THE DISORGANIZED LEADING THE DISORGANIZED: TIP #1 - JOCK STRAP AS CHEESE STRAINER

One of my biggest hurdles in life is that during embryonic development the organization gene turned up missing. I apply the same theory of sports aptitude to organizational aptitude: you can be born with it like a natural athlete or can practice the shit out of it, which is what I am attempting. There is a much that high school sports can teach us, aside from how to use a jock strap as a cheese strainer.
It feels like the shit hits the fan everyday and everything is scattered everywhere. Where do I start? I run around my apartment in hopeless despair and only make the situation worse.
I start by picking up all the underthings my cat traipsed around the apartment in his jaws but I don't finish because I see that I left that bottle of unmentionable prescription meds out so I run to hide it away in a cabinet (even I can't look at it) but I don't get to close the door before I notice I left my vibrator on the nightstand in the bedroom. I open that drawer and scream at the chaos of batteries and used tissues inside then notice it could use a cleaning so I run it into the bathroom and look under the sink for the gallon of bleach but I see that the cat left me a smelly gift in the litter box. I scoop that up but forget to flush because I notice an even more special gift in the corner where I dropped my toothbrush. On and on. What began as an attempt to straighten up, leaves my home looking like a perverted horror house. Think back to a more innocent time.
I played basketball in high school and when I stood at the foul line, all eyes on me, I took a deep breath and focused just on that one shot. I forgot about all that happened in the game before and everything that was ahead. I dribbled once, bent my knees and took my shot, and didn't forget to follow through with my arms. It kept me right there, not rushing ahead and I made more shots that way.
Applying this to organizing my life helps. Task at hand: burn old photos from vacations with ex-boyfriend. Follow-through: finish them off until the are charred bits that disintegrate into thin air. You don't need scraps of paper soaked in lighter fluid near the candles of the shrine to your new boyfriend, do you? Done. Move on.
You can only do one thing at a time. So when you feel scatterbrained and like there is so much to do, breathe and think to yourself I can only do one thing at a time. Do this one task, finish it, then move on. Getting anxious about everything you have to afterwards is only going to make what you're doing less fun and you won't do the best job. Organize in the moment. One miserable task at a time!

APPY EAST!

Thats how all the old Sicilian ladies in my family say Happy Easter. APPY EAST!
And if the celebration happens to be on Long Island, where all New Yorkers tend to move, Nonna will say, "Jane, fah east, I go to long aye." (Jen, for Easter, I am going to Long Island.)

PASQUA 2010  

A CASA ASARO 

MENU’ 

Antipasti: 

- Sfincione Siciliano 

- Caponata 

- Olive, Salame & Pane 

Primi: 

- Lasagne alla Palermitana 

- Involtini di Melenzane ripieni di Capellini 

Secondi: 

- Carne mista alla brace (salsiccia, agnello, 

pollo, ecc) 

Contorni: 

- Insalata di Delizie Primaverili 

- Funghi ripieni 

- Kish di Zucchine 

Dolci: 

- Gelato 

- Torta alle Mandorle e Olio d’Oliva 

Bevande: 

- Prosecco, Vino Bianco, Vino Rosso, Acqua 

San Pellegrino, Espresso, Caffe’ Americano, 

Amaro, Zibibbo. 

PS. This Event is BYOC 

(Bring Your Own Chair) 

We already screwed up Easter...

...And its only Good Friday
   Our cousin Francesca was nice (and crazy) enough to invite the Galatiotos to her house this Easter Sunday. With all of our antics (well Nonna's) my mom Marcy just keeps saying, "that poor girl is never going to invite us over there ever again!" If she is smart she won't. We have a way of taking a nice day and whirl winding it into a maniacal affair. And its all Nonna's fault.
    Fra sent out this huge Sicilian menu. I am stoked! And there are a lot of people coming, so we are each assigned a menu item and have been instructed to bring our own chair. Easy enough, right? Not when you throw an 89 year old Sicilian lady in the mix, who may not be up to the task, but will feel the weight of God on her soul if she does not make the lasagna. Lasagna is not easy and every holiday Nonna looks like she is about to keel over after she makes it. We all tell her not to make it but secretly want her to because its so good. So of course, for Easter Nonna says, "No! I'm gonna makeh the lasagna!" 
    Marcy: "Mama, its too much work."
    Rocco: "Ma, don't make the lasagna."
    Nonna: "No! I'm gonna makeh the lasagna."
   A call to Francesca, "Nonna is making the lasagna." Fra so graciously accepts the offer. Probably a relief because its such a pain, to boil that slippery pasta, then make the meat sauce, layer it all together and don't forget the bechamel sauce. 
    Then Nonna's crazy switch goes off, "No! I don't wanna makeh the lasagna."
    There is no explanation. We don't get it. Marcy is so embarrassed that I get a call. 
    My response, "Fra doesn't care. Just tell her Nonna is old and crazy!"
    "Jen, can you text Fra that Nonna doesn't want to make the lasagna."
    This is how my parents get out of it because they supposedly cannot text. I mean Marcy still can't work the VCR, but its still a lame excuse. I text Fra because I am resigned to the craziness. I am so conditioned to it that if everything went smoothly I would think something is wrong.
    Of course Fra understands, she grew up in Sicily, the crazy old lady capital of the world. But you think we would be able to leave it alone, right? Of course not.
     Nonna, who makes an art out of driving my dad more insane than he already is says, "Rocco, no! I am making the ziti!"
      Ziti is not on the menu. And she is not making enough for everyone, just one tray. For over twenty people. It makes no sense. Nod and smile. 
     I go to my parents this morning and Rocco, while working on his laptop (but he can't text) says, "Jen I can only see you on weekends from now on. Your mother and I are getting a divorce! Don't talk to me until tomorrow."
     This is all about the ziti and whether they should drive Fra even more nuts with this new development. They are actually fighting about this. Rocco is writing a crazy email to Fra, while my mother (the only sane person in our family) is saying and I (half sane) agree, "Just leave it alone! We have already made such a mess. She is never going to invite us over there again!"
     But Rocco, just like Nonna, insists, "No! I am sending it to her!"


