated and pissed off. The toddler was still singing, and now skipping. Knowing I had some penance coming my way, I jumped up and took my lumps. The toddler and I headed back to the dining car again, weaving our way through six or seven other carriages full of quiet berths. I looked longingly at the private “suites” as we passed and mentally punished myself for not being able to convey that’s what I was after when I bought the tickets. Dammit.

After another hour or so of full-on hyperactivity, I managed to get the toddler to sit on my lap long enough to relax. Not sleep, mind you, but wind down enough to the point that when I asked him if he wanted to go lie down with daddy, I actually got a “yes.” Back we went, me trying to carry the toddler and not fall off the train in between cars, when I realized that I had no idea what number our carriage was. I figured we’d see hubby still sitting on the bag in the hall, but he was nowhere to be found. Uh oh. I’d come to the last car of the train and just stood there, holding a weary toddler and wondering what I was going to do. I didn’t even have my phone to send a text; I’d left it in my purse back on my bed, wherever that was. Just as I was contemplating lying down in the middle of the dirty hallway and praying someone would find us in the morning, the interior curtains in the compartment parted right where I was standing and hubby motioned us inside. By some stroke of sheer luck, we were standing exactly where we needed to be.

Hubby had managed to wrestle the remaining suitcase into the middle of the floor in our room and squeezed himself into one of the middle bunks. The toddler went right to him without complaint when I handed him over and settled down to sleep. I climbed into the other bunk across. Thank GOD no other passengers showed up to the claim the two remaining beds on the bottom, I can’t imagine how two more people could have possibly fit into that room.

I closed my eyes and hoped for the best, trying not to touch anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary and praying I still had a small bottle of hand sanitizer in my purse. The motion of the train was quite lulling, really. The jet-plane decibel snoring emanating from the bunk above me was not. I could not believe the noise this woman was putting out. Seriously, I was convinced at one point she was doing it on purpose. There is no way she could make that kind of a racket without waking herself up or choking to death in the process. I checked my watch. 3:45 a.m. Sigh. I closed my eyes and could literally feel the waves of resentment coming off my non-sleeping husband a few feet away. At least the toddler was depleted enough to get a solid stretch of shut-eye.

The Asian Rip Van Winkle finally woke up around 7:30 a.m., and she and her buddy started jabbering away in a language I didn’t recognize. The train conductor came by to check our tickets again. We knew we were running late, but when hubby asked him how much longer and he said another three hours, my jaw hit the floor. We were originally due in to Paris Bercy station at 8 a.m., leaving us plenty of time to take a cab to the rental apartment, drop our bags and shower before heading to the airport to collect my mother-in-law, who we’d arranged to fly in and stay with us for the weekend. As it was now, we’d be pushing to get there by the time her flight landed at 1:30 p.m. By that time, I was so exhausted, I did manage to fall into a somewhat fitful sleep for an hour or two. Really, there was nothing else to do.

At long last, we pulled into Paris around 11 a.m. I was never so glad to arrive anywhere in my entire life. Hubby told me not to speak to him unless I absolutely had to, which I respected, knowing I was totally in the wrong for this comedy of errors. I’d apologized a handful of times and didn’t know what more I could do or say to make things right, silently pledging to drug myself stupid next time and agree to get on whatever airplane might be available. I asked hubby if  he thought we’d look back on this experience someday and laugh. He said no.

Anxiously keeping an eye on the clock, we cursed some more when we saw the line for taxis extending halfway down the sidewalk outside the station. (And I wonder where the toddler recently picked up “Shit!”) Somehow by the grace of God, we eventually got a cab and made it to the rental apartment to meet the lady from the service who let us in. Hubby dashed off on his own to the airport, arriving with about 30 minutes to spare to meet my mother-in-law’s plane. Whew.

The two-bedroom Marais-situated apartment we’re renting is lovely, small but charming, up four flights of narrow winding stairs that are guaranteed to give me buns of steel after a few days. After a much-needed shower, the toddler and I ventured out for a bite of lunch at the first decent café we came across. Quiche Lorraine, salad, orange juice and a café crème fit the bill quite nicely. We managed a quick trip to the supermarket for a few essentials, then back to l’appartemente to meet up with hubby and MIL.

After a short rest, we all took a stroll around our old stomping grounds near the apartment where we stayed two years ago, stopping in for dinner at Cafe Rempart. Hubby had a traditional French croque monsieur – a devilishly rich open-faced toasted sandwich of ham and cheese with béchamel sauce. MIL enjoyed pomme frites, salad and a delicious-looking burger (which she ate in spite of the cheese. She hates cheese. This does not bode well for her enjoyment of French cuisine, I fear.) I was still somewhat full from my late-lunch quiche, so I went for a lighter dish of entrée Salade Rempart, composed of greens, carrots, tomato, fried potatoes (!), thin slices of proscuitto-ish country ham and cheese toasts. The whole thing was topped very lightly with French salad dressing, which is not at all like the unnaturally orange Kraft stuff you find back home. Here, it’s a light tangy Dijon mustard vinaigrette.

This morning, we headed to another café and partook of coffee served in clever small bowls (LOVE this, I want to find some of these to take home), and stuffed ourselves with all manner of bread and pastries.

the perfect petit dejeuner

 

Gotta love the French… A great way to fortify ourselves for a boat ride on the Seine, a visit to the Eiffel Tower and a walk through Notre Dame. A bientot!

 

I fought the law…

Day three in Milan and just tonight, it’s finally stopped raining. It feels like we were pretty much stuck in the hotel all day yesterday and most of the day today. Still trying to kick the jetlag and all that jazz as well.

At this point, I can’t really remember what we did yesterday. I guess that’s because we really didn’t do much of anything. Being All Saint’s Day, EVERYTHING in town was closed. We were getting dangerously low on our stash of diapers, and not a grocery or pharmacy in town was open. Not even our beloved Il Pavone!! The only establishments open for business in our immediate area were Chinese restaurants. Chicken chow mein is not exactly high on our list for possible dining enjoyment while in Italy.

Figuring we’d have better luck downtown by the Duomo in the more touristy areas, we hopped back on the tram for the 20-minute ride. Our gamble paid off; hubby spotted a sign just off the beaten path and we followed it to Pizzeria Dogana, tucked into a quiet side street a block away from the Duomo. It appeared fairly busy and the picture-postcard menu posted outside looked appealing. Sold.

Hubby seems to be sticking to beer during our time in Italy, which seems unholy to me with all the great wines around. At Dogana, I enjoyed a glass of Montepulciano house wine for a reasonable 4 euros. Not quite the two euro/quarter liter value at Pavone, but still a steal. For dinner, hubby ordered the spaghetti pomodoro, a lovely plate of al dente pasta lightly draped with a silky tomato sauce and topped with a sprig of fresh basil. So simple, but the plate was like a work of art, and the food was sooooo good.

spaghetti pomodoro

 

I ordered the risotto alla Milanese; again, a very simply made creamy risotto with saffron. Delicious.

risotto alla Milanese

We also split an insalata Caprese, not the best I’ve ever had, but still great with flavorful tomato slices and a mound of tiny balls of fresh mozzarella that soaked up the balsamic vinegar and olive oil I drenched them with.

