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.
Showing posts with label hospital. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hospital. Show all posts
Sunday, January 31, 2010
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.
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