And here it is, the crazy email:

Subject: PASCQUA (Easter)


"Bellezza, (gorgeous)

Mia madre ha trovato le forze di fare un po di ziti. Che ci puoi fare, pazianza.
(My mother found the strength to make a little ziti. What can you do? Patience.)

Vuole fare 'na tigghia.
(She wants to make one tray.)

Chiedo scusa e perdono da parte di mia madre che ha volte puo' rompere
le balle pure a quelli che  ce l'hanno d'acciaio.
(I ask your pardon for my mother who has the ability of breaking balls made of steel.)

Mi dispiace.
(I am sorry.)

ROCCO

PS

Marcy e' cosi  mortificata che non ha potuto scriverti.
(Marcy is so mortified that she is not able to write to you.)

Di nuovo, scusa.
(One more time, sorry.)

Rocco, il rappista fallito.
(Rocco, the failed rapper.)
--
Rocco G. Galatioto"

Happy Easter!!!

Re: Curiosity

I got this email:
"hi, i'm filippo, italian of padua. your italian nickname is funny, i read casually an old post of yours about a chicken butchering story so i'm curious: are you able wringing chickens necks? ciao ciao"


Thanks filippo! I am respectfully posting your query, in no way to mock your near perfect and adorable English, but instead to make fun of the ridiculous ideas I write on this blog and how funny it is that people actually read them. To answer your question, I still haven't killed anything yet, even though I strongly believe if you eat it you should be able to kill it.


To that Fillipo wrote: 
"i think that a strong girl wringing a chicken's neck is cool, so i'd like to see you doing that..."


Now I need to find me a chicken. For Fillipo's sake!

USA vs. CANADA: they couldn't throw punches so we did

      My favorite friends are those who pull no punches, even if it leaves me with a major shiner. It almost came to that recently when Melissa told me to down my glass of Maker's then stumble up to her apartment and help her make cupcakes. I ruined the ganache, I tripped and spilled a gallon of cocoa powder all over the kitchen and into the nooks and crannies of Paul's prized record collection, then at the bar I insensitively tried to force feed a recovering alcoholic her whiskey laden cupcakes. (I still think if you are at a bar its safe to assume you can eat a freakin' cupcake!)
      All the while Melissa and I were fighting like two crazy old Sicilian ladies. Her kitchen control freak tendencies and my "its fine, who cares, they're just cupcakes?" mentality is a recipe for disaster. Why we don't have a cooking show together is beyond me? Its probably because they wouldn't be able to afford the insurance.
     So when we went to Daddy's Bar to watch the USA vs. Olympic Hockey game and Melissa asked me to help her make cupcakes again (chocolate hockey pucks), we were not surprised at our respective BF's eye-rolling and looks of concern.
     We left them to watch the game, knowing that in one way or another some craziness was about to ensue.
     I really was well-behaved. I kept my little paws in my pockets, so I couldn't mess anything up. And Melissa was her darling self, doling out expert baking advise while just throwing everything together, while I listened like a sweet wide-eyed hungry drooling puppy. What was wrong with us? This was not going to work.
     So we decided to play a little trick on the boys. The story: I was bitching to Melissa about something, not listening to her direction and saying, "Yeah I know how to do it," when I don't and in my clumsiness dropped an entire tray of cupcakes on the floor. (entirely believable). Melissa, losing her cool, then proceeds to punch me smack in the eye (scary, but also believable).
     Convenient that Melissa is also a trained make-up artist. Doesn't this look like a real shiner?
    I ran downstairs, and walked into the bar covering my eye, trying to look shocked. To conceal my laughter I nuzzled myself into Markus' shoulder and told the boys that Melissa hit me.
    Paul ran out of the bar pissed. When he got up to their place, Melissa played it off like a star and when he came back he said, "She did hit you!" He took another look, "Is that make-up?" then, "If I missed a goal I would have punched both of you in the faces!"
      Classic! And the cupcakes were as usual awesome. Thanks Melissa!