Insalata Caprese

After dinner, we wandered over toward the Duomo, stopping off for a post-meal gelato. Hubby spied a Pepto Bismol-pink shade of bubble gum flavor and decided it was exactly what the toddler needed. Between the three of us, we made short order of a cone and another of tiramisu-flavored gelato.

bubble gum gelato

 

The bubble gum flavor tasted precisely as advertised; it was good, but nearly sickening after a few bites. The toddler fell asleep on the tram ride back to the hotel. However, the sugar buzz came on as a delayed reaction, and he was then up bouncing around the room until midnight. Between that and his two-hour screaming interlude between 2:30 and 4:30 a.m. our first night in residence, I’m convinced the other guests must be plotting our demise.

First order of business today was a trip to the grocery store, as our diaper rations were reaching desperate levels. Hubby took off for his trade show; I packed the toddler up after breakfast and we were off to Iper, the supermarket of the gods. You can scan back and refer to my entry last year for more details, but this place makes foodies like me feel like they’ve died and gone to culinary heaven. Fresh fish, cases of cheese, cured meat, wine, an entire aisle of nothing but pasta… ah. The only thing I don’t like about this place is the checkout. Even with a newly added self-service checkout option, the lines are unbelievable. We waited probably 15 or 20 minutes just to pay for our scant basket of goodies.

The toddler and I returned to the hotel to drop off our purchases, and then commandeered the breakfast room for a picnic lunch of sorts – cheese, crackers, grapes, blueberries and yogurt from our shopping trip. The staff was kind enough to let us use a table, and I hoped our absence would allow enough time for the housekeeping staff to come in and do their thing to the room while we were out. Bless them, they definitely had their work cut out. We can trash a hotel room within minutes like nobody’s business.

After a nap, the toddler and I ventured out to the main train station to purchase tickets for our overnight sleeper ride to Paris tomorrow night. Ugh. If the food is the best thing about Italy, the inconvenience factor is the worst. I struggled on and off the tram and up and down probably a dozen flights of Metro stairs after our transfer, wrestling a screaming two year old and a stroller with people brushing by giving me dirty looks. Only during the last flight did some kind young woman take pity enough to help me carry the stroller up. The man behind the ticket desk was not friendly and although I tried my best to explain what I wanted, I have a sinking feeling I’ve purchased the wrong tickets and we’ll find ourselves crammed into sardine seats for 8 hours all night long on the way to Paris. But enough complaining…

Hubby met us at a tram stop along the way back and we enjoyed a quick beverage in a small charming café before heading to Il Pavone. For tonight’s feast, hubby went with my favorite fusilli della casa and I had a plate of tortellini pomodoro and a side of steamed spinach. Yummy. Even the toddler got into the act, and once he tore himself away from the grissini breadsticks, got interested in a small plate of pasta of his own.

Hubby had missed our earlier visit to Iper, so we strolled back over after we ate to check things out. After I’d taken a few pictures, we were accosted by a security guard letting me know photos are strictly forbidden. Doh. I stammered out an apology and he let us go. I guess we must have looked a little odd, merely taking photos without buying anything, but come on. We’re clearly foreigners, and we’re pushing a stroller around. Not exactly the corporate espionage type. Oh well. I’ve been warned.

I had my heart set on a gelato of my own tonight, but the stand outside the supermarket was closed by the time we came out. Shitballs.

On the walk back to the hotel, hubby stopped short in his tracks in front of some Italian police cars parked on the street. Apparently, he was impressed by the Alfa Romeo brand, a far cry from the old U.S. Crown Victorias you and I know best. Hubby wanted to take a photo, and as he did, a handful of cops stormed in out of nowhere. The toddler and I had already crossed the street and didn’t hear the exchange firsthand. From what I could see, hubby was either making friends or on the verge of being arrested. Fortunately, the polizia didn’t seem to mind and sent him on his way with a thumbs up. Second bullet we’d dodged in less than a hour, we cut our losses and hightailed it back to the room.

Our time here in Milan is flying by. Twenty four hours from now, we’ll be loading up and pulling out for France. Ciao for now!

Viva Milano

Here we are, back in Milan for the third time within a year. It’s funny how familiar you can become with a place after only visiting a couple of times. We stayed in the same hotel for our first two visits. We’re in a different hotel just across the street this time only because of an availability problem with our first choice. We know where the grocery stores are in the neighborhood, we know how to buy tickets and ride the trams downtown to the Duomo, and we eat at the same restaurant just down the street nearly every night. You know what they say – if it ain’t broke…

I must admit, Milan did not make a good first impression on me. I found it loud, abrasive and dirty. However, after a few days, its charms began to grow on me. Like, the way everyone (especially older women) fuss over my son. The simple beauty of the food. The gorgeous stands in the street markets and the impeccably dressed men and women everywhere you look. Seriously, I can amuse myself by checking out women’s footwear while riding on the trams. Milan may be an industrial city, but it’s definitely not without style. I find myself considering more closely what I wear here. I know I’ll never pass for a native Milano, but hopefully I’m not immediately labeling myself an American tourist.

Because I am such a terrible traveler when it comes to flying, I never take the risk to eat aboard a plane. Just in case. The last thing I want to do, in addition to desperately trying to divert a panic attack, is to end up making a fool of myself by accidentally blowing chunks all over the person seated next to me. This means that once the wheels of an overnight flight to Europe finally touch down, I am famished. Today was no exception. We landed in Milan around 9 a.m., and I realized the last solid food I’d had was a bowl of cereal prior to our original departure from Indy nearly 18 hours earlier.

After we’d grabbed a cab to our hotel and ditched our bags, we were off in search of sustenance. I’m not sure what the basic Italian breakfast is; we’ve only ever partaken of the luxurious hotel buffet for our morning meals. This standard European-model continental spread consists of all manner of pastries, yogurt, fruit, cold cereals, breads, and a selection of cold cuts and cheeses. This morning, we weren’t checked in in time to enjoy, so breakfast ended up being coffee and croissants at a café around the corner. The croissant could have been better, but it must be said:  When it comes to coffee, Italians know their shit. The cappuccinos, lattes and espressos here blow away anything you’ll find at Starbucks or anywhere else in America.

After that, we hit up the grocery to restash our toddler snacks. I love wandering the aisles of the Italian grocery stores checking out the endless varieties of pasta, olive oils and what have you. Still hungry, I ended up eating a few of Michael’s rice cakes and cheese back in the hotel room. My usual lunch when we’ve been here consists of a mozzarella and tomato sandwich. Again, when you’ve found something you like so much, why not stick with it?

