It’s February and therefore time for the first festival of the year in Magenta.
Obviously falling on the 6th January Epiphany is technically the first festival but as it is wrapped up in Christmas and New Year doesn’t quite count for me. It probably counts for Italians.
San Biagio, as you are probably aware, is the patron saint of throat diseases. He apparently is very good at getting fish bones stuck in the throat loose. He was martyred in the third century and came from Armenia. At some point in the distant past his body ended up in Italy. His feast day is the 3rd February and somewhere along the line of tradition the blessing of the throats which was an original intention of Biagio has morphed into the blessing and eating of leftover Christmas Panettone.
Magenta is lucky enough to have a relic of Biagio which is safely stored with the Nuns in the convent. I think it’s a small piece of cloth, it is very small and stored in a cross which is shown once a year to the faithful and the faithful are able to kiss the relic. On the 3rd February. There is also a large market that takes up a large part of the town centre and at 3 o’clock in the afternoon, in front of San Martino church a ceremony of the blessing of the Panattone and a free slice of cake.
I am assured by a friend that the curing of bad throats is not true, it is just a tradition. I am as you can imagine greatly saddened by this as I feel throat cures could take a leap forward, but none the less I am over-excited by the first festival of the season.
I discover on the Monday before the Wednesday that Daughter in scuola primaria gets a day off for this, only Magenta, because we have a relic. Son, in scuola media however, does not which at 11years old is apparently SO UNFAIR.
Wednesday morning and having had a lovely little lie-in and dragged daughter away from the telly we wander around the market. The piazza can take a decent sized market but this spread out of the centre, towards the convent and random streets off the piazza. It was an uninspiring start of cleaning product stalls and standard market clothe stalls to be found every Monday at the market, although I was very tempted by some duster slippers.
A few chestnut stalls, strung like garlic started the more traditional products and then branched out into Sicilian sweet stalls with luscious fruits made from marzipan, cheese stalls from different regions of Italy and Salami stalls resplendent with Boar and Deer heads. Mixed in was a tractor corner, in a car park that we had never seen before, a rabbit stall that we hoped were for pets not food as they were uber cute bunnies and a chocolate stall that all looked like proper tools, with edible silver and cocoa powder used to give a realistic finish to the spanners and hammers. It took over an hour to wander round.
We passed the convent with the relic, but there was a queue to get inside so we carried on our way. Certain this was our one and only opportunity of the year to get inside where the Nuns live we completed the circuit and were back outside the convent just after midday when I knew everyone would be on their way home for lunch. No queue and so we were in. Small chapels I think are very atmospheric, and have often been built for a family so are ornate. This was no exception with the ceiling and walls all painted with scenes of Saints lives, and although I was unable to pick him out, I would guess Biagio was one of them.
Despite her sore throat Daughter refused to kiss the relic, but was prepared to light a candle and then we were invited by the cluster of nuns (collective noun possibly a rosary) to the gymnasium for a tombola. The convent doubles as a school, so fundraising opportunities abound.
Generosity being one of my strong points I paid for a single white ticket which was the cheapest available at €2 and we looked for number 379. Which after smiley Nun had searched turned out to be 6 (old dusty) small glasses for juice as the packaging informed us and a book on the National Parks of Italy. Not a tombola combination that immediately springs to mind; but the photos of the parks are lovely, although my quick flick through the book has not yet yielded a handy map of said parks. The glasses have been added to our increasing glass collection thanks to the fact that Nutella do a glass range and we have Pink Panther and Peanuts Nutella glasses for juice. They have been christened the Nun glasses.
As the tombola was obviously not a child’s present, Daughter was handed a pink balloon, which we both would have been happier with in the first place and would have been down on some clutter for the house as well.
We bumped into some friends who also had a balloon and discovered they had ‘won’ a cooker hood filter, so on balance I feel we did ok from the tombola.
So only one event left for San Biagio; the blessing of the panattone. So at 3.30 I skip over to the front of the basilica, to watch the proceedings. Don Mario our head priest was scurrying into the side door as I walked past so no rush.
The front of the basilica was full. A few trestle tables were laid out in front of the church steps, the local volunteer Fire Service were on standby to hold back the crowds and see fair play in the cake slices. The mayor of Magenta had his Italian official sash on and a van stood to one side with its back covered in tarpaulin. The make-up of the crowd fell into 2 camps. Old women mainly bedecked in fur and mothers with young children. A few men stood off to one side chatting, but it seemed to me they had just transferred their daily chat from the piazza to the basilica for variety.
I, like a good ‘I’ve lived here for nearly a year; I know how this goes’ non Italian, hustled my way centre and a few rows back and got my camera out. The mayor was waiting, the mayor’s wife was filming, the crowd was getting impatient and Don Mario wasn’t appearing. We (as in just the 4 of us) don’t call him ‘X factor Don’ for nothing; just as impatient turned to restless the doors opened and with Vestments being adjusted he had arrived.
As the mayor thanked us all for coming and IPER the supermarket for providing the leftover panattone, Don Mario looked out a suitable prayer in his missal; then taking the microphone he began.
We all made the sign of the cross and the Our Father was recited. Then raising his hands the blessing of the panattone was underway, he then turned and blessed the van, and the providers of the panattone IPER.
Another quick sign of the cross and it was over. The tarpaulin was thrown back and piccolo panattone’s were being dished out. A more unseemly scrum I have not seen in a long while, and we are Welsh rugby fans. The scene reminded me of pictures of Haiti that have been flashing across our screens recently. I was not prepared to put myself in that crush just for a slice of cake that was missing the all important topping of mascarpone, icing sugar and limoncello (all mixed together, scrumptious).
By ten to four I was back in the house and San Biagio is over for another year. I have left over Chocolate Christmas Cake; I should have taken it along.
Daughter’s sore throat was gone by the next day, there may be something in it!
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Picnic by a canal
The list of places to visit here is almost endless, even though we have a 3 hr driving limit for weekends. Hubby wants to visit Venice, we last visited 21 years ago whilst Inter-railing a concept both children found hard to believe and I remember Venice as hot, smelly and well you’ve seen a couple of canals and you get the picture. Hubby returned during a work trip to Mestre with 2 blokes, one recently divorced in January a few years ago and loved it. Found a locals trattoria, an empty San Marco piazza and loads of atmosphere. I am unconvinced but the history of Venice is good enough to put the children through a visit. We book for Carnival which although will be busy will at least detract from the gondola/canal /tourist trap and add another dimension to our visit. We are booked off island over night and I plan an alternative for the Sunday in case we feel we have done enough of Venice on the Saturday. I am told by my Magenta Mums that Venice is bella, but Carnevale will be pieno (full). I read that the police have been known to close the link road during Carnevale , great 2 small children, one of whom does not like masks (too much Dr Who) and half of the world on a island known to be sinking. This gets better.