BUON COMPLEANO NONNA! Some more Sicilian craziness...

Happy 89th Birthday, Nonna! And another one, and another one, and another one...

Last year at this time, Nonna was in bad shape, in the hospital and we weren't sure she was going to make it through the holidays. But she has that Sicilian fight in her, and she is alive and spunky today and we are truly grateful, even though she doesn't exactly share that sentiment.

We took Nonna out to London Lennies, the best seafood restaurant in NYC which happens to be in the Queens hood. Top notch meal and top notch service.

It was a lot of crazy Galatioto Family fun, which culminated in the entire restaurant singing "Happy Birthday" to Nonna over a giant piece of cheese cake. Nonna's wish after she blew out the candles: "Natrannu un vulissi esseri essei 'cca" or "Next year I don't want to be here."

"Don't worry, Mama," Uncle Sal screamed across the table, "next year, we'll take you to Joe Abbraciamento's," (That's an all Italian joint up the block.) He knew full well she wasn't talking about the restaurant.

Claire, my bestest friend and our waitress was concerned.

"Was the service bad?" she asked.

"No, Claire, next year Nonna wants to be dead," I said.

And this is why Sicilians are insane. I rest my case.

Its 10pm (and snowing) do you know where your mutandine are?

You may be asking yourself WTF is mutandine? If you are asking this question, I am guessing you don't have a Sicilian Nonna. Mutandine or as I pronounce (moo-tun-dee-nee), is basically any undershirt and if you're from any of the outer boroughs you may refer to it as a stickball shirt or a wife beater.

As a child you did not go to Sunday dinner at Nonna's, even during a heat wave, without your mutandine. It was as if the mutandine possessed some magical powers that fought off the common cold and the evil eye.

Nonna had a keen sense about the mutandine. If I wore it, she subtly nodded in approval. But if not she gave me a horrified look then grab at my torso, rustling my clothes hysterically.

"Jane, you notta wear you mutandine? Jane, you goin' to catch cold."

Working up a sweat in the middle of the summer I would try to assure her that I would be okay.

"No! Jane you needa the mutandine."

So she would fish out one of Nonno's (that's my grandpa's) mutandine, a great big mutandine that fit me like a dress, so I looked like one of the chipmunks and I'd put my smaller outside shirt over it.

Looking like a fool, Nonna would calm down. Better to look like a fool than be struck with a fever in the middle of July. Satisfied, she would bring me to the table for a nice big bowl of my favorite pasta, which was plain with some olive oil.

THE SICILIAN CONDITION (AND THE WORLD SERIES)

I was honored to accept a dinner invitation to Melissa and Paul's place to be followed by watching the Phillies get their asses kicked by the Yankees in the World Series. (Sorry Melissa, just stating facts.)

Melissa, along with Meredith and myself are on the board of the Eyetalian Girl's Club, a supper club (at Melissa's) in which we share our mutual guido craziness over delicious homemade local food (that Melissa makes) while Paul sits perplexed and sometimes scared of the three of us.

The mental condition of having Sicilian DNA (even if your halfsies) in a female body is recognized most commonly as being sickeningly nurturing and loving while constantly obsessing over food and making sure everyone around you is well fed. A look further and the alarming quality of being cunningly intuitive if not full on psychic is also observed. Nonna is a full psychic Sicilian. She just knows.

While chatting about our plans, we agreed to a "simple" meal, then watch the game. The evening was about the World Series after all. Simple meals to most people are Mac n' Cheese, Soup and Salad or Pizza, but to Sicilian DNAers this is how the conversation went:

Melissa: what time is the game?

me: 8pm

early enough that it could interfere with dinner

see i think we need to be in a sports bar with d-bag yankee fans when they win tomorrow

for your sake

;-)

5:21 PM Melissa: i get home around 6:30. Lets do a simple dinner. I'll make the pesto tonight, we can have it with whole wheat fussili, and I'll saute some cubed butternut squash on the side. I'll have Paul roast an eggplant before I get home and well have that as an app with some good bread. We can go to the Turkeys Nest to watch the game after. Oh and we'll have your apple crumble for dessert.

