Of love and of loss - Chicken Tikka Masala

 

 

This has been an extraordinary week, and as I start writing this post it is only halfway through.

 

Extraordinary as in "out of the ordinary" not " unusually great".

 

F and I spent the first two days of it sitting sweat-drenched in stiff, ceremonial outfits in the midst of a heatwave.
 

On Monday we wore the colors of mourning to say goodbye to an old friend. Needless to say, his departure was unexpected, shocking, painful and happened much too soon.

 

It is very different when you bid your farewell to a person that has lived a long, rich life. It is still extremely sad, but you know it is their time, it is part of the circle of life.

 

When, on the other hand, you sit in a pew surrounded by all the people who were a part of your formative years and you see grown men (and women) cry their eyes out, something is very wrong. You almost hear an unfinished life coming to a screaching halt. There is just grief, no comprehension. You feel the weight of injustice on your shoulders; as the priest talks you remember facial expressions, words said, moments spent together that had gone lost somewhere in your subconscious. While you sit in that church it seems everyone is suddenly a good friend... no, your best friend. You are all connected on an intimate level, you share that pain. Everyone has an air of empathy and well meaning. You mentally promise each other you will never forget, you will share the precious memories, you will be better friends, companions, parents, children from now on. You hug, you exchange tissues and bare a part of your soul you usually never let anyone see. And even if you pretend not to notice them, you feel the cold fingers of fear creaping up around your hairline at the mere thought that it could have been you. For days after you spend large amounts of your time being incredibly aware of and thankful for the beauty that surrounds you.

 

So yes, that was Monday.

Raw from the experience of the previous day and a tad unwilling, on Tuesday we donned the colors of summer. I stepped into a flowy, light dress and F replaced his somber tie with a bright one. We didn't even turn on the radio on the drive up to the wedding, our hearts were so heavy. Then, as we neared the mountains and crossed the border into another country, our mood got lighter and we started feeling almost elated.

The sky was blue, the lake sparkled in the sun and the beauty of the landscape enchanted us. Once more we silently thanked someone/something for the breathtaking world we live in.
 

It did us good to see a new family being created after seeing a broken family the day before. It is good for the soul to counterbalance salty tears of grief with the sweeter ones of sentiment. It soothes to see love, to see different cultures, religions, races come together instead of clashing. It helps to be reminded by an exchange of rings, or an email (you know who you are, thank you), how much love there is in the world and how brief our journey through it is.

 

 

It was wonderful to dig our feet into the sand, to see the white of a wedding day spruced up by the bright, warm colors of Africa. Hips in vibrant prints jiggled to the beat of drums, we did the conga to '80s disco music and during the cutting of the cake, an ancient song bid peace to be upon us. Evenu shalom alejem.
 
I felt guilty on my way to the wedding, like I was not  mourning my friend appropriately. But now I know I did what he loved most: I celebrated the awesomeness that is life, in good and bad. I celebrated friendship, I drank champagne, I danced barefoot in the sand. And by doing this I celebrated his life too.

This one is for you, my friend.

 

 

Indian cooking is a bit like life: a mix of contrasting ingredients and flavors. Spicy, sour, sweet, cool earthy. It is all about balacing these flavors to reach the sublime.

I used to be really intimidated by the enormous list of ingredients most Indian recipes require, but the truth is that once you invest in the basic, pantry-friendly range of spices called for, many favorites are just at an arm's reach.

Recipe from Indiaphile

Polpette al latte - veal meatballs (made with rolled oats) in milk sauce

 

 

We spent the week end with good friends in the country. We grilled, ate, drank and the kids all had the best time. We even got creative with what the local supermaket had to offer and made these. We were dreading the drive back in heavy traffic and pouring rain on Sunday evening, but it was actually fine. And although the kids didn't fall into a deep sleep as we had hoped, it turned out to be quite entertaining.

 

Snap shots from the back seat

  

Son (3 yrs): " Jesus died before me".

Daughter (7 yrs): "That's obvious ".  (Uh, yeah! That was a couple of thousand years ago).

                           "You aren't dead yet". (um, ooookaaaay...)

 

                                                                ***

                                                       

S: "Is there meat inside of us?"

 

                                                                ***

 

D: " What is your team?"

S (with great enthusiasm): "Goal!!!"*

D: "No!! What team do you support?!"