Ever the Brit I pack a picnic for the weekend so we do not have to fork out for endless cokes and crisps at tourist rates, get my DK and Rough Guide books ready and after negioating the snow and fog that invaded Magenta on the Friday day and night we are off.
We arrive at our hotel after sat nav attempted to take us to Austria, re-pack the picnic that was practically eaten by 2 well fed children during the journey, buy the 24hr passes for the buses (land & water)- no discount for children (€72 in all), get the umbrella out as it is raining and jump on the bus to Venezia. I was under the impression, no idea how, that we would have to catch a bus to a railway station and then catch a train to the island. I think its because Alan Bennett mentioned catching the train to the island, but how this translated to being the only form of land transport to the island I am unsure. ‘How will we know when we get to the right stop?’ I query. ‘Well, its the end of the road, we’ll be on an island and there’ll be boats’ is the incredulous response from my husband. Not unreasonably it turns out.
Tickets are validated at 12.30. 24hrs and counting. I haven’t forgotten plan B.
Bus Stations are generally not the best view of a town, but in Venice the charm and difference of the town are immediately tangible. A beautiful half glass bridge spans the Grand canal, water taxis stream up and down and the masks are already on show on people not just stalls. Wheeled suitcases are being dragged from buses to water taxis regardless of the quality of the accommodation chosen or the age or quality of the tourist. Venice seems very democratic to its tourists as few take the gondola option for a trip to the hotel.
We pile onto a waterbus and head out back in the drizzle and the cold, but we are all excited by the water and the noise of the boat and slowly but noisily make our way along the Grand Canal to San Marco Piazzia. We spy a few costumes and a huge poster of Emma Watson on the side of a building. ‘Hermione’ screams my daughter. A positive for Venice somewhat unintentionally via Harry Potter.
San Marco is busy, there is a queue for the church, its raining and cold but there are enough people and tourists in costumes and masks to improve the view. The blue clock is instantly recognised as the clock broken by James Bond in one of the films, and the piazzia is equally known to my 11yr old boy. He is told after 10 minutes of James Bond scene recitals BASTA. The children are fascinated by the masks and my daughter wants to get one and wear one. It seems that already we are shopping when we should be sightseeing.
Our shopping trip nets a white & glittery mask for daughter who not 2 hours ago was stating her dislike for face coverings. My daughter has joined the carnival. We tick off San Marco’s and start to wander. 1 coffee stop (and a loo break) later we are back on the boats taking a trip to Murano for some glass blowing. We are urged to turn left as we disembark onto Murano and are herded to a glass blowing centre where because there are not enough tourists no glass blowing takes place. Feeling very uncharitably towards the island we continue our walk and it slowly reveals itself to be a quiet, almost serene island still with a local life full of the most beautiful glass and a co-op. We spy children on a scooter and skateboard which I feel surrounded by water must concentrate the mind somewhat and an ambulance on route to somewhere with its blue lights flashing. We retrace our boat steps back to Venice and wander slowly towards the Rialto Bridge. The streets are quiet, inhabitated only by locals completed with shopping trolleys laden with food, walking dogs and the occasional costume on route to the carnival. We peak inside one church which it seems is trying to be the coldest church in the world as we can see our breath as we walk around. Outside seems warm again. We turn a corner and are back in tourist land. Costumes and Masks are being worn from the elaborate full 17th Century Venetian lace and silk to home -made Nuns outfits. We spot a 4-5 year old girl dressed in a chicken outfit made entirely from clear plastic gloves used in the fruit & veg section of supermarkets. She looks fab. We are in the middle of a party & and only 1 of us has joined in so far.
By the time we reach Rialto Bridge I have a mask on. I am no longer a tourist, I have joined the carnival. We stop for dinner feeling we have earned our bottle of wine/coke and shortly after we resume boy has a mask & has also joined the party. Husband refuses to join in on the grounds he wears glasses but the rest of us know his real mask is his camera which rarely leaves his face at tourist destinations.
Back to San Marco for a quick night time stroll soaking up the atmosphere and watching the world go by and then a water and land bus back to the hotel. We are asleep in minutes. Plan B has been abandoned in favour of another day on Venice.
Thirteen hours later we are back on bus ready with our masks to re-join the party. Its the official start of the carnival at midday & costumes are everywhere on the bus. Feeling completely expert as we jump on the water bus we push our way straight to the back of the boat and I get a seat. The seat next to me has a small black Chanel bag on it and the coiffured fur coated lady it belongs to refuses to move it until her equally elegant friend joins her. They then chatter continuously completely ignoring the carnival and beauty around them, the sun is shining, the canals are full of small boats with masked venetians, Spiderman, British Police uniforms, packs of cards and clowns but the woes of Venice are being right in the 15 minute journey to San Marco. We arrive in San Marco just after midday. It is beyond packed and we don’t even try to get on the square. We don’t need to. The carnival is all around and we spend the next hour taking photos of the children with various more extravagant and elegant costumes. We reach the piazzia next to the Grand Canal and as the sun is shining and there is small bridge calling out to be sat on we stop and have lunch. The children haven't stopped smiling.
I love a picnic. I love the randomness of the locations you can stop. I love the views as you are sat eating, and I love that other nations don’t get it. So what if its February, it doesn’t have to be sunny, it normally isn’t even dry when we picnic and if I have to wrap a blanket (or spare coat) round my knees to keep warm whilst eating who cares. I’m sat in the fresh air with a walk completed and another one to look forward to with a view. Today our picnic was in the sun, by a canal, it was warm (in the sun) and the view was of the Venetian world walking past. What more could you want with a cheese roll, an apple and a packet of crisps (Actually a cafe nearby for a coffee & a pee would be good would make it perfect but it was close to perfection).
It was during the picnic that we broke the news to the children that the 24hr bus passes had run out and we were walking back to the station. Once the initial and inevitable confusion of ‘No not the hotel- where we got OFF THE BUS’ was over, maps were produced for them to navigate us through the streets and canals. Perfect navigation took us passed a geletaria with fabulous chocolate orange gelato and through streets littered with locals enjoying the sun. Santa Margarita had its own party just starting up as we left.
