to the fates, of summer

Toes at Riotorto, Toscana

You know it's the start of summer in Florence when the air is so thick with jasmine that you feel drunk, giddily perfumed by the little white flowers. The days are hot and sunny, the nights are crisp and you grab a scarf for the bike ride home. Scarlet cherries, duroni, suddenly appear on the stands of fruttivendoli, and by Friday night most Florentines have evacuated our city, taking to their mountain retreats in the Maremma or to the sea in Cecina.

It's best to start the summer with a poem, I think - a prayer for a season of creativity and new experiences.
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To the Fates

Grant me a single summer, you lords of all, 
A single autumn, for the fullgrown song, 
So that, with such sweet playing sated, 
Then my heart may die more willing.


The soul, in life robbed of its godly right, 
Rests not, even in Orcus down below; 
Yet should I once achieve my heart's
First holy concern, the poem,


Welcome then, O stillness of the shadow world!
Even if down I go without my
Music, I shall be satisfied; once
Like gods I shall have lived, more I need not.



- Friedrich Hölderlin (trans. Christopher Middleton)

site-specificity

Theater is a verb before it is a noun, an act before it is a place.  - Martha Graham

i bring warmth a site-specific dance performance by Sharon Estacio with Lauren MacLaughlin at Palazzo Pitti, Firenze - photo by Alberto Galligani

i bring warmth, Sharon Estacio and myself - photo by A. Galligani

trees in the forest

Among the trees, Monte Asinaio, Toscana

Two years ago from yesterday, I graduated from college. I'm known to be a sentimental sort of person who appreciates anniversaries, relishes in looking back on the past while reflecting on progress made. Nowadays, when universities are more expensive than ever and finding a job in your specific field of study is a job in and of itself, I think many college graduates are prone to take a look at their degree and think: did I do the right thing? Was it worth it? Everyone said, "Get an education and you'll get a good job" - where are those people when I'm up to my eyes in student loan debt and still living with my parents. Etc. etc. etc.
For me, the fleeting thought that passes through my mind is: "Am I wasting my education?"
I defiantly answer myself: "No! How dare you think that!" Four years at Pitt have taught me that post-grad life isn't so black and white.

For me, a college education isn't just a degree and the hope for decent employment or a decent paycheck, it's an experience that teaches who you are and who you want to be (dear reader, sorry for sounding so trite). I think that today, it might be hard for students to see the practical benefits of a college education - those promised jobs, promises for a stable future, a house, a family (the American dream, right?) have all but been dashed to the winds. Call me naive, but what if that's okay? What if we continue school just because we want to know ourselves better? Because we want to learn, to understand the world and relate to it? Is that so bad?! What if we say, "Fuck practical - I'm doing this for myself without ulterior motives for becoming Joe-College-Grad with his white collar job, SUV, wife and kids in suburbia heaven."

I think it's important, more than ever, for the class of 2012 to look forward to all the non-practical benefits of four more years in school: independence, abandoning your comfort zone, learning new things for the sheer joy of it, questioning others and yourself, demanding the truth, ending blind acceptance, making a contribution to the world, living! Living!

One of my favorite professors at Pitt once told me that "You have to see the forest for its trees." Whenever I feel consumed by details, all the small stuff, or like Dante in the selva oscura, "dark wood", I think of his words. So high school grads, college grads, take this advice and don't despair: you aren't wasting your education, you haven't wasted it and you won't, just as long as you see the forest for its trees.

i bring warmth

Click HERE for video

i bring warmth: a site-specific project


Two American expats revisit threads of Polynesian dance (learned in Pennsylvania) as a means of grafting themselves to their Mediterranean abode


Direction: Sharon Estacio
Creation and Performance: Sharon Estacio, Lauren MacLaughlin


Underpass at Piazza delle Cure
By the Arno, under Ponte alla Carraia
In front of Palazzo Pitti
(Firenze, Italia)


details to follow shortly:
http://sharonestacio.com/

impressions

Olive picking, Mugello

I've been living in Florence for almost two years now, but my love affair with this city goes back to fall 2008, when I was a student here. Sometimes I feel like the city throws me into sensory overload, and I wish I had my camera or videocamera to capture my experiences, just so I could take them home, go over them and process. I thought it might be fun to put some of these impressions into words...

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Golden sunlight streams through olive leaves. Oxtoa clambers up the limbs like a cat, or better, his cat, Gaston (aka. Mini-Cat).  Our harvest leaves a deep purple trail. White nets are like ghosts. Wine is dark, like our olives.

7am, summer in Via dei Cairoli, windows open and the smell of fresh bread, croissants - yeasty and thick - waft through the screens. Good morning!

Francesca, a Thursday morning wedding

Near the Campo di Marte train station, there is a run-down villa, the color of dirty parchment. The walls are dripping, oozing purple wisteria from top to bottom.

The children in the elementary school behind our house sing and dance to Shakira. The headmistress, a stern old nun, interrupts them for a "pensierino alla Madonna" - "a little prayer for the Madonna"...I guess she means the Virgin Mary, not the pop star.