Along those lines, we are loyal devotees of Il Pavone, a small and very pink pizzeria/pasta joint about two blocks away on Viale Certosa. Hubby got hooked on this place during his first trip to Milan a couple of years ago, and the toddler and I have come to adopt it as well. The hostess, a very attractive woman named Maria of an indeterminate age, recognizes us now, and she loooooooves  Michael.

The menu is pretty vast, and full of Italian cuisine’s greatest hits like tortellini pomodoro, grilled steaks, seafood, bruschetta, and a whole array of thin-crusted, wood-fired pizzas. I’ve tried a number of items on the menu during our visits, and my favorite meal remains a big plate of the lightly dressed fusilli della casa with a sumptuous tomato/pesto/cream sauce alongside an insalata mista (mixed salad) or perhaps a plate of steamed spinach. The salad is a bowl of fresh greens, tomato slices, shredded carrot and red cabbage. You’re left to your own devices to dude it up with the olive oil, balsamic, salt and pepper on every table. Same goes for the spinach, although I like to give it a liberal dusting of Parmesan cheese as well. With a quarter liter of the fizzy, citrusy house white wine for a ridiculously affordable two euros, it’s darn near the perfect dinner in my book.

We’re set to be here for three days before heading north on the train for France. The weather looks like it’s going to pour down rain the entire time we’re in Italy, but I’m determined not to let this curtail good eating. Buon appetito!

… and to all a good meal!

This Christmas has been one of relaxation in our household, which is not a bad thing at all considering the busy year it’s been. The week has been very low-key, filled with cooking, shopping and lots of cozy fires in the fireplace. Nice.

During the past 10 days or so, I’ve been busy making holiday treats of various shapes and sizes — milk chocolate pots de crème for our Christmas dinner finale, white chocolate Oreo fudge and peppermint meringues to name a few. I found this recipe for cookies and crème fudge on allrecipes.com and have been making the heck out of it this season. With just three ingredients to worry about, it’s super easy to make, looks very pretty all packaged up in a holiday tin and tastes awesome. For the last batch I made, I used the holiday Oreos with the red filling, thinking they would look beautiful nestled into the white chocolate fudge. However, the color ended up bleeding out into the fudge, turning it sort of an alarming shade of red, but I threw in a little peppermint extract and called it festive. A brilliant and quick-thinking move on my part, if I do say so myself.

Since it was originally just going to be a quiet Christmas Day with hubby, the toddler and me, I didn’t go overboard on my dinner plans. My dad ended up joining us, which was fine, but for once, I was secretly glad not to have to cook a big meal for a tableful of folks.

For our main course, I ended up buying a turkey breast, which I stuffed with lemon slices and thyme sprigs and threw into the crockpot. It was delicious – moist and juicy with great savory flavor, and I used the stock that was released to make a scrumptious gravy. For sides, we had wild rice with dried cherries, apricots and almonds, and a panful of Brussels sprouts that I sautéed with garlic and olive oil, then steamed and topped with bacon. I’m telling ya, if you don’t like Brussels sprouts, I can convert you. Really, you can’t go wrong with almost any vegetable by sautéing it in olive oil and garlic, then topping with bacon or cheese. Alternately, roasting it in the oven until it turns brown and crispy works, too. Try it next time you have broccoli or asparagus on hand. Yummy.

Christmas dinner spread

Hubby really wanted to make Yorkshire puddings, something we’ve talked about for ages but never actually tried. For non-British readers, Yorkshire puddings aren’t really puddings at all, they’re like a popover/dinner roll thing that caves in the middle to create a little bowl of dough, into which you then spoon a big ladleful of gravy or jus. You see them often served abroad at carvery lunches in England or with roast-and-potatoes-type meals.

I looked up a few recipes and thought they all sounded deceptively simple. Hm. This immediately made me somewhat suspicious, but I was willing to give it a try. The batter is just milk, egg and flour, stirred together and left to sit for 30 minutes or one hour, depending on the recipe you’re using.

The next step is to coat your muffin tins with oil or a little of the drippings from your roast (I used bacon grease), spoon in a little batter and off you go. The puddings are supposed to puff up as they bake, then collapse in the middle as they cool to create the bowl shape. Mine didn’t collapse; they just stayed puffy in the middle. They tasted good, but there was no way you’d have been able to use them as edible gravy vessels. I’ll try them again, though, maybe throwing in some parmesan cheese and herbs next time.

the failed Yorkshire puddings

I spent a good chunk of my Christmas loot on new cookbooks! Shock of shocks, I did not previously own a copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking by Julia Child, but I do now. Along with an awesome slow cooker recipe book I found on the bargain rack for $5, and a series of Culinaria books on Germany, France and Italy. What could be more perfect! They contain not just recipes, but tons of cultural information and profiles on various cities and regions. I can’t wait to dig into them.

Elsewhere in the week, we’ve been talking about making paella for awhile. I researched online and came up with a Gordon Ramsay version that sounded promising. Gordon definitely hooked us up on the shepherd’s pie, so I figured his paella would fit the bill as well. Plus, he’s looking kinda hot now that he finally got those weird craggy lines fixed on his chin… His recipe called for a slew of shellfish, which I had to leave out if I had any hope of hubby eating it at all. And the onion as well, of course, but that goes without saying.

Gordon’s paella calls for rice, tomato, spices, chicken, chorizo and some veg. That’s about it, really. Nothing too intimidating. I’d never cooked with chorizo before, and I had exactly one kind to choose from during my shopping excursion at Kroger, so I hoped for the best. It looks like a regular cased sausage, but I found as I sliced it up and tossed it into my pan, it completely melted away into the sauce. It definitely left a kicky flavor behind, but no chunks of nicely browned sausage to bite into like I was hoping for. Alas. Next time I’ll know to use a hard sausage or include some chunks of ham as well for texture. Everything else came together nicely. It was really just exactly like a risotto, which I’ve made many times over.

As I was stirring hot stock into the rice, chicken and veggies, I was struck that many different cultures share a go-to chicken and rice comfort food just like this. In America, what is possibly more comforting than a steamy bowl of chicken and noodles? In Italy, you’ve got risotto; in France, coq au vin; in India, chicken tikka masala. There’s arroz con pollo, pilaf, dumplings, chow mein, you name it. Wherever there is chicken, there is chicken and rice.

The paella turned out very spicy, but good. We enjoyed it with a bowl of olives, garlic bread and some Manchego cheese (that was the only disappointment of the meal). I stirred through a handful of shrimp into my own bowl, which added a lot, I thought.

Paella

my bowl

Would love to make paella again, this time with all the seafood… maybe a girls’ night dinner in the offing?? Although I still need to have the gals over for an Italian spread inspired by our trip to Milan. I’ve already got that one all planned out in my head – bruschetta, pasta, grilled steak with parmesan and arugula, and tiramisu for dessert.