There’s still so much more to Venice that I now need to see, I haven’t stepped inside a gallery or a scuole or numerous churches but my son is determined to live in Venice when he’s older so I should have somewhere to stay.
Plan B is still on the list.
Buona Festa
Ever the Brit I pack a picnic for the weekend so we do not have to fork out for endless cokes and crisps at tourist rates, get my DK and Rough Guide books ready and after negioating the snow and fog that invaded Magenta on the Friday day and night we are off.
We arrive at our hotel after sat nav attempted to take us to Austria, re-pack the picnic that was practically eaten by 2 well fed children during the journey, buy the 24hr passes for the buses (land & water)- no discount for children (€72 in all), get the umbrella out as it is raining and jump on the bus to Venezia. I was under the impression, no idea how, that we would have to catch a bus to a railway station and then catch a train to the island. I think its because Alan Bennett mentioned catching the train to the island, but how this translated to being the only form of land transport to the island I am unsure. ‘How will we know when we get to the right stop?’ I query. ‘Well, its the end of the road, we’ll be on an island and there’ll be boats’ is the incredulous response from my husband. Not unreasonably it turns out.
Tickets are validated at 12.30. 24hrs and counting. I haven’t forgotten plan B.
Bus Stations are generally not the best view of a town, but in Venice the charm and difference of the town are immediately tangible. A beautiful half glass bridge spans the Grand canal, water taxis stream up and down and the masks are already on show on people not just stalls. Wheeled suitcases are being dragged from buses to water taxis regardless of the quality of the accommodation chosen or the age or quality of the tourist. Venice seems very democratic to its tourists as few take the gondola option for a trip to the hotel.
We pile onto a waterbus and head out back in the drizzle and the cold, but we are all excited by the water and the noise of the boat and slowly but noisily make our way along the Grand Canal to San Marco Piazzia. We spy a few costumes and a huge poster of Emma Watson on the side of a building. ‘Hermione’ screams my daughter. A positive for Venice somewhat unintentionally via Harry Potter.
San Marco is busy, there is a queue for the church, its raining and cold but there are enough people and tourists in costumes and masks to improve the view. The blue clock is instantly recognised as the clock broken by James Bond in one of the films, and the piazzia is equally known to my 11yr old boy. He is told after 10 minutes of James Bond scene recitals BASTA. The children are fascinated by the masks and my daughter wants to get one and wear one. It seems that already we are shopping when we should be sightseeing.
Our shopping trip nets a white & glittery mask for daughter who not 2 hours ago was stating her dislike for face coverings. My daughter has joined the carnival. We tick off San Marco’s and start to wander. 1 coffee stop (and a loo break) later we are back on the boats taking a trip to Murano for some glass blowing. We are urged to turn left as we disembark onto Murano and are herded to a glass blowing centre where because there are not enough tourists no glass blowing takes place. Feeling very uncharitably towards the island we continue our walk and it slowly reveals itself to be a quiet, almost serene island still with a local life full of the most beautiful glass and a co-op. We spy children on a scooter and skateboard which I feel surrounded by water must concentrate the mind somewhat and an ambulance on route to somewhere with its blue lights flashing. We retrace our boat steps back to Venice and wander slowly towards the Rialto Bridge. The streets are quiet, inhabitated only by locals completed with shopping trolleys laden with food, walking dogs and the occasional costume on route to the carnival. We peak inside one church which it seems is trying to be the coldest church in the world as we can see our breath as we walk around. Outside seems warm again. We turn a corner and are back in tourist land. Costumes and Masks are being worn from the elaborate full 17th Century Venetian lace and silk to home -made Nuns outfits. We spot a 4-5 year old girl dressed in a chicken outfit made entirely from clear plastic gloves used in the fruit & veg section of supermarkets. She looks fab. We are in the middle of a party & and only 1 of us has joined in so far.
By the time we reach Rialto Bridge I have a mask on. I am no longer a tourist, I have joined the carnival. We stop for dinner feeling we have earned our bottle of wine/coke and shortly after we resume boy has a mask & has also joined the party. Husband refuses to join in on the grounds he wears glasses but the rest of us know his real mask is his camera which rarely leaves his face at tourist destinations.
Back to San Marco for a quick night time stroll soaking up the atmosphere and watching the world go by and then a water and land bus back to the hotel. We are asleep in minutes. Plan B has been abandoned in favour of another day on Venice.
Thirteen hours later we are back on bus ready with our masks to re-join the party. Its the official start of the carnival at midday & costumes are everywhere on the bus. Feeling completely expert as we jump on the water bus we push our way straight to the back of the boat and I get a seat. The seat next to me has a small black Chanel bag on it and the coiffured fur coated lady it belongs to refuses to move it until her equally elegant friend joins her. They then chatter continuously completely ignoring the carnival and beauty around them, the sun is shining, the canals are full of small boats with masked venetians, Spiderman, British Police uniforms, packs of cards and clowns but the woes of Venice are being right in the 15 minute journey to San Marco. We arrive in San Marco just after midday. It is beyond packed and we don’t even try to get on the square. We don’t need to. The carnival is all around and we spend the next hour taking photos of the children with various more extravagant and elegant costumes. We reach the piazzia next to the Grand Canal and as the sun is shining and there is small bridge calling out to be sat on we stop and have lunch. The children haven't stopped smiling.
I love a picnic. I love the randomness of the locations you can stop. I love the views as you are sat eating, and I love that other nations don’t get it. So what if its February, it doesn’t have to be sunny, it normally isn’t even dry when we picnic and if I have to wrap a blanket (or spare coat) round my knees to keep warm whilst eating who cares. I’m sat in the fresh air with a walk completed and another one to look forward to with a view. Today our picnic was in the sun, by a canal, it was warm (in the sun) and the view was of the Venetian world walking past. What more could you want with a cheese roll, an apple and a packet of crisps (Actually a cafe nearby for a coffee & a pee would be good would make it perfect but it was close to perfection).
It was during the picnic that we broke the news to the children that the 24hr bus passes had run out and we were walking back to the station. Once the initial and inevitable confusion of ‘No not the hotel- where we got OFF THE BUS’ was over, maps were produced for them to navigate us through the streets and canals. Perfect navigation took us passed a geletaria with fabulous chocolate orange gelato and through streets littered with locals enjoying the sun. Santa Margarita had its own party just starting up as we left.
There’s still so much more to Venice that I now need to see, I haven’t stepped inside a gallery or a scuole or numerous churches but my son is determined to live in Venice when he’s older so I should have somewhere to stay.
Plan B is still on the list.