S: "..."

S: " What is a team?"

 

* He calls soccer or anything soccer related "goal". As in: "I played goal today in pre K". Or "Can you get me my goal ball?". Or "I want to wear my goal shoes" or "Are these goal pants Mommy?" referring to sneakers and sweat pants.
 

                                                                 ***

 

D: " Moooommy, can you put songs on? I want the Rumple Stiltskin CD"

S: "Nooo! I want Bruce Stiltskin".

 

No, we don't have the Shrek soundtrack in the car. That would be Robbie Williams and Bruce Springsteen. As said by my Italian children.

 

                                                                 ***

 

Turning Tables was blasting on the speaker.

S (wagging his finger at Adele): "Non si grida - screaming is a no-no!"

                                                                 ***

 

This next one is from yesterday during story time on the couch, not Sunday in the car, but I couldn't resist.

S: "Mommy, this isn't The Three Little Pigs... look! One, three, four, five, six, eight.

  

The Boss and Tizzy's N.Y. Bar & Grill




On Monday evening, for almost an hour, I was thirteen again. The good thirteen, not the insecure, pimply version of teens. The thirteen of life-long friendships, unrequited love, a clean slate of adulthood and opportunity stretching ahead of me. The thirteen of colt-like, tanned limbs and cherry lip gloss, of slushies and wine coolers.

It is not often that you get to step into a time machine, it is not often that your teenage dream comes true.

 

The other night Bruce and the E Street Band played the whole soundtrack of my early teens in sequence - just like I had listened to it so many times that the cassette broke and I had to tape it back together - and I was there, singing with him.

Nothing like the notes of that album can bring back those warm summer evenings spent hidden on the back porch roof, that handful of scorching black tiles where everything I wanted and needed was at arm's reach. My best friend, a soda or two, and shared stories over stolen menthol cigarettes of holding hands under a beach towel and sloppy kisses. We sometimes changed the names and words of his songs to create our own stories, our own oaths, but his music was always with us, in the boom box on the window sill,  in our walkman. We sang about factories closing down, unions cards and relationships gone bad, but we only heard what our young ears wanted to hear: love, adventure, lust, camaraderie.



Chocolate milk shake

Time changes things and almost three decades later, I have changed too. Now, when I listen to the Boss, I see the whitewashed windows and vacant stores*, not just the girls in their summer clothes. The only one who never seems to change is Bruce himself, jumping up onto the piano in one leap after singing and running all over the huge stage without a single break for over three hours. The man was born to run.

 

Leaving San Siro - Good bye Bruce

 

I sang my heart out to my very own Bobby Jean, remembering how we used to sing in the car at the top of our lungs with our windows rolled down. I hummed to I'm on Fire using the flashlight app on my iphone instead of a lighter. I clapped my hands until they were sore and went down, down, down with him and the other 60,000 enthusiastic fans in the stadium. And as I sang along about those glory days that will pass you by in the wink of a young girl's eyes, I realized that I had been that girl  too.

Thank you, Bruce, for the magic. And for working on  my dream.



Fries come with all burgers



If, like me, you were born in the U.S.A. and you get homesick sometimes, I suggest trying out Tizzy's N.Y. Bar & Grill, a place that reminded me of my hometown.

Although it is a definitely more hip, Milanese incarnation of your typical American blue-collar diner, it is definitely the most authentic American meal I have experienced here so far.



Beer from home

It was the logo of the Brooklyn Brewery (and the disenchanted hope for a decent burger) that first lured us in like the Odyssey's sirens, as it brings back many memories of good friends and great food shared on the other side of the pond. We couldn't resist the calling and it helped us get through the long wait in a place that unfortunately does not accept reservations for parties under 8 for Sunday brunch .



Jumbo hot dog

Week end links

 

 

We have a busy week end ahead of us with lots of playdates, most of which the fun kind: the kids in one room playing and parents in the other enjoying cocktails and finger food. What are your plans?

 

Here are some links to things I am liking these days. If you are having a lazy week end moment, enjoy.

 

Dreaming of a getaway in one of these (minus the reality show).

 

Getting ready for an amazing Monday night reading this and watching this. According to weather reports, looks like we won't be singing "Who'll stop the rain".