You'd gonna need all the fule you can get to deal with all that crying.

me: LOL!

sounds perfect

5:22 PM Melissa: Manley waants to make vegan ice cream. I'll have him do that tomorrow morning.

me: wowoowwo

crazinessMelissa: GO PHILLS!!!!!!!!!Thats sounds simple to me. I arrived early and Paul (AKA Manley) had just crossed the last TO DO off his prep list that Melissa had emailed him. There was some serious bulleting involved:

• Wash, peel, and cube butternut squash, put in small baking pan and set aside
• Boil Manocotti, drain and set aside in baking dish
• Wash,soak and drain arugula. Set aside in bowl
• Pull out big food processor and put on counter
• Pan toast walnuts, set side in small bowl or on paper towel.
• Wash and peel beets, cut them into thin slices, set aside in small baking pan
• Cut baby carrots in half length wise and add to beets.
• Wash eggplant and poke a MILLION holes in it with a knife and set aside in baking pan

I should be on chat. Let me know if you have any questions.

Good Luck.

Thank you.

Can I first say that I adore these two? I was impressed but not surprised by Melissa's thorough and detailed instruction and Paul's on point follow-through. Everything was prepped to perfection, but Paul looked a little frazzled juggling about 18 roasting dishes. He showed Meredith and I the walnuts he toasted.

"Burnt, right? We should get more," he said.

"They are fine," I said. Thats so my mother in me (who is non-Sicilian by blood)

"Paul's right," Meredith said, "Melissa is gonna flip out. Let's go get more walnuts."

"Really?" I said.

They weren't that bad. Not to warrant going to the store but Melissa is a perfectionist, I get it.

And there is something very admirable to be said about being a perfectionist. But forget about that, lets talk about Melissa's frightening sense of smell and her psychic abilities. As we were leaving for the store, Melissa arrived, looking cute coming home from a long day at the bakery. We gave each other a nice big hug, then she pulled back, gave me a funny look then took a big whiff of me. I did shower that day and I'm a hygienic person but by the way she sniffed I thought maybe I smelled great or something.

"Did he burn something?" Melissa said.

My jaw dropped in awe. How could her sense of smell be so acute especially in such close proximity to the Newtown Creek?

"Its the Walnuts, right? Paul burnt the walnuts," she said.

Meredith and I walked away very slowly trying not to make eye contact. How in the world did she know that Paul burnt the walnuts? And there is the condition of Sicilian Psychic Prowess demonstrated most aptly in regards to food. I am still blown away by it.

I am also blown away by the excellent meal Melissa and Paul tag teamed. (Sorry, not too many visuals for the food porn lovers.)

The Roasted Eggplant with Market Italian Bread was like buttah and so addictive.

The Roasted Butternut Squash and Tofu Manicotti topped with arugula walnut pesto was delicious. It had the texture of ricotta cheese. Meredith and I helped assemble them. It was the first time I had stuffed manicotti and I was ridiculed with "What kind of dego are you?"

The sides of roasted carrots, brussels sprouts and beets were perfect accompaniments.

For dessert I brought an Apple Crumble which was topped with Paul's vegan vanilla ice cream made with coconut milk.

We wined and talked, and by talking I mean yelled over each other and interrupted one another and had about 15 conversations going on at once among the 4 of us. Oh and I almost forgot that we watched the World Series. And the Yanks won.

Thanks Melissa, Paul and Meredith for another successful Eyetalian Girls Dinner!

THE SCIENCE AND PHILOSOPHY OF FRYING EGGPLANTS

   I recently was stranded in the country and the parental units had to come and pick me up. Well if thats not an excuse to fry some eggplant then I don't know what is. Sergio, the CSA farmer, gave us some gigantic eggplants this week. And if I have one special talent to save from the apocalypse it would be my frying technique. Eggplants are good for one thing, sopping up olive oil. How many times have I heard the lame complaint, "I hate the way eggplants soak up so much oil." Well what kind of oil are you using? I can put good extra virgin olive oil on anything and when its embedded in a spongy fat eggplant slice, it is fried heaven.

   The key to frying eggplant is first soaking the slices in salted water for an hour or so. Some people think it removes the bitterness but its really just osmosis in action: the movement of water from an area of higher concentration to an area of lower concentration through a semi-permeable membrane, in this case sweet eggplant flesh. So the eggplant has lots of non-salty water in it. So when you put it into salty water, all that water in the eggplant wants to hook up with the salt on the outside so the water gets drawn out, making the eggplant perfect for frying. You know when water mixes with hot oil it can be a dangerous situation, so after I remove the eggplant slices from the salt water I get rid of the excess water by placing them on paper towels.