Buona Festa
Sunday, January 31, 2010
January or How to make marmalade
January, IT SNOWED. In England. Where we live. Enough to close the schools, roads, cause general chaos and enable the papers to bemoan the general lack of ability of Brits to deal with extreme weather. In Magenta it didn’t. Well it did a little bit in the evenings. Only enough to make the roofs white and pretty, but not school closing levels.
And then we had fog. For days. Fog that was so thick we couldn’t see bell tower 50 metres away. Fog that was so thick every morning for about half an hour it would snow fog. And then freeze. January has been horrible in Magenta, and apart from one trip to Milan (which was admittedly to visit the Last Supper and was completely amazing, and humbling in equal measure, and all 4 of us want to go back) we have been stuck in Magenta with the fog.
Small boy's reaction was to go down with a week long ‘not quite right but not sure what’s wrong’ bug. I got a new set of (very good) kitchen knives for Christams (we had been waiting for the sales- they didn't reduce in price), generally sulked about the lack of sun and the other 2 tripped along fairly happily. Being the new and very proud owner of a decent set of grown up kitchen knives I decided to not ask for my bread to be sliced at IPER. I would do it myself, with my lovely new coltello di pane. Which worked very well; right up to the point where I sliced my index finger- a lot. Being the sort of woman who won’t let a bit of blood interfere with lunch I wrapped my finger with kitchen roll, took a small nic out of the sliced bread and carried on with my salad & bread. An hour later I texted my sister-in-law in Holland who is a first-aid trainer and general Dutch emergency plan back-up call-out operative with the question ‘How long should a finger bleed b4 going to hospital?’ Then having organised husband to come home from Milan and sick boy to pick up girl from school, I drove up the hospital with a still bleeding index finger whilst memorising the phrase ‘I have cut my finger with a knife and it’s been bleeding for an hour and a half’. Given the Italian A&E system seems fairly similar to the British system I fully expected to be up the hospital for a good couple of hours if not more. I took my Venice DK book with me as that is our next ‘mini-break’.
Having lived in Magenta for 10 months I am quite expert finding my way around the hospital. Certainly I am better than trying to find my way round Frimley Park hospital where I have had my 2 babies and its been my local hospital for 19 years. So I happily trip into A&E, thankful that as well as my newly acquired words I have a great visual aid in a bloody finger wrapped in kitchen roll. An Italian man did push in in front of me, but he did look really upset and I understood the figlio (son) and I did feel very pathetic with my finger so I wasn’t about to start an argument.
Well given that I graded myself a white i.e. completely not a priority patient I was prepared to wait a certain length of time before being seen but I did not expect to be walked straight into see a (gorgeous Italian) doctor who treated me immediately. I felt completely stupid repeating the story, and having to relay the ‘Yes I live here; no, my husband is British; he works in Milano; I have lived here for 10 months: cue ‘your Italian is Brava’ response.
So some freezing spray, 20 minutes and 3 stitches later I was out. Pining for the lovely, touch your knee as I talk to you, bedside manner ,that seemed to be the Italian way.
These knives are good, I need to be careful.
Two weeks into the fog and going slightly crazy with boredom I decided to make marmalade. Oranges are 49cents a kilo in IPER, and I need a new challenge. My marmalade making got off to a shaky start when I forgot to buy sugar. Given there are only 4 ingredients to marmalade including water this is not looking good, but undaunted after coffee one morning I re-routed myself to the co-op, purchased the necessary ingredients and then continued my route home.
Husband and son were both off with random man/boy flu bug, so I shut myself in the kitchen and started on the marmalade.
When fruit is as cheap as 49cents a kilo, it is sold in 6 kilo boxes. This equates to about 35 oranges. My recipe for marmalade required 1 kilo of oranges. That is 7 oranges. They were however dutifully halved, squeezed of juice, and cut into thickish peel. This took the best part of an hour. Even with new very sharp knives. I was possibly slowed by the lack of a left index finger in the chopping of the oranges. When the end was in sight of the orange chopping phrase I sliced my left thumb with the knife recreating an almost perfect semi-circle right on the tip of the thumb. I yelped with the pain as orange juice was also seeping into the wound and frustration. With 2 other people in the house I was all alone in trying to stem the flow of blood. Neither husband nor son moved, but did look up from the telly as I sprang from the kitchen to the bathroom looking for another plaster.
Thankfully the oranges were blood oranges so there was no discolouration issue from the (probably) small drop of blood that may have ended up in the pan when I resumed my cooking.
So left thumb and index finger down I finished chopping the peel and having brought the pan to the boil let it simmer for 2 hours or until the peel is soft (squeeze between your finger and thumb to test). I am following Delia’s recipe with quick glances at Nigella and James Martin to compare.
2 hours of bubbling orange peel can go to your head. I started to get a headache and was downing mugs of tea to keep going. Just as it reached lunchtime and 2 hungry boys appeared at the door and started pottering around the kitchen during the peel test, which incidentally burns the only working thumb and index finger I now have. The peel was soft and I had reached the ‘add the sugar; bring to the boil and rapid boil for 10 minutes stage’. My ever supportive husband at this stage asked whether forking out for Tiptree was possibly worth it. He got a hard stare. 4 plates were placed in the freezer as instructed. The sugar boiling stage made me nauseous, and I kept having to go onto the balcony for fresh air. The 10 minutes rapid boil turned into 35 minutes. Nowhere in any of the recipe books are the questions 1) do you stir the boiling sugar mass and 2) how do you stop the bottom burning answered. I would occasionally stir the boiling sugar mass and I have no answer for the burnt bottom except that soaking overnight does mean the burnt bits come off more easily.
A funnel is handy but not essential apparently for marmalade making. Ladling marmalade into jars whose necks are smaller than the ladle is a skill I mastered by the last jar. For the last jar read 4th jar. So five hours, a cut thumb (that quite possibly was in need of a stitch but digits would have to be hanging off before I made another appearance at the Ospedale), a stonking headache, 27 other oranges to get through, a very burnt pan to clean and I had made 4 jars of marmalade. 4 big jars I grant you but still.
The marmalade tastes fine, but generally I only have marmalade at weekends being a MARMITE girl during the week. The children are nutella or marmite on toast kids. Hugh only has toast at the weekends.
Tiptree is €4.49 a jar here. It may well be worth it.
I found a frozen plate in the freezer today. It was quietly placed back in the cupboard.