The New Year looms ahead. I’ve been writing my blog now for a whole year! Here’s hoping my few and faithful readers have enjoyed hearing about my food exploits as much as I’ve enjoyed experiencing them. Happy 2010!!!

Arrividerci, bella Italia

The last few days in Italy were action-packed! Let’s see, where did we last leave off?

On Sunday morning, the toddler and I took another spin around the supermarket of the gods to stock up for our last few days of supplies. After, we lunched at a place in the shopping center called “Risto.” I’ve walked by Risto a few times and was intrigued. As it turns out, Risto is like a very upscale cafeteria, Italian-style. Yummy! It has the first salad bar I’ve seen maybe ever in Europe, along with a whole handful of hot-food stations. Panini, pasta, soups, cheeses; you name it, they had it. And it was BUSY.

I loaded up a big bowl of salad, and not just any salad. This bar offered some definitely Italian ingredients you don’t find just anywhere – radicchio, endive, sliced fennel, cannellini beans… good stuff! The toddler and I grabbed a table and a rare high chair to enjoy. It was a great little find. And as we were eating, an old Italian man passed our table and, best I could understand, told me that my son is a very lucky little boy. NICE! I think I’m liking Italy more all the time.

Dinner at Il Pavone again Sunday night… hubby wrapped up at his show at a decent hour and we had a celebratory supper with his colleague to enjoy. Although I had pledged to try not to order the same thing twice, the fusilli della casa sang its siren call to me and I was happy to answer. A side plate of steamed spinach with a drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkling of parmesan made the perfect accompaniment. Hubby got pizza and pasta, and his colleague put us all to shame by ordering vegetable soup; an outstandingly huge bowl of seafood pasta loaded with mussels, clams and langostine; AND a pizza. Which he couldn’t finish.

When I was in Cologne, my Hoosier laundry comrade Jerry had suggested I try some limoncello in Italy. Remembering that I hadn’t yet done so, I asked Maria if she had some. Happily, the answer was yes. Out of the freezer came a tall bottle of the lemon liqueur and three chilled shot glasses shaped like little boots. Not sure what the significance of the boot was, but it sure made for an adorable presentation. She filled them up, we toasted to Jerry and sipped. The shot tasted like a lemon drop martini, a very sweet and puckery frosty lemonade with a serious kick. YUMMY. I can’t believe I waited until this late in the week to discover this little gem.

Hello, limoncello!

Monday was our one and only road trip, and although I was disappointed in the lack of beautiful Italian countryside I was hoping for, the stops more than made up for it. We grabbed a quick breakfast at the hotel and then set out on our big adventure. Hubby did all the driving, thank God, because I never could have navigated the Milan traffic and gotten us out in one piece.

We stopped in Parma, home of Parma ham and a beautiful little town in its own right, and ditched the car to take a quick look around. We strolled past a picturesque cathedral and piazza, then onto what seemed to be the main shopping street. It was getting toward lunchtime, so we found a cute little cafe and ducked inside. A counter full of delicious-looking sandwiches served us well. I ate a fabulous wedge of rosemary-and-tomato-studded focaccia topped with a few thin slices of proscuitto crudo. Simple and wonderful.

The cafe housed a series of spinning hot chocolate machines just inside the front door that looked like something out of Willy Wonka. Clearly, I couldn’t say no. After my sandwich, I ordered a cup. It was insanely rich, like drinking warm melted chocolate pudding. Oh my goodness. I couldn’t even finish it. Seriously, you could serve this stuff as fondue.

magical hot chocolate machines in Parma

After lunch, we hit the rest of the drive through some side roads and vineyards (I believe this is Chianti territory), past the Ferrari factory in Maranello, and then on to Ducati near Bologna. For the non-sports oriented, Ducati makes the crème de la crème of two-wheelers. Hubby calls it the Ferrari of motorcycles. As the whole reason for our being here was a motorcycle exposition, it seemed the perfect way to cap off our trip to Italy.

We signed in at the gate and were met by our lovely tour guide, Violetta. She proceeded to give us a very informative and interesting walk through the top-secret factory (every single piece of these bikes is assembled by hand – no wonder the price tag!). The adjacent museum reminded me a little of the one at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, housing motorcycles through the years along with info on when and where they raced, along with a whole wall of trophies. I’m not really a motorcycle fan, but I still found the whole thing pretty cool. The toddler, on the other hand, though he’d died and gone to heaven! He ran riot through the whole place from one exhibit to another, purring motorcycles noises the entire time. Hubby and his colleague were as happy as two little boys on Christmas morning.

The journey back to Milan was fast, and uneventful, thank God, in spite of hubby’s pedal-to-the-metal driving style and a close call on the autostrade. I tried not to pay too much attention from the backseat. I think he said he averaged something like 98 mph the whole way. Not bad for a rental car.

Our last Milano supper took place, where else, at Il Pavone. Hubby ordered his favorite pizza salami, and I had a fresh mixed salad and a sizzling platter of sliced steak topped with mushrooms. Mm, mm good.

PDAs are de rigeur here in Italy. This is the land of amore, I suppose, but these people don’t just do a quick peck on the cheek, they nearly devour each other. I’ve seen quite a few couples out and about this week (of all ages mind you, not just the teenage variety) engaged in serious clinches. At the tram stop downtown, one such duo had their tongues so far down each other’s throats, I wanted to slip them a handful of euros and tell them to get a room.

With that said, I was ready to give Milan a big, sloppy, wet kiss and say ciao, baby. After a nine-hour flight to New York, a three-hour layover, a 90-minute flight to Indy and a 45-minute taxi ride, we finally arrived home. Not that I haven’t solidly enjoyed our trip and the food that it entailed, but I’m in the mood to cook up some of the most un-Italian dishes I can think of for the next few days. Chicken stir-fry, here I come!

Whole latte love

Before I begin, I must mention that along with an outstanding continental breakfast spread, our hotel makes the most beautiful cappuccinos you’ve ever seen. Seriously. As my husband says, they are latte art! Coffee here is serious business. I think hubby’s probably going to cry when he has to return to the watery espresso of Indianapolis as compared to the real-deal Italian version.

the most perfect cappuccino ever!

Lots to report from the past few days, but not much food-related! After Thursday night’s dinner and gelato, I awoke Friday feeling like crap. My tummy is still trying to figure out just what the hell I’m trying to put it through and decided to stage a major revolt. Perhaps not coincidentally, I realized that the two times I’ve felt ill on this entire trip have been after eating gelato. Alas, no more of the frozen concoction for me. I’m not really a frequent ice cream eater anyway, so guess I’ll just go back to the occasional Haagen Daz at home.

So, my breakfast Friday morning consisted of hot peppermint tea. For lunch, I shared a few peanut butter crackers with the toddler and ate a pear. I felt somewhat recovered by dinner time that night, which was a quick crudo/mozzarella sandwich at hubby’s trade show and the rest of the fresh fruit cup that the toddler didn’t finish. Still not sure exactly what crudo is, will have to research. It’s like a super-salty meaty proscuitto kinda thing. You find paper-thin slices of it in sandwiches and salads and such; like bacon, a little goes a long way for flavor.