 

Look what I got in the mail yesterday. My next read.

 

I might just have to take my kids to try these. After opening temporary stores in London, Paris, Amsterdam, Sao Paolo and Shanghai, they are now open in Milan until end September. Choose your own flavor, coating and topping.

 

Who ever said carrots are boring? Or eggplant?

 

Have a good one!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Garlic miso chicken wings

 

 

 

Chirp, chirp, chirp.

 

My exchange with my interlocutor was abruptly interrupted by a cricket. What was a cricket doing in my office in the center of Milan? I ignored it and kept arguing my point.

 

Chirp, chirp, chirp.

 

Boy was this little guy insistent. And loud.

 

Chirp, chirp, chirp.

 

Suddenly I was in my pjs, under a warm duvet and it was raining outside.

 

Chirp, chirp, chirp.

 

I reached for my phone and turned off the alarm. I listened to the pouring rain and willed myself to get up.

 

As I dragged myself to the bathroom I was surprised how tired I felt. I went out last night but I got home early and didn't even have a glass of wine. I must be getting old, I thought as I yawned.

 

After showering and dressing, I dragged myself down the stairs. I opened the front door and looked out: still raining, but not too much, and the sky looked light and promising.

 

I slipped on my rain cape and biked to work. When I got there, I was happy to be one of the first to park my bike. On a rainy day this did not come as a surprise, but still I was happy knowing I wouldn't have to wrangle my bike out of the knot of handlebars and bike locks when I went home in the afternoon.

 

 

I moaned when I saw the front door to the building was still locked. The last thing I felt like was looking for my keys in my bag under my cape in the rain. It was certainly not the first time I had arrived before the concierge, but it usually only happens when I get to the office at 7:00am, not on the days I go at 7:30am like today. She probably got stuck somewhere waiting for a less crowded bus. That is why I prefer my bike, especially in the rain, I thought smugly.

 

However, when I got up to my floor and noticed the slip in the door that night surveillance leaves after their customary check I got suspicious. I badged to open the door and in front of me stretched a long, omniously dark hallway. Everything was quiet. I turned on the lights and walked to my office wondering if I had slept through some apocalyptic event. Or was I still dreaming?

 

And then it hit me. I checked my watch.

 

6:25am.

 

Yup. I'm that girl in the romantic comedy that does stupid things that you scoff at with your friends. "Yeah right, like anybody in real life would be stupid enough to get up, get ready and go to work without ever looking at their watch or noticing it was the crack of dawn!".

 

Only, when that girl does it she is cute and funny (and beautiful and in her early twenties). I am just a sleep deprived forty year-old with ruffled hair and bags under my eyes.

 

 

 

  

I am the idiot who set the wrong alarm on my phone, the one right on top of the one I wanted, the one  I noramlly set to go running. The one that rings exactly an hour earlier.

 

In my defence, despite the fact that I am wearing a turtleneck to work today (I am serious), it is spring and it is already light at 6:10am and there was enough traffic to not make me suspicious. And it was raining and I was wearing a rain hood under my helmet and so I was not really looking around enjoying my ride, taking in the details. So yeah, in my defence...

Totally unrelated, but delicious nonetheless, here is a great go-to recipe from Nami's blog, Just One Cookbook. I am sure you already know her but just in case you don't, I highly suggest you visit her RIGHT. NOW.

I have already made these twice. The first time I used a ckicken breast that I cut into bite-size pieces and then skewered, yakitori style. Very good, except I mixed red and white miso paste as suggested, but my red miso paste is really strong and it left a bit of a bitter after taste. This time I went the chicken-wing way because we all love our crispy chicken skin here and only used white miso and it resulted in a more delicate flavor.

Strawberry cheesecake popsicles

 

 

Last night I skyped with my sister. We had a bad connection and we couldn't hear each other, so after trying to connect over and over we just resorted to making silly faces at each other, laughing with no sound and then hung up. That made me feel closer to her than a thousand words. There are not many people in the world you can do that with after the age of 7.  

 

When my new favorite workout song came on during my run early this morning, I felt elated and pushed a little harder, my legs burning, feet thumping to the quick beat of the tune.

 

My daughter woke up earlier than usual this morning and sat in the bathroom watching me put on make up. When I finished using the blush brush, she smelled it and said: "oooh, that smells soooooo good. It smells.... (pause to think), it smells just like you Mommy!"