And then we had fog. For days. Fog that was so thick we couldn’t see bell tower 50 metres away. Fog that was so thick every morning for about half an hour it would snow fog. And then freeze. January has been horrible in Magenta, and apart from one trip to Milan (which was admittedly to visit the Last Supper and was completely amazing, and humbling in equal measure, and all 4 of us want to go back) we have been stuck in Magenta with the fog.
Small boy's reaction was to go down with a week long ‘not quite right but not sure what’s wrong’ bug. I got a new set of (very good) kitchen knives for Christams (we had been waiting for the sales- they didn't reduce in price), generally sulked about the lack of sun and the other 2 tripped along fairly happily. Being the new and very proud owner of a decent set of grown up kitchen knives I decided to not ask for my bread to be sliced at IPER. I would do it myself, with my lovely new coltello di pane. Which worked very well; right up to the point where I sliced my index finger- a lot. Being the sort of woman who won’t let a bit of blood interfere with lunch I wrapped my finger with kitchen roll, took a small nic out of the sliced bread and carried on with my salad & bread. An hour later I texted my sister-in-law in Holland who is a first-aid trainer and general Dutch emergency plan back-up call-out operative with the question ‘How long should a finger bleed b4 going to hospital?’ Then having organised husband to come home from Milan and sick boy to pick up girl from school, I drove up the hospital with a still bleeding index finger whilst memorising the phrase ‘I have cut my finger with a knife and it’s been bleeding for an hour and a half’. Given the Italian A&E system seems fairly similar to the British system I fully expected to be up the hospital for a good couple of hours if not more. I took my Venice DK book with me as that is our next ‘mini-break’.
Having lived in Magenta for 10 months I am quite expert finding my way around the hospital. Certainly I am better than trying to find my way round Frimley Park hospital where I have had my 2 babies and its been my local hospital for 19 years. So I happily trip into A&E, thankful that as well as my newly acquired words I have a great visual aid in a bloody finger wrapped in kitchen roll. An Italian man did push in in front of me, but he did look really upset and I understood the figlio (son) and I did feel very pathetic with my finger so I wasn’t about to start an argument.
Well given that I graded myself a white i.e. completely not a priority patient I was prepared to wait a certain length of time before being seen but I did not expect to be walked straight into see a (gorgeous Italian) doctor who treated me immediately. I felt completely stupid repeating the story, and having to relay the ‘Yes I live here; no, my husband is British; he works in Milano; I have lived here for 10 months: cue ‘your Italian is Brava’ response.
So some freezing spray, 20 minutes and 3 stitches later I was out. Pining for the lovely, touch your knee as I talk to you, bedside manner ,that seemed to be the Italian way.
These knives are good, I need to be careful.
Two weeks into the fog and going slightly crazy with boredom I decided to make marmalade. Oranges are 49cents a kilo in IPER, and I need a new challenge. My marmalade making got off to a shaky start when I forgot to buy sugar. Given there are only 4 ingredients to marmalade including water this is not looking good, but undaunted after coffee one morning I re-routed myself to the co-op, purchased the necessary ingredients and then continued my route home.
Husband and son were both off with random man/boy flu bug, so I shut myself in the kitchen and started on the marmalade.
When fruit is as cheap as 49cents a kilo, it is sold in 6 kilo boxes. This equates to about 35 oranges. My recipe for marmalade required 1 kilo of oranges. That is 7 oranges. They were however dutifully halved, squeezed of juice, and cut into thickish peel. This took the best part of an hour. Even with new very sharp knives. I was possibly slowed by the lack of a left index finger in the chopping of the oranges. When the end was in sight of the orange chopping phrase I sliced my left thumb with the knife recreating an almost perfect semi-circle right on the tip of the thumb. I yelped with the pain as orange juice was also seeping into the wound and frustration. With 2 other people in the house I was all alone in trying to stem the flow of blood. Neither husband nor son moved, but did look up from the telly as I sprang from the kitchen to the bathroom looking for another plaster.
Thankfully the oranges were blood oranges so there was no discolouration issue from the (probably) small drop of blood that may have ended up in the pan when I resumed my cooking.
So left thumb and index finger down I finished chopping the peel and having brought the pan to the boil let it simmer for 2 hours or until the peel is soft (squeeze between your finger and thumb to test). I am following Delia’s recipe with quick glances at Nigella and James Martin to compare.
2 hours of bubbling orange peel can go to your head. I started to get a headache and was downing mugs of tea to keep going. Just as it reached lunchtime and 2 hungry boys appeared at the door and started pottering around the kitchen during the peel test, which incidentally burns the only working thumb and index finger I now have. The peel was soft and I had reached the ‘add the sugar; bring to the boil and rapid boil for 10 minutes stage’. My ever supportive husband at this stage asked whether forking out for Tiptree was possibly worth it. He got a hard stare. 4 plates were placed in the freezer as instructed. The sugar boiling stage made me nauseous, and I kept having to go onto the balcony for fresh air. The 10 minutes rapid boil turned into 35 minutes. Nowhere in any of the recipe books are the questions 1) do you stir the boiling sugar mass and 2) how do you stop the bottom burning answered. I would occasionally stir the boiling sugar mass and I have no answer for the burnt bottom except that soaking overnight does mean the burnt bits come off more easily.
A funnel is handy but not essential apparently for marmalade making. Ladling marmalade into jars whose necks are smaller than the ladle is a skill I mastered by the last jar. For the last jar read 4th jar. So five hours, a cut thumb (that quite possibly was in need of a stitch but digits would have to be hanging off before I made another appearance at the Ospedale), a stonking headache, 27 other oranges to get through, a very burnt pan to clean and I had made 4 jars of marmalade. 4 big jars I grant you but still.
The marmalade tastes fine, but generally I only have marmalade at weekends being a MARMITE girl during the week. The children are nutella or marmite on toast kids. Hugh only has toast at the weekends.
Tiptree is €4.49 a jar here. It may well be worth it.
I found a frozen plate in the freezer today. It was quietly placed back in the cupboard.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Poste Italiane
Depending on your point of view today was either a very bad day, or a good day for learning Italian. The day started with a standard Italian lesson or coffee with my mums’ as I prefer to call it. Today was quite a short lesson, finishing soon after the coffee, which had also started early on account of the bad weather driving us indoors to the coffee shop before the seemingly obligatory 20 minutes standing in the cold talking before repairing to the said coffee shop to continue said conversation. So from ten past nine I was free.