    Now its time to fry! You really should not fry in extra virgin olive oil because it has a low burning temperature but you don't want your eggplant to sop up canola or worse corn oil. Gross. So I create a blend of extra virgin olive oil with canola oil in order to raise the burning temperature of the extra virgin olive oil. Smoking oil is not good for the body. I do not use a thermometer when I fry. I heat it up, then when I feel like its right, I put in a little piece of bread or whatever I am frying in the oil and if it gets all bubbly and happy then its the right temperature. 

   You want to use at least an inch of oil because like I mentioned the eggplants just soak in the oil. When they get nice and golden on each side, remove from the oil, place on more paper towels, then (do not forget this step) salt them with sea salt while they are hot.

   So now you have all this fried eggplant, what do you do with it? Well philosophically speaking, the eggplants is the end, and the means to enjoying these oily beauties is either a nice red sauce or some good Italian Bread. 

   As my parents were driving up here I said, "Listen, I have some eggplant frying, we are going to need to figure out a sauce situation." Rocco arrived and was on it. His sauce is inspired by a tomato sauce he had in Tuscany but he made it Sicilian by adding basil. He fried some garlic in olive oil and added some peperoncino. Then he added some canned plum tomatoes and cut them up in the pan while they were cooking. He added some salt and pepper and after about 15 minutes added some fresh basil. It was done that fast and so delicious. 

   Mommy was like, "that sauce was so good." 

   Me: "how did he make that?" 

   "I don't know. I can't make sauce like that." 

   Its so simple, yet Rocco can really hook up a mean sauce in a hurry, like a magician while no one is looking. (And for the record, Mommy, who Rocco calls the "American Woman" makes a fresh tomato sauce that rivals Nonna's. Good thing Nonna has no internet access because what I just said was a major mala figura.) 

   And now its the moment we have all been waiting for. The marriage between the sweet fried eggplant and the delicious tomato sauce. The grated pecorino romano cheese is like the wedding band that bring the two flavors together in such delicious harmony for our bellies to enjoy. Good thing, Rocco has been complaining that his panza (It: stomach) is not fat enough.

Nonna's feeding tactics trait

    Lately I have noticed myself making a concerted effort to hold back on my force feeding tactics. I am the type of person who hates feeling like I am making someone do something they don't want to do, but when I ask, "Would you like a peach?" and the answer is "No," I can't help but want to come back with, "Are you sure?" In my mind I can't understand how someone could say no to a precious peach, and its my DNA (that Sicilian strand) that compels me to not take no for an answer. It takes everything I have to stop myself. No means no, thought and I can't be a food pusher.

     While I was at Nonna's the other day I figured out where I get it from.

     "You hungry Jane (my name is Jen)? You want something to eat?"

     "No thanks, Nonna. I just ate."

     "Jane, you sure?"

     "I'm okay."

     There she pauses. She is not satisfied with my responses. By the furrow in her brow I can tell she is thinking, planning her next move. She figures it out; her faces brightens up. She thinks she's slick.

     "Jane, you wanna just one meatball?"

      One meatball! She knows once you have one the next step is an entire bowl of pasta. And in Nonna's mind there is no turning down meatballs, plus just one cannot hurt. 

     "I'm fine, Nonna."

     "Jane, are you okay?"

     Its trip to the hospital worthy to turn down a meatball. That old Sicilian woman is just too much! I know where I get it from. I am going to really try hard not to be a food nagger. Its so hard though! One meatball!

A Concussion and Dislocated Shoulder, a Typical Day in Coney Island

     Coney Island is by far my favorite place in the entire world. A lot of people think weirdos and degenerates when they think of Coney Island, but take a minute to talk to some of these characters and you might change your mind. Amazing lighting and some of the most New York faces in New York is a feast for my camera. Some of the best photographs I have ever taken were taken here. And then there are the hot dogs and of course the scariest roller coaster hands down, the infamous Cyclone. Fun for the whole family! Riding the cyclone and enduring the week long agony afterward has become an annual birthday tradition. 

     When we arrived, it was as if every New Yorker decided to join us. Parking was dire. We almost gave up, but I spotted a middle aged sun bather with keys in her hand and I jumped out of the car and asked whether she'd be leaving a spot. What came out of her mouth was the most cherished Brooklyn accent I have heard in years. (I spend too much time in Williamsburg!) So I escorted this lovely tanned woman to her car, thinking after she pulled out I would stand in the spot and fend off other parkers. This was a parking war, afterall. 

    "No, I'll wait with ya," she told me, "I'm not goin' anywhere." Even better, more time to enjoy that accent. But when we got to her car a giant tour bus driven by a hasidic driver was turning the corner and nearly hit her car. We ran over screaming. I would protect this lady's car if it was the last thing I did! 

    "Your gonna hit my car!" she said.  He really had no spatial reasoning and yelled at us that he fit, continuing to move closer to denting her pristinely white automobile. So we looked at each other and started banging on the side of the bus. I think maybe a little Queens accent popped out of me, "Ya gonna hit it!" A few other locals got involved, he finally gave up, then I helped guide the giant bus in reverse, giving my lady room to pull out of her spot. "Go," I told her.