A stylish gentleman, Saturday afternoon, exits from the Four Seasons wearing beautiful, bright red, leather shoes. He has horn-rimmed glasses.

Antique shop, Arezzo

Tuesday: walking through the market at the Cascine, along the river. Sicilian cheesemongers shove samples in your face. The street smells like fried dough and salami. A baby in a stroller is wearing sunglasses and laughs as his mother tries on yellow high heels. The plant stand is being stormed by Florentine grandmothers; they complain about prices but praise the selection.

The color of black sesame gelato? Light grey. The taste? Sweet and peanut-y. Who knew!

Fields of sunflowers, on our way to the beach. They look to the sky, waiting.

Sara pulls out a giant cheese ziggurat. It's goat cheese. It's beautiful, creamy, white and tastes like heaven. Her friend tells us, "There's a farm in Tuscany where you can adopt a goat." We jump into the ocean.

My bicycle creaks, squeaks, creaks, squeaks down the street on my return from work. White, fuzzy flowers rain down from the trees on the viale.  Just in time to see the hot pink and orange sun set over the soccer stadium.

spring rites

NOW Jamsession, photo credit Illaria Costanzo

Spring is in: Orange ranunculus blooms. Asparagus bundles at the market. Morning sunshine and afternoon rain showers. Dance rehearsal with Sharon Estacio. Bike rides along the Arno. Mutant catfish jump from the river to catch spring sunlight. Almond milk gelato with Camille includes a short French lesson. 

Spring cleaning. Spring fever. Springy, spongey lemony chess pie with strawberry sauce. The hibernating pirate cat has come out of his den, prowling Via Marconi for a spring cuddle date. Catholic school children don their spring jackets and dodge nuns in the playground; I spy on them from our balcony when watering the mint and chives. 

Spring in your step. 

Printemps. Primavera, the first green. Never has there been a more suitable word for spring. 

I dance for the warmth, the first green. 

Spring rites have begun.

if you were a recipe?

Caterina de' Medici - François Clouet, 1555

If you were a recipe, what would you be?


I came across this question while reading a blog by Emiko Davies - a Japanese-Australian food photographer, cook, writer, artist and all around amazing woman who is married to a Tuscan sommelier. She is the perfect example of a neo-Florentine woman, the kind of expat who lives in this city.  


If you were a recipe, what would you be? So this simple question really struck me, especially since in the past year, I've become a bit obsessive about cooking; it's like therapy. I've been delving into cookbooks and cooking blogs, rediscovering old family recipes (like great-grandma Fales's rice pudding) and inventing my own, poaching eggs (thank you Julia Child), rolling out pasta, pickling, preserving... The one thing I do especially well is dessert. American desserts. Huguenot torte. Lemon meringue pie. Apple pie with a lattice top. I make something almost once a week, and usually give 3/4 of it away at dinners or to co-workers (because if not, Alberto and I wouldn't fit into our trousers). I think my therapeutic cooking helps me stay connected to the U.S.


And so I present my answer to this oh-so existential question: If I were a recipe, I'd be PUMPKIN PIE!


My favorite vegetable, that can go either sweet or salty, is highly adaptable. It's both classically American - almost always associated with Thanksgiving dinners - and was a favorite of Caterina de' Medici (1519-1589) (Florentine native and queen of France - an expat you could say). The smell of baking pumpkin pie brings me back to 132 Kiehners Road, two night before Thanksgiving, when my mother and I would put ourselves to the task of baking at least three pies for the upcoming feast. Strangely, when I eat pumpkin pie as a midnight snack (hey, it happens to the best of us), it always gives me intense, psychedelic night mares. Blame it on the nutmeg I guess. 
So here is the recipe from Pellegrino Artusi's 1891 cookbook - the bible of Italian cookery. 
Buon appetito!


Torta di Zucca Gialla (Butternut Pumpkin Pie)
- 1 kg. pumpkin or squash
- 100 g. peeled almonds, finely ground
- 100 g. raw sugar (brown sugar is good too)
- 30 g. butter
- 500 ml milk
- 3 small eggs, beaten 
- 2 tsp cinnamon
- pinch of salt

Remove the seeds and skin of the pumpkin and grate the pumpkin flesh into a large bowl. Drain the pumpkin to remove its liquid until it is reduced to just 300 grams. You can do this by wrapping it in a dish towel, as Artusi instructs, or over a colander, squeezing every now and then to help it along.

Cook the pumpkin in the milk for about 25-30 minutes or until it is soft. Drain off excess milk.

Pulverize the almonds (if they are not already ground finely) and sugar together in a food processor or – Artusi’s way – in a mortar and pestle. In a separate bowl, add this to the pumpkin, along with the butter, salt and cinnamon and combine. When the mixture has cooled enough, add the beaten eggs.

Pour the mixture into a greased and floured) cake tin so that the cake is no higher than an inch or two thick.

Bake in a preheated oven at 180°C for 45 minutes or until golden on top and set. For Renaissance flare, sprinkle with 1 tablespoon of rosewater. 

Eat with great satisfaction (and save some for midnight snack).