Speaking of the trade show, we got an opportunity on Friday to check it out and see just what hubby’s been up to all week. The EICMA show took place at Fiera Milano, a HUGE-ass convention center. This event was enormous – something like 18 full-size pavilions bursting at the seams with all things motorcycle. TONS of people (mostly men, surprise, surprise) everywhere. Supplies, equipment, racing schwack, the bikes themselves – it was absolutely overwhelming. The toddler and I took a cab to the show and somehow managed to locate hubby’s exhibition stand amid the chaos. It was seriously something to see and I’m glad we went to understand what all the fuss was about. The toddler had a blast running up and down the aisles; he was so excited by all the lights and noise and motorcycles, I thought his little head would explode.

A quick tangent – It’s interesting to note the difference between public reactions to the toddler here and in Germany. Last week, people didn’t really pay him much mind, with a few exceptions here and there such as the kind Asian gentleman at our hotel. Here, he is a total rock star. Nobody looks twice when he makes a high-pitched squeal in a restaurant. In Germany, I was half-expecting someone to ask us to leave when that happened. Women fawn all over the kid in Italy (even more so now that we’ve taught him to blow kisses on command). He’s got the female staff at the hotel absolutely wrapped around his little finger. Even at the trade show, people we didn’t know were smiling at him and taking photos of him sitting on the bikes. It’s all very sweet, really.

Saturday was perhaps the best day I’ve had here in Milan. I have to say, Milan did not make a good first impression on me, but I’ve slowly warmed up to it within the past few days. It’s kind of a hard place to get used to right off the bat, but after a week, I feel like I’ve sorta gotten the hang of how things work. A little bit anyway. I actually gave someone on the street instructions on how to find the right tram line yesterday! In English, mind you, but I still knew the answer!

Got up yesterday and headed out on our daily walk. On a whim, I decided to give “The Last Supper” one last go. The toddler and I were never able to board the tram line that would have taken us to the nearest stop, so we just boarded the one we’ve been riding to the Duomo all week, got as close as we could and walked the rest. As it turned out, this was a happy accident. The section of town we strolled through to get to Santa Maria Della Grazie was the most beautiful area I’ve seen all week.

We got to the church at 11:45 a.m., I entered the ticket office and crossed my fingers. I told the man behind the desk that we didn’t have a reservation, but wondered if there might be any cancellations this weekend. I don’t know if he was being honest, or if he merely cut me a break because I was pushing a stroller all around downtown Milan, but he hooked me up with a ticket for a viewing at 12:15. SCORE! I was thrilled! And it was just enough time to feed the toddler some lunch, another bonus.

Small groups of around 25-30 people are allowed to view the painting in 15-minute increments throughout the day. They keep things moving on a strict schedule; at five minutes prior to your allotted time, they call you in. Visitors are herded through two vestibules on the way in with doors that keep each crowd self-contained in one small space at a time. Finally, you enter THE room.

The painting is huge – 15 feet by 30 feet, I believe – and takes up an entire wall of what was once a church dining hall. There is now nothing else in the room, with the exception of a couple benches and another huge painting of the crucifixion opposite “The Last Supper.” All the focus is on the art. The painting is massive, and honestly, breathtaking. A docent gave a little narrative about it in several different languages, all of which I missed as I was keeping an eye on the toddler, overjoyed at being allowed to run free for a few minutes within the closed room. On the way into the church, I was furious to realize that my camera battery had gone flat, but as it turned out, it didn’t matter. They are deadly serious about not allowing any photos inside. A Japanese man kept trying to sneak one in, and they busted him every time. On his last attempt, a big booming voice came over an unseen P.A. system announcing “NO PHOTO!!!” I about jumped out of my skin; it was like an edict from God. I kept looking around for armed guards to storm in and take the poor man away.

After 15 minutes, you’re ushered out again and that’s that. It really isn’t enough time to take it all in and appreciate the level of detail that Da Vinci put into this commissioned work. No wonder it took him something like three years to complete. The painting has gone through several restorations over the years, the most recent taking place within the past few decades. I just can’t begin to describe how impressive it is. If you’re ever in Milan, this is definitely something you should try to do. It was well worth all the trials and tribulations I went through to get there.

I was enjoying this new area I’d discovered so much that when the toddler nodded off in his stroller, I just let him snooze and found a not-quite-rip-off cafe overlooking the Piazza del Duomo for my own lunch. Again, nothing fancy, just a Caprese panino (no tuna this time) and a Coke. I enjoyed it at my leisure while people-watching and taking in the lovely Duomo.

We caught the tram back and I decided to get off a few stops early to explore a promising-looking street market I’d glimpsed earlier on the way downtown. Turns out, the few stands I’d seen from the tram were just the tip of the iceberg; this market continued on down one of the side streets for about six blocks! Unlike the Paris markets, there weren’t many food vendors, and what they had wasn’t nearly as top-shelf. However, this seemed THE place to be for designer knockoff shoes, purses, wallets and belts, plus a bunch of other clothing vendors and some trinkety stuff. I bought a beautiful (and seems to be nicely made) brown leather wannabe Prada bag for 30 euros, and a silky cashmere-ish sweater top for 20. FINALLY, some shopping I could afford in Milan! Now I actually can go back home with something to show for my visit.

We’d been away from Il Pavone for two nights in a row, so were due for a return last night. Dinner was good, although I have to wonder if Maria’s got it in for me somehow. There was the whole steak confusion last time, and then last night, she forgot my salad. Feeling up to tackling some pasta again, I filled up on spaghetti bolognese and a little taste of hubby’s pizza. It was good, as everything is, but not the best thing I’ve had there.

After busting ass all week, hubby’s hoping to get things wrapped up at a decent hour tonight. Today’s the last day of his show, and I’d really love to take him back downtown and introduce him to my newly discovered territory from yesterday. We’ll see, hopefully it will work out. Tomorrow, we’re off on a road trip to Ducati, the Rolls-Royce of the motorcycle world, and hope to pay a visit to the world-famous Dario the butcher and taste some of his culinary delights. I’m excited to get out of the city and see some of the Italian countryside. A domani, mi amici!

Basta pasta

Never thought I’d say this, but I’m getting sick of spaghetti. I broke my five-day pasta streak last night. I had to. Between chocolate croissants for breakfast every morning, Caprese panini for lunch and pasta every night, my body was going into carbohydrate shock. Yesterday afternoon, I came down with a terrible stomachache and decided enough was enough. Or as the Italians say, “basta.”

For last night’s Il Pavone dinner, I considered going light with a bowl of soup and a salad, until I saw the steaks being delivered to the diners seated to my right. Remembering that I hadn’t eaten meat since Germany, I decided I probably could use a good dose of protein and iron. Tagliata, or sliced steak, topped with mushrooms sounded like just the ticket. Patrick’s colleague was also in a red meat frame of mind and ordered from the steak portion of the menu as well, but when our plates arrived, we couldn’t tell whose was whose.