My little task of the day was to find where some parcels were. I knew that they had arrived in Magenta courtesy of a little post office note put through the door. I also knew that 3 parcels had been posted before Christmas so had been awaiting a note for some time. Off to the Post Office I went. Having collected my correct queuing ticket I was informed the parcels were not at the Post Office. They were giro and sinestra and other Italian type directions I couldn’t quite get but gamely I left the post office and walked around the building. The only thing I could understand on the little note was 31. It was obviously at no. 31 somewhere and the post office was no. 29 so I was close. Well obviously I was wrong. Having giroed and sinestraed for longer I found the post office DEPOT. Not the post office. Obviously. So armed with my little note clearly on show I wandered purposely into the depot. One of the phrases I remembered from my instructions to get to the depot was a small window to speak through, so I slowed upon reaching the sorting office complete with big plastic NOT PUBLIC type doors, but I had the foresight to Buon Guornio the post lady I recognised.
In the UK, there is a place for the public to collect the parcels the post office have been (through obviously no fault of their own) unable to deliver. Not so here. Why would anyone expect a place for the public in the sorting office.
The post lady also recognised me, which given I have never spoken to her and I only see her from my balcony delivering post to the posh block behind me, is impressive.
‘Signora McManoos?’ ‘Si’ and I hand out my card. ‘Iononavutoblablablablabla’ as she strode off at a firm pace, towards the big plastic doors. ‘Prego’ and I was in a sorting office. Complete with little compartments for every house in Magneta. How exciting. I smiled my ‘Hi I am friendly, but completely at a loss as to what’s going on’ smile and ‘Si a veróed’ a couple of remarks from the other posties in the warehouse. Two minutes later I was the proud owner of 4 parcels from dear old Blighty. That were posted last year, before Christmas, for Christmas. It’s the 19th of January today.
So far, so normal a day. I have had my bit of excitement. I have a dentist appointment booked for later for a filling. I have learned the corresponding filling, injection, ow words in Italian for the appointment.
I make Secret Ingredient Tomato Soup for lunch (carrots) and complete with new presents await the arrival of my dearly beloved boy home from school for lunch.
Cutting bread is normally such an innocuous activity, not normally one to get excited about. But when you have a new set of proper grown up kitchen knives it is lovely. Until you end up half slicing your left index finger off.
Being very British I don’t have the right sort of plaster or gauze or whatever it is you need for a deep cut, but kitchen roll sees me though lunch. But an hour and a half later when it is still bleeding and having put in a phonecall to my emergency backup /critical incident/first aid trained sister in law I decide to go to hospital for a stitch. I have visions of being there for hours on the grounds that it is completely minor, but having organised 11year old boy to pick up 8 year old daughter from school and get husband on route home so the children aren’t abandoned I set off.
Well, I’m out in 20 minutes having seen a lovely doctor with gorgeous eyes and a fabulous bedside manner and 3 stitches and a comedy bandage on my finger. And the ability to say ‘I have cut my finger with a bread knife and its’ been bleeding for an hour and a half’ in Italian. Allora.
Only the dentist to go, where I dutifully explain that I have cut my finger on a bread knife and it bled (I may have got the tense wrong in translation) for an hour and a half, and no I am not on any medication because of it and yes I will be fine. So then I end up with a huge filling and a numb mouth to cap off my day.
I’ve had 2 bits of toast and a very very large brandy for tea tonight. And an Ibuprofen. It’s probably not a recommended diet. But my finger and tooth don’t hurt anymore. And I have learnt some new words.
My little task of the day was to find where some parcels were. I knew that they had arrived in Magenta courtesy of a little post office note put through the door. I also knew that 3 parcels had been posted before Christmas so had been awaiting a note for some time. Off to the Post Office I went. Having collected my correct queuing ticket I was informed the parcels were not at the Post Office. They were giro and sinestra and other Italian type directions I couldn’t quite get but gamely I left the post office and walked around the building. The only thing I could understand on the little note was 31. It was obviously at no. 31 somewhere and the post office was no. 29 so I was close. Well obviously I was wrong. Having giroed and sinestraed for longer I found the post office DEPOT. Not the post office. Obviously. So armed with my little note clearly on show I wandered purposely into the depot. One of the phrases I remembered from my instructions to get to the depot was a small window to speak through, so I slowed upon reaching the sorting office complete with big plastic NOT PUBLIC type doors, but I had the foresight to Buon Guornio the post lady I recognised.
In the UK, there is a place for the public to collect the parcels the post office have been (through obviously no fault of their own) unable to deliver. Not so here. Why would anyone expect a place for the public in the sorting office.
The post lady also recognised me, which given I have never spoken to her and I only see her from my balcony delivering post to the posh block behind me, is impressive.
‘Signora McManoos?’ ‘Si’ and I hand out my card. ‘Iononavutoblablablablabla’ as she strode off at a firm pace, towards the big plastic doors. ‘Prego’ and I was in a sorting office. Complete with little compartments for every house in Magneta. How exciting. I smiled my ‘Hi I am friendly, but completely at a loss as to what’s going on’ smile and ‘Si a veróed’ a couple of remarks from the other posties in the warehouse. Two minutes later I was the proud owner of 4 parcels from dear old Blighty. That were posted last year, before Christmas, for Christmas. It’s the 19th of January today.
So far, so normal a day. I have had my bit of excitement. I have a dentist appointment booked for later for a filling. I have learned the corresponding filling, injection, ow words in Italian for the appointment.
I make Secret Ingredient Tomato Soup for lunch (carrots) and complete with new presents await the arrival of my dearly beloved boy home from school for lunch.
Cutting bread is normally such an innocuous activity, not normally one to get excited about. But when you have a new set of proper grown up kitchen knives it is lovely. Until you end up half slicing your left index finger off.
Being very British I don’t have the right sort of plaster or gauze or whatever it is you need for a deep cut, but kitchen roll sees me though lunch. But an hour and a half later when it is still bleeding and having put in a phonecall to my emergency backup /critical incident/first aid trained sister in law I decide to go to hospital for a stitch. I have visions of being there for hours on the grounds that it is completely minor, but having organised 11year old boy to pick up 8 year old daughter from school and get husband on route home so the children aren’t abandoned I set off.
Well, I’m out in 20 minutes having seen a lovely doctor with gorgeous eyes and a fabulous bedside manner and 3 stitches and a comedy bandage on my finger. And the ability to say ‘I have cut my finger with a bread knife and its’ been bleeding for an hour and a half’ in Italian. Allora.
Only the dentist to go, where I dutifully explain that I have cut my finger on a bread knife and it bled (I may have got the tense wrong in translation) for an hour and a half, and no I am not on any medication because of it and yes I will be fine. So then I end up with a huge filling and a numb mouth to cap off my day.