 

After I hugged F good bye before I rushed off to work and he to the airport to catch a flight, I felt closer to him than I sometimes even feel when we are in the same room.

 

These are little things that make a day, a life, special. Especially today, especially when I think of families in Oklahoma. I am so fortunate. I send thoughts and prayers to them.

 

Make these creamy, slightly tangy popsicles and share with your family on a warm summer's day.

 

Adapted from here.

 

Ingredients (makes about 8, depending on mold size)

8 ounces/225gr cream cheese (I used a 200gr tub)
3/4 cup powdered sugar
1/3 cup milk
about 6-8 strawberries
4-6 standard sized graham crackers or Digestives
1 tbs melted butter
 

In a food processor add the cream cheese, powdered sugar  and milk, process until well combined and then add the strawberries. Pulse to combine.

 

Pour mixture into popsicle molds, leaving about 1 inch of the top empty for the crust and tap the molds to remove air bubbles.

 

Melt the butter. In a food processor add the graham crackers/Digestives and pulse until they are fine crumbs and add the melted butter while it is running. The mixture should be the texture of wet sand.

 

Divide the crumbs evenly between the popsicles and press down to compact. Insert the popsicle sticks and freeze.

 

The crumbs will loosen while eating, so I suggest eating over a plate and dipping the popsicle in the crumbs as you go along. Soooo good!

 

A few notes: this is more of a guideline than a recipe. You can use more or less strawberries and sub frozen ones for fresh ones. You can use any kind of milk or sugar, although you may have to play around with quantities. Also, if your strawberries are sweet and ripe, you will probably need less sugar. I used a little less. We don't get graham crackers over here, but Digestives work fine.

 

Blueberry apple pie

 

 

 

  

I will be honest with you, I made this pie about three weeks ago, so it has taken me more than a while to post about it and if I wait any longer, berry season will be over although it is just starting!

 

Blogging has taken a bit of a back seat in the past week or so. I have been spending long hours in the office and a lot has been going on. I feel like I am stuck in some TV show where people wear power suits and talk about mergers, acquisitions, migrations, black out periods and financial jargon that I don't even know how to use appropriately most of the time. So far so good, but I suspect there will be some ugly susprises ahead.

 

 

 

The few moments when I did have a chance to blog, my absolute priority was reviewing Tori's book because she had been so sweet to send it to me immediately and I was afraid that with everything that was going on it would, unjustly, sit on my desk for weeks before I got another chance.

So here I am now, posting about pie when pie is the last thing I can eat these days.

  

The time has come for me to cut down on calories and get in some extra exercise. It has been raining so much lately, I haven't been keeping up my normal running schedule and the winter months (I like to convince myself it was just them) have left their mark. My tummy is growing at an alarming pace and seems to have taken on a deceptive shape.

 

 

 

You know your no-pie time (perhaps this is a good instance to use the phrase black out period???) has come when two people (men for Pete's sake!) in three days enquire about your, ehm ...ripening state.

So, fine. You laugh it off when the octagenarian hanging out on a bench while you are helping your kid with his dangerously melting ice cream cone asks you whether your next one is a boy or a girl (trying to ignore the fact that this is usually a question people ask when you are visibly pregnant, definitely more than 4 months). After all, said octagenarian has little else to do all afternoon and he did witness the combined lethal effect of bending over AND forgetting to suck in your stomach whilst concentrating on dark dark chocolate dripping all over the place. It has happened before and it will happen again (although admittedly you had hoped not quite so soon). Big deal!

 

 

 

But when you are on your morning run and another runner crosses your path and gesticulates at your stomach with a surprised yet admiring look as if to say "expecting and running - you go girl!"...

That, Mr., is what I call crossing the line. Why the f*** do you think I am out running at 6am if not to get rid of that belly which, incidentally, is not THAT big???

Mental note to self: don't feel too good about yourself when all that running you have been doing starts giving you more shapely legs because apparently when the whole of you was out of shape, at least you looked fat and not pregnant!

So yes, I am not eating pie these days, but a girl can dream, can't she? Delicious flakey, buttery crust, warm cinnamony apples, juicy bursting berries, sweet crimson juices and cold vanilla ice cream... just make it because you can, will ya?