One plate arrived hot and sizzling, like an Italian fajita platter, slices of steak topped with arugula and big shavings of parmesan. The other dish was a big hunk of meat with a mushroomy-peppercorn sauce. Hubby’s friend and I were both a little confused. I thought I had ordered my meat topped with mushrooms; he thought he’d ordered his topped with peppers. We traded plates, but still couldn’t figure out whether or not we were actually eating the correct order. In the end, we just split them down the middle and everyone was happy. I don’t even remember what hubby ordered, I was so into the beef. At least, I assume it was beef. If it wasn’t, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know about it.

The sizzling platter was delicious and the parmesan lent a touch of richness. And I always forget how much I like arugula until I get it on something in a restaurant. (Note to self: seek out arugula at Indy supermarkets.) The peppercorn sauce on the other steak was really spicy with crunchy whole roasted peppercorns that added a good amount of heat without blowing your head off. The steak was really on the rare side and though I’m more of a medium-well girl, it was so good I didn’t care. With a generous mixed veggie salad to round things out, the only carbs I ingested for the whole meal were a few bites of the toddler’s breadsticks.

My plan today was to try to see Michaelangelo’s “The Last Supper.” The original painting is housed in a church here called Santa Maria Della Grazie. The only hangup is, you’re supposed to make a reservation for a viewing. Weeks in advance. Hmph. The concierge here at the hotel gave me hope, however, that we might be able to just show up, wait on line and snag an unused reservation for one of the daily no-shows. I got directions, found out which tram line to take, and the toddler and I set out.

In typical Italian fashion, everything ends up taking MUCH longer than you think it’s going to, and you can’t ever count on anything to run efficiently or on time. We stood at the tram stop waiting patiently while the old step-up model trams that we can’t get the stroller onto passed us by again and again. After an hour, I gave up. Ever the little trooper, the toddler hung in there without too much complaining. Maybe we’ll try again another day. Or maybe not.

Changing gears, we hopped on the tram going away from the inner city and rode it to the Cimitero Maggiore (cemetery) at the other end of the line. It was a beautiful blue-sky day, and I figured it would be a good place to let the kid run free for awhile.

This cemetery has to be the most elaborately decorated resting place I’ve ever seen. The entrance is marked with huge stone gates and lined with half a dozen flower stands. Once through the entry, the graves and mausoleums are adorned with arresting statues depicting all manner of Catholic verses — the crucified Jesus laying across Mary Magdalene, life-size angels, Jesus gathering lambs. There are also stained glass inlays in marble headstones, whole series of family portraits atop the graves, and TONS of fresh flowers everywhere. This place is so scrupulously maintained, I didn’t see any browned or dried-out blooms at all. It was so peaceful and super interesting to stroll around, and we only covered a very small section near the front.

The toddler kept wanting to stop and rearrange the rock borders and then he tripped and fell straight into a muddy puddle, so I corralled him back into the stroller amid violent protest. We started walking toward the hotel, on the lookout for a little cafe we could duck into for a quick lunch, but nothing really jumped out at me and we were cutting into the toddler’s nap by that point, so we just continued on all the way back. I grabbed a fairly decent prepackaged salad at the supermarket along the way to eat in the room.

We planned to meet up with hubby downtown by the Duomo when he finished up with his trade show for the day, so I decided to try a new approach to get the toddler to eat something other than crackers and cheese. Some might call it an act of desperation. We went to McDonald’s.

I quickly discovered the Mickey D’s in the Duomo piazza is home to ALL sorts of humanity. I ordered a Happy Meal for the toddler, grabbed a stool in the back of the restaurant and hoped for the best. Alas, he only wanted to eat the fries. I did manage to get a fruit cup and some yogurt down his throat as well. I’m really going to have my work cut out getting his diet back on track once we get home.

We still had an hour or so to kill before hubby was due to meet us, so we went strolling around the shopping district yet again. There are some absolutely beautiful old buildings here. I’d love to go on a guided tour to learn more about the city and its colorful history, but don’t think I’ll get the opportunity before we leave next week.

Hubby made it through the metro, we reconvened and meandered over to a place I’d spotted just off the piazza. Most of the dining establishments in the general Duomo area seem to be total tourist traps, and Merchanti Caffe was no exception. After eating high on the hog and easy on the wallet at Il Pavone all week, the meal we had tonight honestly outraged me.

Hubby ordered his standard pizza salami, a good-sized pie to be fair, and I ordered the risotto con funghi (rice with mushrooms). We also had one beer and one rather stingy but delicious glass of wine. Our total bill: around 50 euros. That’s like 70 bucks or so. For 50 euros, three of us could easily have stuffed ourselves senseless at Il Pavone. With drinks.

My plate of risotto could have been a side dish. It was not a lot of food. There was no bread, no salad, no nothing else. Just a scoop of risotto. For 13 euros. My glass of wine cost about the same. NOT good value. To give you a comparison, I saw a sidewalk chalkboard outside a cafe near our hotel advertising a lunch consisting of a first course (pasta), second course (meat or fish), bread, 1/4 liter of house wine AND coffee all for a mere 9 euros.

I finished my risotto (quickly) and was still starving, but I wasn’t about to order anything else there at those prices. The waiters were very nice to us and I guess you pay for the ambiance, but I didn’t feel it was worth what we paid at all.

After settling the tab, hubby chased the toddler while I thought about picking up a sandwich or dessert elsewhere. If I’d known I was only going to get a small plate or rice and a few shrooms, I would have eaten the rest of the rejected Happy Meal earlier! As it was, I used the occasion as an excuse to wander back to the unbelievably beautiful gelato counter I’d found on previous excursions.

ah, gelato!!!

I got a medium cone, which could have easily passed for a large in my book, and three good scoops of my choice of gelato flavors to fill it. After much difficult consideration, I opted for the chocolate fondant, milky vanilla and creamy walnut versions. It was the mother ice cream cone and, at three euros, almost totally alleviated the bad feelings from my overpriced dinner.

As soon as I got back to hubby and the toddler, the two of them immediately commandeered my cone and I was relegated to sharing. No matter, I was finally full about halfway through.

The grass is always greener

I’ve been getting some comments from people about how jealous they are of our travels, which leaves me with mixed feelings. On one hand, I know that we are truly, truly fortunate to be able to visit so many amazing places, and to go so often to Europe thanks to hubby’s work. There is no way we could afford to travel like this if his expenses weren’t already being comped, and I am thankful that the toddler and I have opportunities to tag along with him as often as we do. But before you start gagging, let me mention a few of the harsher realities of these trips.