    She looked back concerned and not wanting to leave, "You sure?" I think she would have gladly blocked traffic until Mike came, but just in the nick of time he arrived and we got the sweetest parking spot in Coney Island. Such a New York moment.

    So it was Cyclone time and we brought a few Cyclone virgins, who I enticed to come with, "$6 for the ride of your life!" And its always fun to scare newbies and warn of the inevitable whiplash. But Phil took it to a whole other level by searching for how many people died on the Cyclone. I didn't want to find out! 

   When we got there it was $8, but still so worth it. If you haven't gone for a ride on the Cyclone, go at least once before you die, and if it kills you what a great way to go out. The reason why its the scariest roller coaster ever is because you feel like you might go flying out of it. These new roller coasters have you all strapped in. Not the cyclone, one measly lap bar then over that first drop and its questionable whether you won't go flying into the ocean. And its so fast and throws you around like a pin ball. If you can survive the initial drop, which is the craziest feeling ever because, you just have to let go because you feel so out of control. 

    Mike and I did a second ride, in the first row, and the first drop left him with a chipped bone in his elbow and I swear I felt my brain hitting my skull. When we stopped I heard some serious crying and turned around to find the little boy behind us, who was not really tall enough to be on there, with a clearly dislocated shoulder! Mike's elbow got zero sympathy after we saw that teary eyed boy. This roller coaster is NO JOKE!

    After coming to our senses (?) we thought the freak show would be fun but got scammed by the wrong $3 freak show which promised two headed everythings and when we went inside they were in formaldehyde jars! So we drowned our sorrows with a bucket of coronas then headed over to L&B for a really good slice of New York pizza.

    L&B has been there forever, and there are simples rules. You get either a round slice or a square slice, regular or "Sicilian," respectively. The sauce, the cheese, the crust, its all so delicious. If you are ever in Coney Island and you have a car you must pit stop to L&B. Take Stillwell Ave, which is the street under the train, to 86th then make a right. The seating is all outdoor with Brooklyn locals, and after your slice you can enjoy some a cool Italian Ice. 

SICILIAN HAND GESTURES: PART 2

    After this "series" of photographs, I am convinced that my Nonna is a cartoon character. I really have to give Mommy credit for getting Nonna on a crazy rant about Josephine, her daily caretaker. Josephine is a really nice, middle aged, round and a bit pushy Sicilian woman (that explains the pushiness) who probably doesn't have a lot of game. But in Nonna's mind, which doesn't always line up with reality, Josephine is in fact a big time player. I should note that Josephine deserves sainthood for putting up with Nonna's antics. Nonna thinks that Mr. Columbo, the old fruit man, who has the personality of a zucchini has a thing for Josephine, whom Nonna has personally witnessed flaunting it while browsing his produce. That last statement can be read lewdly, so I am leaving it just how it is. Nonna has nothing to do all day but stew about every single thing that Josephine says and does and she has no problem telling you these stories over and over, even when there is a likelihood Josephine can hear, which is very uncomfortable. Its like her own living soap opera, episodes replaying in Nonna's head. She also thinks that Josephine has the hots for the doctor, whose name is, not kidding, Dr. Stallone. Now Nonna has become very secretive about her calls and visits to the doctor to prevent Josephine from getting her hands on him. 

    Mommy and I can't quite remember exactly what Nonna was on a tirade about during this sequence, but it was definitely one of the two forbidden love affairs she created in her Sicilian brain about Josephine. Next time I will make sure to get sound bites. 

     Here, Nonna is doing a 2 part hand gesture. The first obvious, "to the moon" or hitler impersonation, is Nonna expressing "get out of here with your crazy self" because she is outraged by Josephine's seemingly loose behavior. The second more subtle aspect of this Sicilian hand gesture is, if you look closely, Nonna is giving the horns or "fare le corna." 

    Giving the horns has two meanings. First it wards off bad luck.  When someone dies you give the horns. Rocco can be seen giving the horns while riding by cemeteries, which are plentiful in Queens. Makes sense. Giving the horns is also an insult to a man who is being cuckolded, and that man is called a "cornuto." You do not want to be called a cornuto; its very embarassing. Maybe here Nonna is referring to Josephine's boyfriend, whom Josephine is "cheating on" in Nonna's mind with either the fruit man or the doctor.

An East End Culinary Tour, "I'm not hungry but I'll eat!"

   This week marked the first Hamptons trip for Erik and I since Yui (my former work spouse as Mike called her) moved to Japan. Before embarking Erik, a vegetarian, complained that on his previous Hamptons trips he had not enjoyed one good meal! I was shocked and felt a personal culinary challenge brewing: I would engorge Erik on amazing food. I succeeded. Here is our overindulgently fat itinerary broken down by day and meal.