I’ve had 2 bits of toast and a very very large brandy for tea tonight. And an Ibuprofen. It’s probably not a recommended diet. But my finger and tooth don’t hurt anymore. And I have learnt some new words.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Bloody Laurie Lee
I have unsurprisingly in the last few months taken more than an avid interest in travel books and other people’s ability to grasp a foreign language.
I only have one language qualification from school. A made up by Lady Mary High School or possibly Cardiff Education Authority Spanish certificate, of which grade 1 and 2 were achievable. I remember the aural vividly. Sat in the hall by the stage whilst being questioned in Cardiffian Spanish what my address and telephone number where. Spanish people we were told say their phone numbers in tens ie, thirty nine, twenty four, eighty three. It was easier for me to make up my phone number so it was zero two, zero four, zero nine. My teachers’ eyebrows queried my reply but nevertheless I became the proud owner of a grade 2 Spanish certificate. The first in my family to have a foreign language qualification, and too open my eyes to the opportunity of the big wide world- not. It remains my only language qualification, and I have never visited Spain.
Laurie Lee famously did visit Spain and when explaining learning the language he poetically describes how slowly words became understood and people patiently listening to his efforts.
Well I can attest to the patience of others whilst I struggle to remember the word for hot, take (of which there are at least 6) food, rain etc. My friends have been endlessly patient with me, and have amazingly not got bored of my pathetic attempts at their language and dumped me. Correcting my mistakes, translating normal Italian into basic, easy to understand, s l o w Italian and speaking on my behalf when I am asked a question, a) I generally don’t understand and b) I can’t reply with all the words required.
But Laurie managed in one sentence to boast that actually he hadn’t had that much problem with the language and given that the rural Spaniards would have spoken no English in the early 1930’s I think he was lying, or at least had forgotten just how hard it was.
Learning to speaking a language is, you are often told, is in stages. Like a baby. However, unlike a baby I have had to communicate with plumbers and shop assistants and doctors so the stages have needed to improve quickly and not quickly enough for my liking.
The first stage is an endless babble of words, spokenatbreakneckspeedofwhichyouhaveabsolutelynochanceofrecognisinganywordorphraseexcept perhaps the word caffe. The first word I genuinely learnt out here was cappuccino. It is not pronounced ‘capp o chi no’ here but ‘ca poo cho’. It remains the most important word I know. To sit in a coffee bar surrounded by people who are willing to put time and effort into being your friend in the knowledge that you are nothing but hard work is a very humbling experience and one I hope makes me a nicer person (doubtful). Even being told people’s names is too much. It took me 6 weeks to work out all the women who I met at the school gate names. And I spoke to them every day: well I stood and listened, and then one of them would ask me in English and explain the conversation.
Next comes a recognition that Italians do actually breathe whilst talking and certain words stand out and are understandable. It may only be one word in a paragraph, but dottore, influenza, iper (the supermarket and my second home here) and scuola mean that you have an idea of the subject being spoken about. But beyond that nothing. You start to si and no and continue to smile gamely during coffee and conversations. You need a translator next to you to explain the conversation.
The next stage is that you start you understand some of the new words you have learnt during lessons such as cucina (kitchen), zaino (rucksack- obviously). The words similar in Italian and English start to become more recognisable, and when saying a word you don’t know in Italian (ie most of them) you add an o or mente or ale on to the end in the hope it turns said English word into an Italian word; for example rarely becomes raramente, peculiar is peculiarle and my particular favourite –spectacturale. This works a good 80% of the time, but you still don’t understand what people are talking about. You need a translator next to you.
Conversing over coffee is a finely tuned art in Italy as you can imagine. Normally 5 or 6 mothers descend on the coffee shop each morning for a caffe macchiato and for me, a daily Italian lesson. There are some weekly attendees and the more occasional visitor’s to our morning ritual. Eight is alot. Eight means at least 9 conversations around the table and as I am fairly mute during the proceedings 2 people are busy. It won’t be the same 2 people. The second conversation is a moving dialogue, which starts as one conversation and then moves, not always in a circular motion missing some who are deep in conversation with someone on the opposite side of the table. ‘Ascolta’ is used frequently, as is ‘escua mi’ as disagreements and common ground are discussed with great passion. My only decision is to decide which conversation I am going to look as if I understand and then attempt to follow. Frequently conversations are based on Italian news and if I keep up to date with the news I can hazard a guess at the conversation. The Earthquake was a complete boon as it happened 3 weeks after we arrived and as you can imagine it dominated the news and conversations for a good few weeks. It came just before Easter and whilst wandering around the local Supermarket on Good Friday we had 2 minutes silence. Well everyone but Tara & I had 2 minutes silence. We were deep in conversation about what crisps she was likely to like when Tudor nudged us and said ‘They just said silenzio, suush’. ‘What for?’ I whispered back looking around me and noticing that indeed all was quiet. ‘Is it for Jesus or the earthquake?’ ‘I don’t know’ was the irate reply ‘I just heard silenzio’. This being Italy I could quite believe that a supermarket would have 2 minutes silence for Jesus on Good Friday but it turns out I was wrong. It was for the Earthquake victims.
Influenza A or Swine Flu to the Brits has also been a good conversation topic. Britain having had the first wave of Flu I was considered an expert especially when I regaled the tale of some friends getting Swine Flu. Thanks to my poor Italian my initial impression of the flu was that you vomited for 2 weeks which was a little extreme. Further interrogation established that the vomiting was only for a couple of days, the weakness lasted for 2 weeks. With such conversations my Italian improved.
I am now at the ‘I can understand the words but not the meaning’ stage. This means that I will get what words they are saying- anche, solo, capito, pero, abbiamo, era, maestra, but what all the words strung together mean is anyone’s guess. This is fine if I am just following a conversation, but the minute a specific question is asked of me I flounder or si when I should no, or I should be giving an opinion. Sentences are opposite structured here confusing it is very. I think I need to start watching Star Wars more to see that little chap talk more. I may understand more then. I can ask basic questions in Italian in shops or the hospital but flounder at the reply. However I still come across the deeply frustrating scenario where I ask for an item – latte (milk) and having been ‘non capitoed’ a number of times I get a oh latte repeated back to me in the exact same way I initially said it. And I can only speak Italian or understand after my first coffee with my mums- nothing before, just a Ciao or Buongiorno and a game smile.