For starters, I hate to fly. Planning any trip that involves air travel immediately instills in me a slight-to-moderate sense of panic. Hubby says if he had a choice, he’d rather fly solo with the toddler than with me any day. I’m ok once we get to where we’re going, but in the days and weeks beforehand, a certain level of anxiety is always in the background.

Throw in the fact that traveling with a toddler is, at best, a little tricky. At worst, it can be a complete nightmare. Depending on what country you’re in, people may or may not be helpful. This is the first big trip we’ve taken with our little guy since he’s started walking, and trying to convince him to sit on our laps for a eight- or nine-hour flight or train ride doesn’t always go over well. Plus, he’s not been spending any time in the stroller back home, so I’m sure he can’t really understand why he has to once again tolerate being strapped back in for hours at a time. It must feel like a demotion.

When it boils down to it, the whole reason we’re here is for hubby’s work. And he works HARD. Long hours are involved. When he’s doing a trade show like this, he takes off early in the morning and we don’t see him again until dinner. Maybe. If there’s a mix-and-mingle business function he needs to attend, he may not get back to the hotel until after we’re already in bed. We’re not a happy tourist family on vacation, strolling down cobbled streets hand-in-hand. Although we do get lucky and spend an occasional free day together, and we go to bed and wake up in the same room, the toddler and I are pretty much left to our own devices. When the weather’s bad, we may end up spending an entire day stuck in a small hotel room, trying to keep ourselves entertained with music videos and German or Italian-dubbed episodes of “Happy Days” and “Spongebob Squarepants.” If that doesn’t quickly make a person stir-crazy, I don’t know what will.

For better or for worse, we’ve been totally reliant on/at the mercy of public transportation in the European cities where we’ve been. While I really like the focus on pedestrian accessibility here, it is a little bit limiting. There are buses and trams and the like, but it can be a problem at times trying to maneuver a stroller on and off the things. Many require stairs; not a possibility with a stroller.

Out of all the cities in Italy, Milan is not somewhere I would choose to go of my own accord when there are other options like Rome, Florence and Venice so nearby. I would love, love, love to take the toddler on a daytrip or even an overnight to another city, but between lugging along his carseat for the cab ride to the train station, the stroller, a suitcase, a diaper bag, my purse, and the little man himself, I just don’t see how I can pull it off. There’s no way I can juggle that amount of schwack on my own.

And just because we are away from home, we’re still slave to the toddler’s schedule. This can quickly ruin your intentions of spending an entire afternoon strolling through the Louvre, taking a day-long bus tour through the Tuscan countryside, or whiling away an evening getting looped on the local wines at a charming little enoteca. When we’re figuring out what to do or see for the day, consistent meal times and a nap have to be factored in. So if we’ve taken the tram into the inner city here in Milan, for instance, I have to make sure that I’ve packed snacks, milk and a lunch, and that we get back to the hotel in time for a nap. Otherwise, the kid turns into a complete terror and will sit in his stroller screaming while hubby and I try to “enjoy” our own dinners later in the day.

Which brings me to food. Although hubby and I are fairly good at adapting to the local cuisines wherever we are, the toddler is something of a picky eater. Buying baby/toddler food in a foreign language can be a guessing game, although the photos on the packaging are helpful when it comes to figuring out the contents. Some of the offerings are things you would never in a million years see on U.S. shelves, though. I can’t imagine feeding a baby pureed lamb, trout, rabbit or horsemeat (I kid you not), but apparently, they do here. I basically follow the guideline that I don’t serve anything to the toddler that I wouldn’t want to eat myself, and I definitely am crossing those jars off the list.

There are tons of baby-food fruit options and sweets, but I can’t locate any toddler-appropriate vegetables to save my life. Fave American standbys like mac and cheese are nowhere to be found. Instead, we’re left to try blends like ham with pasta and hope for the best. We’re also attempting to expand the toddler’s culinary horizons by offering him tastes from our own plates. This usually has not gone well, with the exception of tiramisu. He has decidedly refused many (what we consider  yummy) bites with a grimace, and pretty much subsisted on breadsticks, crackers and cheese since we’ve been in Italy. Thank goodness you can find yogurt, applesauce and bananas everywhere, otherwise we’d really be in trouble.

Also, we must always remember to request hotel staff to empty the minibar fridge in our room so we can use it for milk, and we’ve become really adept at washing bottles and spoons in hotel sinks.

So there you go. Does that mean I would rather stay home and forego these adventurous excursions because they’re a little trickier with a little man along for the ride? Of course not. Does that mean you should be jealous? Eh, that’s your call.

Now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, here’s the food report for the past few days. We’re quickly becoming regulars at Il Pavone. With the exception of the site of the tuna/Caprese salad fiasco, we’ve eaten there every night since we’ve been here. As hubby says, when he’s coming off a long day of work and he’s tired and starving, he doesn’t want to guess whether a restaurant will be good or not. He wants to go somewhere he can count on getting a large beer and a solid dinner. I don’t disagree at all, and Il Pavone’s menu is big enough to offer plenty of options. I’m going to try to make it through the whole week without ordering the same thing twice. So far, so good.

Two nights ago, I had a simple and delicious risotto with asparagus and topped it off with a ramekin of tiramisu for dessert (which the toddler decided he liked and ate half of). I also realized that I have unintentionally ordered vegetarian dishes every night since we’ve been here. Not that I have anything against the meat, and I will probably order some at some point; the veggie pastas have just appealed to me the most.

Last night, hubby had the delicious fusilli della casa I ordered on our first visit (which may be my favorite so far); I ordered a tortellini pomodoro with a side of steamed spinach. Hubby’s work pal got an insanely good-looking lobster linguine concoction and a huge calzone. That guy can EAT. Everything went down very well. I’ve taken to all but drenching my food with the olive oil they serve on each table as a condiment. I swear, the stuff is so good, I could just stick a straw in the bottle and drink it.

Il Pavone fusilli della casa

tortellini pomodoro

lobster linguini

Online, I found an Americans in Milan club, similar to the one I’d latched onto in Cologne, and yesterday was the group’s monthly coffee get-together. I got directions and the toddler and I navigated our way there without too much problem. I’m sorry to say, it wasn’t a good experience. It wasn’t really an American group, but more of a welcome-newcomers-to-Milan thing for women of all nationalities. Which was fine. However, the women there were a much older, ladies-who-lunch-type crowd, all dressed up in their finery (thank goodness I’d worn a skirt), many wearing hats and scarves. Not really my scene. The toddler, ready to burst out of his stroller after a 45-minute tram ride/walk, ran riot through the whole gathering, effectively curtailing any plans I had of relaxing over a coffee and a chat with the ex-pats. I was lucky to get a few words in edgewise with anyone before I was off and chasing him again.

At one point, I was simultaneously trying to talk with a very kind Asian woman; hold my purse, a sippy cup and the diaper bag; and bounce the squirming toddler in my arms. Whining and wanting to get down, the strong little bugger suddenly bucked hard. I lost my grip on him and barely caught him by the leg before he plunged to the hardwood. It completely scared the shit out of both of us.