   

   Day 1 (lunch): Before we left, we were famished (a good start) so I decided we pick up some olives and cheese from Valentino's Cash and Carry, a great shop on Metropolitan Avenue with great imported Italian cheeses. Nonna is a regular there. We got a loaf of semolina, 2 types of cheese, a prima sale and a ricotta salata, and two types of olives, small black little ones and big green fresh ones. That is how I distinguish them in the giant white buckets. We also got some tasty sun dried tomatoes. I think Erik was a little skeptical, so I offered him a slice from Rosa's Pizzeria. He got the Sicilian, the best slice they offer. 

    We brought out treasures to Rocco's, where we picked up Charlie, the Catahoula Dog, our 3rd traveler on our Hamptons journey, and at a nice lunch there. Rocco cut up some fresh tomatoes with olive oil to freshen up the meal. Erik seemed to enjoy his lunch while listening to Rocco's mumblings with his mouth full. He remarked on how delicious the bread was, so soft on the inside and crusty on the outside. We headed east with the leftover cheese, olives and sundried tomatoes, satisfied but ready for more.

    Day 1 (snack): Arrived and settled, we headed over to the photo shoot, figuring we might as well pick up a snack to hold us over. We stopped by at La Fondita, a small Mexican place in Amagansett on Montauk Highway. Its the first I've seen it open, and I was intrigued. I got two baja style fish tacos and wished I ordered fifty. They were outstanding. Everything a fish taco should be, a warm and crispy but not oily batter with fresh soft warm fish on the inside, covered in a creamy chipotle mayo, topped with shredded cabbage and wrapped in two perfect soft tacos. I also got a Hibiscus Flower Aqua Fresca. Erik ordered a vegetarian burrito that he loved and a Horchata, an Aqua Fresca made with rice milk, cinnamon and almond. For a dessert "snack" we got some $0.35 each Mexica Wedding Cookies, both kinds, chocolate and vanilla. They are like a light and less buttery and nutty short bread with a cinnamon edge and doused in powdered sugar. Fantastic. Erik and I were split, I dug the chocolate, he the vanilla. We swore we'd bring Carrie, Erik's wife who would arrive the following day.

    

    Day 1 (dinner): After the shoot, it was time for more, "snacks." After all, it was a long tiring shoot. We went right around the corner to Citta Nuova. Not only is it a really nice Italian restaurant, its usually open late night, even during the off season, which is perfect for us. We started out with Fava Bruschetta covered in Pecorino Romano and a Shaved Fennel Beet Salad. For sides we got broccoli rabe, which was good and straightforward with olive oil and garlic, but the winner was the Fingerling Rosemary Potatoes which seemed like they were doused in butter (not compling.) They were caramelized to perfection. And lest we forget about dessert, an arborio rice pudding creme brulee. Yes, it was delicious. We were on to some great eating and had only been there one day.

   Day 2 (breakfast): The next morning Carrie had arrived, she's the sweetest girl and a vegan, another challenge, but I think she ended up happy before leaving that day. We ate breakfast at my favorite spot, Hampton Chutney Co. Carrie and I ordered the #7 (seasonal grilled corn, roasted peppers, roasted onions, arugula and jack cheese). Carrie got it in dosa form without cheese and a watermelon juice. I ordered mine in Uttapa form. It was like a pizza and had two much cheese for my liking, but the corn was fantastic. I will only opt for dosas from now on. Erik got the #5 (avocado, fresh tomato, arugula and cheese.) and the Mango Lassi and Double Chocolate Chunk Cookie. I also got a Chai Tea which is always superb. Next, a walk to the beach. The waves were big, the sun was strong. Enough, more food awaits.

   

    Day 2 (lunch): We hadn't quite walked off our breakfast but we saw the Jitney go by and had to squeeze a vegetarian burrito into Carrie before she left. Two more vegetarian burritos, for the lovely couple and some Hibiscus Flower Juice, a fish taco and a chorizo taco for me and the Tamarind Aqua Fresca. And don't forget to fill a bag with more of those cookies. The catch phrase for the Hamptons was taking form, "I'm not hungry, but I'll eat!"