I hope to reach the ‘Nearly understanding the language’ stage soon, but who knows. With each stage I cannot imagine improving or understanding more but slowly I might get there. One day I might be able to say ‘ Well I improved slowly but surely’. But how slowly may become a distant memory, but I doubt it. The frustration and embarrassment will be burned on my brain forever.
Signora McManoos
I only have one language qualification from school. A made up by Lady Mary High School or possibly Cardiff Education Authority Spanish certificate, of which grade 1 and 2 were achievable. I remember the aural vividly. Sat in the hall by the stage whilst being questioned in Cardiffian Spanish what my address and telephone number where. Spanish people we were told say their phone numbers in tens ie, thirty nine, twenty four, eighty three. It was easier for me to make up my phone number so it was zero two, zero four, zero nine. My teachers’ eyebrows queried my reply but nevertheless I became the proud owner of a grade 2 Spanish certificate. The first in my family to have a foreign language qualification, and too open my eyes to the opportunity of the big wide world- not. It remains my only language qualification, and I have never visited Spain.
Laurie Lee famously did visit Spain and when explaining learning the language he poetically describes how slowly words became understood and people patiently listening to his efforts.
Well I can attest to the patience of others whilst I struggle to remember the word for hot, take (of which there are at least 6) food, rain etc. My friends have been endlessly patient with me, and have amazingly not got bored of my pathetic attempts at their language and dumped me. Correcting my mistakes, translating normal Italian into basic, easy to understand, s l o w Italian and speaking on my behalf when I am asked a question, a) I generally don’t understand and b) I can’t reply with all the words required.
But Laurie managed in one sentence to boast that actually he hadn’t had that much problem with the language and given that the rural Spaniards would have spoken no English in the early 1930’s I think he was lying, or at least had forgotten just how hard it was.
Learning to speaking a language is, you are often told, is in stages. Like a baby. However, unlike a baby I have had to communicate with plumbers and shop assistants and doctors so the stages have needed to improve quickly and not quickly enough for my liking.
The first stage is an endless babble of words, spokenatbreakneckspeedofwhichyouhaveabsolutelynochanceofrecognisinganywordorphraseexcept perhaps the word caffe. The first word I genuinely learnt out here was cappuccino. It is not pronounced ‘capp o chi no’ here but ‘ca poo cho’. It remains the most important word I know. To sit in a coffee bar surrounded by people who are willing to put time and effort into being your friend in the knowledge that you are nothing but hard work is a very humbling experience and one I hope makes me a nicer person (doubtful). Even being told people’s names is too much. It took me 6 weeks to work out all the women who I met at the school gate names. And I spoke to them every day: well I stood and listened, and then one of them would ask me in English and explain the conversation.
Next comes a recognition that Italians do actually breathe whilst talking and certain words stand out and are understandable. It may only be one word in a paragraph, but dottore, influenza, iper (the supermarket and my second home here) and scuola mean that you have an idea of the subject being spoken about. But beyond that nothing. You start to si and no and continue to smile gamely during coffee and conversations. You need a translator next to you to explain the conversation.
The next stage is that you start you understand some of the new words you have learnt during lessons such as cucina (kitchen), zaino (rucksack- obviously). The words similar in Italian and English start to become more recognisable, and when saying a word you don’t know in Italian (ie most of them) you add an o or mente or ale on to the end in the hope it turns said English word into an Italian word; for example rarely becomes raramente, peculiar is peculiarle and my particular favourite –spectacturale. This works a good 80% of the time, but you still don’t understand what people are talking about. You need a translator next to you.
Conversing over coffee is a finely tuned art in Italy as you can imagine. Normally 5 or 6 mothers descend on the coffee shop each morning for a caffe macchiato and for me, a daily Italian lesson. There are some weekly attendees and the more occasional visitor’s to our morning ritual. Eight is alot. Eight means at least 9 conversations around the table and as I am fairly mute during the proceedings 2 people are busy. It won’t be the same 2 people. The second conversation is a moving dialogue, which starts as one conversation and then moves, not always in a circular motion missing some who are deep in conversation with someone on the opposite side of the table. ‘Ascolta’ is used frequently, as is ‘escua mi’ as disagreements and common ground are discussed with great passion. My only decision is to decide which conversation I am going to look as if I understand and then attempt to follow. Frequently conversations are based on Italian news and if I keep up to date with the news I can hazard a guess at the conversation. The Earthquake was a complete boon as it happened 3 weeks after we arrived and as you can imagine it dominated the news and conversations for a good few weeks. It came just before Easter and whilst wandering around the local Supermarket on Good Friday we had 2 minutes silence. Well everyone but Tara & I had 2 minutes silence. We were deep in conversation about what crisps she was likely to like when Tudor nudged us and said ‘They just said silenzio, suush’. ‘What for?’ I whispered back looking around me and noticing that indeed all was quiet. ‘Is it for Jesus or the earthquake?’ ‘I don’t know’ was the irate reply ‘I just heard silenzio’. This being Italy I could quite believe that a supermarket would have 2 minutes silence for Jesus on Good Friday but it turns out I was wrong. It was for the Earthquake victims.
Influenza A or Swine Flu to the Brits has also been a good conversation topic. Britain having had the first wave of Flu I was considered an expert especially when I regaled the tale of some friends getting Swine Flu. Thanks to my poor Italian my initial impression of the flu was that you vomited for 2 weeks which was a little extreme. Further interrogation established that the vomiting was only for a couple of days, the weakness lasted for 2 weeks. With such conversations my Italian improved.
I am now at the ‘I can understand the words but not the meaning’ stage. This means that I will get what words they are saying- anche, solo, capito, pero, abbiamo, era, maestra, but what all the words strung together mean is anyone’s guess. This is fine if I am just following a conversation, but the minute a specific question is asked of me I flounder or si when I should no, or I should be giving an opinion. Sentences are opposite structured here confusing it is very. I think I need to start watching Star Wars more to see that little chap talk more. I may understand more then. I can ask basic questions in Italian in shops or the hospital but flounder at the reply. However I still come across the deeply frustrating scenario where I ask for an item – latte (milk) and having been ‘non capitoed’ a number of times I get a oh latte repeated back to me in the exact same way I initially said it. And I can only speak Italian or understand after my first coffee with my mums- nothing before, just a Ciao or Buongiorno and a game smile.
I hope to reach the ‘Nearly understanding the language’ stage soon, but who knows. With each stage I cannot imagine improving or understanding more but slowly I might get there. One day I might be able to say ‘ Well I improved slowly but surely’. But how slowly may become a distant memory, but I doubt it. The frustration and embarrassment will be burned on my brain forever.
Signora McManoos
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