So there I am, weighed down with bags and a screaming toddler hanging upside down from my hand about six inches above the floor. In front of an entire room of snooty women, who immediately started gasping and disapprovingly clicking their tongues in a judgmental manner. The wonderful Asian lady was the only one who even attempted to help me. I lowered the toddler to the floor as gingerly as I could, picked him up firmly and hauled ass out of there. I was hyperventilating and sobbing by the time I got onto the street and, with shaking hands, had to call hubby at the show to talk me down from the ledge. For the rest of the day, I was freaked out about how close I came to breaking his poor little neck. I can’t even think about it now without wanting to vomit.

All’s well that ends well, I suppose. I don’t imagine any of those ladies will be emailing to invite me out for coffee again anytime soon, though.

Ciao-ing down in Milan

Last night, I finally got a taste of the good life in Milan. In a show of effort to embrace the Milanese lifestyle and culture, I dolled up in a dress and my leather boots for the evening, although I knew I’d never really give the local women a run for their money. We braved the tram again to head into the city around dinner time and took a nice stroll around the Duomo and through the shopping district. THIS is where the action is – finally, some actual people watching and things to do and see! The place was full and busy, even in spite of the continued drizzling rain.

The Duomo was lit up with a million lights, and when you get up close, you realize the amount of detail that’s gone into the creation of this spectacular monument. A religious service was going on at the time, but we were still able to take a peek inside at the back of the breathtaking sanctuary. We didn’t stay long, but seriously, you could stand there for an hour just getting lost in one thing after another – gorgeous stained glass windows, murals, the soaring arched ceilings, the incredibly life-like statues. Simply amazing. I’m running out of words to describe it accurately.

In a complete juxtaposition, there is an enormous LED screen situated just next to the Duomo, lighting up the piazza with flashing lights and advertisements. About a million very coddled pigeons make their home in the piazza as well, tame as can be. It seems to be something of a tourist trap enterprise to take pictures of visitors amid the fluttering crowds of the critters. One such gentleman approached us and offered to take a photo of us, all the while tossing out kernels of corn to attract the birds in droves. Thanks, but no thanks. He was pretty pushy and refused to take no for an answer, following us nearly halfway across the piazza before he finally realized we weren’t biting.

The most prestigious shopping area in Milan is called the “Quadrilatero d’Oro,” which I believe translates to the “gold district” or something along those lines. It’s like Beverly Hills, Michigan Avenue and Manhattan, all rolled into one. A huge selection of stores, mainly of the highest high-end variety. The granddaddy original Prada store is here, the first haute couture shop of its kind in Milan, and it’s something like 100 years old. We weren’t able to locate it during our brief walk, but I plan to go back to get a look, even if it’s just at the exterior.

Hubby and his colleague stopped in their tracks at the sight of the Ferrari store. A spin inside was a given, and it was admittedly pretty cool. All manner of racing paraphernalia awaited inside, including a full-size open-wheel race car. Race car noises sounded over a P.A. anytime anyone walked in the door, and a well-dressed gentleman at the entrance handed out Ferrari labeled plastic bags for wet umbrellas. Hubby looked like a kid in a candy store.

After managing to pry hubby away, we decided to find a sidewalk cafe where we could enjoy a drink and feed the toddler. We snagged a table at one of the many such establishments and ordered up. There is a definite price difference between the main tourist area and the outer-lying neighborhood where we are staying. A happy surprise, though — the waiter delivered our drinks and then brought out a very generous array of little nibbles as well. It sort of made up for the inflated price of the wine and beer. We noshed on olives, pickles, slices of proscuitto and salami on fresh bread and potato chips. A thoughtful addition.

The snacks only served to whet our appetites, so we caught the tram back to our neck of the woods for dinner. Hubby’s work buddy suggested we go to a pizzeria down the street, one he’d been to the night before and enjoyed. Why not. This place was about the same as Il Pavone, very simply decorated with a scattering of tables, a large tv mounted on the wall and an impressive wood-fired oven from which delicious-looking pizzas kept emerging. The menu seemed much the same as well, pizzas, pastas, salads and grilled meats/fish.

I ordered some of the house white wine, one of the best deals around in my book. In these small restaurants, you can get 1 liter, ½ liter or ¼ liter of the house red or white on the SUPER cheap. My ¼ liter was enough for two smallish glasses and cost just two euro. SCORE! It’s not the best wine I ever had, but for two euros?? It was a fabulous value.

Foodwise, hubby and I decided to share a Caprese salad; I ordered tagliatelle pasta with porcini mushrooms and he selected the penne arrabiata. The pastas arrived first – mine was a very simple plate of flat noodles with slices of mushroom nested within. A drizzle of olive oil and some parmesan cheese was all it needed. Nothing fancy, but certainly tasty. Hubby’s penne had the thinnest coating of tomato sauce and a nice little kick of spicy heat.

tagliatelle with porcini mushrooms

penne arrabiata

Hubby’s friend put us to shame, ordering a shrimp cocktail starter, spaghetti bolognese AND grilled sea bass. The shrimp cocktail wasn’t like anything I’d ever seen – a small dish of tiny baby shrimp mixed into a mayonnaise/cocktail sauce and eaten with a fork. He said it was good. The fish was delivered whole and the waitress deftly boned it for him at the table. It looked really, really tasty.

A predicament ensued, though. Hubby and I were expecting our Caprese salad to be a simple plate of sliced tomatoes and fresh mozzarella cheese with basil, as advertised in the menu. When the waitress plunked down a huge entree-sized bowl containing a pile of veggies topped with tuna, we were confused. Her English was not very good, but I tried to inquire about the Caprese with helpless gestures. The best I could understand, she insisted that what she’d given us WAS the Caprese. Ok. I may be a naïve American, but I have eaten in a lot of Italian restaurants and I have never seen a Caprese salad that consists of an enormous bed of lettuce topped with corn, tomato bits, tuna, imitation crabmeat rolls and God knows what else.

Hubby hates fish, so he wasn’t having any of it. I did my best to eat a few bites, but all I could taste was tuna. Which was ok, but not what we had wanted at all. I tried my best to fill up on some of the lettuce and just when I’d given up and pushed the bowl away, lo and behold. Here came our waitress again with a plate of sliced tomato and mozzarella. Our Caprese. Only now I was too full to eat it. She set it down on the table and scurried off with no further explanation, leaving us scratching our heads and wondering what the hell just happened. It was like dining in the Twilight Zone. Hubby dutifully ate a few bites, but the toddler was reaching the end of his patience and we were forced to end our meal tout-de-suite. A fine meal, but hubby and I decided we prefer Il Pavone.

A quick walk back to the hotel, where hubby and his friend enjoyed another beer at the bar and I chased the toddler through the lobby and around the fitness center. I’ve been a little worried that I may not last here the whole week, bored with nothing really to do, but tonight gives me hope.