   Day 2 (dinner): The second evening we figured we'd eat before the shoot. We dined at the 1770s House, one of East Hamptons' finer eating establishments. Looking at our attire, they hinted that maybe we should sit in the garden as the dining room is "more formal." Maybe we didn't look Hamptons chic, (thank god!) but with a prixe fix, we were right on budget and maybe slightly hungry? I got a Seared Scallop on a Vichycoisse of pureed potatoes and leeks, and Erik started with an arugula salad, which he later admitted was overdressed. For course two, I got a orvietta pasta with fresh lobster and Erik the fettucini with trumpet mushrooms and farm peas. I would have rather my sauce to be a little fresher and lighter to complement the lobster but it was tasty still. Erik's pasta was the real winner. I secretly wanted to order it, but more wanted him to try the lobster. I won't divulge whether he did. At this point, dessert was excessive, but included so ... Molten Chocolate Cake for Erik, and for me the Date Toffee Cake drowning in Caramel Sauce. (this one's for you, Yui!) After this meal, I realized this place is good, but a little decadent for my agida prone 1/2 Sicilian stomach. Its been a long time but I actually bought some Tums! The butter was to blame, not the extravagant over eating! 

    Day 3 (breakfast): At this point all I wanted was some fresh fruit, but Erik was in the mood for waffles, so before our hike in Montauk, we at at John's Pancake House. It was a great place, full of character and characters, from the giant marlon plaque hanging on wood paneling over the old school diner bar fashioned with a Jerry Seinfeld cut-out picture frame to the straight out of an 80s sitcom waitress who described my blueberry buckwheat pancakes as "dark, heavy, grainy and really healthy for you." They were good and all of the above. Erik got a gigantic Whole Wheat Waffle with Strawberries on top. This place was serious about their batter. 

   We headed off to Camp Hero and hiked to the lighthouse on a really lovely secluded stretch of rocky beach. Charlie the dog was on a different and far more disgusting culinary tour during this trip, too. I had thought he was partial to deer poop, the likes of which he scarfs on the lawn of the Gansett Green Manor, where we were staying. On the beach that day we learned he has a poop tooth for sea gull terds, the shells of dead horse shoe crabs, Erik introduced him to sting ray eggs, and he pranced around with a 3 foot long dead fish carcass in his mouth. Appetizing. On to lunch. 

    Day 3 (lunch): I could not leave the Montauk without eating a Lobster Roll, so we went to Lobster Roll, also known as Lunch, where they served us some really delicious traditional fresh lobster rolls on a hot dog bun, with a side of cole slaw. And as if we didn't already eat batter filled pancakes for breakfast Erik ordered beer battered onion rings. Wise choice my friend. They were perfectly fried. I didn't even need to use the Tums again, surprisingly.

   Day 3 (dinner): By now we were fully disgusted with ourselves and I was feeling like my challenge was successfully executed. We shot our last shoot and headed home, but were hungry, again, and it was pouring and we didn't feel like sitting down at a restaurant as the Catahoula dog had been in the car for most of the day, like a well-behaved doggy boy. So we got a loaf of bread and reminisced about our East End Culinary Journey while driving home and messily shoving cheese and sun dried tomato sandwiches into our mouths along with the olives, all leftovers from the first meal we kicked off the food tour with. For dessert, I found some leftover Mexican Wedding Cookies and Erik managed to down a bag of Sweet Potato Chips, a bottle of green vegetable juice, and a donut!?!? remarking that after 3 days of overeating, its great to end it with some junk food. Touche'.  He asked, "When you and Yui used to come out here, did you eat this much?" Answer: Yes!

Interview with a Baconologist

Enticing quote from Tim's Blog: "I myself now sweat bacon fat instead of perspiration ... did you actually test your diet before publishing it? ... Yes the diet was tested, tested with my superior mind."

Read the rest of the Bacon Chat.

I GOTTA THE SUGAH...

Nonna always tells me, "Jen, I gotta the sugah." She is saying she has "the sugar," pronounced shoo-guh, meaning she has diabetes. Nonna doesn't have diabetes, but in her off-kilter Sicilian mind filled with hypochondriac worry she does have "the sugar," among other Sicilian conditions like "the pressure" (high blood pressure) pronounced pre-sha and everyone knows this one, "the agida" (heartburn) pronounced ah-gee-duh. Nonna was so convinced she had the sugar that she demanded the doctor give her a skin prick diabetes sugar testing kit, which can only be obtained with a prescription. The doctor, knowing she didn't have diabetes refused, so Nonna threatened to go to another doctor, and he caved and gave it to her. This is why our healthcare is so screwed up!  Now Nonna follows cannoli eating with sugar monitoring and she is very pleased. She is also convinced that other people have the sugar, like my father, who doesn't have the sugar. But her friend across the street, Mrs. Lombardo, who is the strongest most hearty old woman I have ever met, (Ex. She is ninety and moved my refrigerator when I lived downstairs from Nonna.), according to Nonna, "Mrs. Lomardo really has gotta the sugah." And Mrs. Lombardo is in fact diabetic but it does not stop her from eating cannolis, either. I guess there is a difference between having the sugar and really having the sugar.  "I gotta the sugah," just means you are worried you might get the sugar.