When Nutmeg Met Basil

Ragu` alla Bolognese (cooking credit: Fabio Sarti)

So when I left off in my About Me post (before I started rambling on about eating in the presence of Italians), I was on the plane back to Vermont, where I would complete my joint English and Italian degree at Middlebury College.  Need I say that I cried for the full ten hour plane ride from Rome to New York?

There was some major reverse culture shock to deal with in my first weeks and months back in America.  I kept hearing these Italian voices everywhere: Ma perche?  Perche fanno cosi` gli americani?  Non si fa, non si fa!  [Translation: Why do Americans DO that? Why? That’s just not how it’s done!]

Why are Americans always eating?  Why do they carry huge cups of coffee around with them like an IV filled with caffeine?  Why do they walk around in 20 degree weather (that’s Fahrenheit, I never mastered Celsius) with WET HAIR?  Why are they so awkward with each other?  (Okay, enough, I’m digressing again.  Basta.)

Gradually, I readjusted to American culture (and remembered that I am an American who likes to constantly eat and carry a coffee IV as an alternative to propping my eyelids open with toothpicks.)

Meanwhile, I felt that for the first time I had a true external purpose in my life.  I simply knew that I must go back to Italy, and I promised to myself that I would.

Okay, let’s fast-forward a bit here.  Quick photo scrapbook:

I cooked a LOT of Italian food as President of Middlebury’s Italian Club.

Dallas and I in front of a pot of Cappellacci alla Zucca

Brazadela: Ferrarese Lemon Bread

Eggplant frying for Melanzane alla Parmigiana

I lived in the Italian interest house.  My friends (and the occasional random passer-by) never, ever left hungry, or uncaffeinated.

Then, I graduated in May 2010.

Dallas and me on graduation day

So my studies of Italian were done.  It had been eighteen months since that tearful Alitalia flight.  And all I wanted was still… to go back to Italy.

What next?

TO BE CONTINUED…

Dallas and Babbo at EsseLunga

In my last post I discussed the learned pleasure of eating almost-raw meat: this is the pleasure of bistecca alla fiorentina, Florence’s traditional steak dish.  I quaked at the sight of blood on my plate before Italy.  Somehow, a few months after my arrival, I was desperate to try it, and after a feast of sorts at the homey, cramped Trattoria di Mario in Florence’s Centro Storico, I was absolutely hooked.

My wonderful, loving host dad Babbo Carlo treated me and my housemate Dallas to bistecca alla fiorentina during our last month together in Italy.  We traveled together to EsseLunga, a fabulous grocery store, and we headed straight to the meat department.

This lovely butcher offered us a slice.

Back at home, Babbo showed me how to cook and eat the steak.

It was out of this world.

YUM!

In September of 2008 I left the United States for the first time and flew to Italy for one semester of language-immersive study abroad. After five months under the persuasive influence of my Tuscan host family, I had grown to love fresh figs, extremely rare steaks, rabbit in any form, artichokes, and gelato.

After five months indulging in Italian food and food culture, I was ready to stay forever.

Then I went back to college in Vermont so that I could freeze my nose off.

The thing is, I took part of Italy back to Vermont with me. Not just my memories, but my entire approach to life. After a few months in Italy (okay, to be honest, it was only after a few minutes), I realized: This is it. This is what’s been missing for the last twenty years of my life.

In Italy, each day is a work of art. Each meal is a symphony, its flavors melding like musical notes in endless new and fantastic combinations. If you’ve eaten a meal with Italians, you know that it’s like going to church. Certain rules must be followed; disobeying them leads to self-righteous outrage.

The wrong wine at the wrong time? Not finishing what’s on your plate? Skipping the fruit course? Buying pre-made ingredients from the supermarket? These offenses will not be tolerated.

Like a church service, the meal follows a specific pattern, a ritual. Participating in this ritual with those around you creates an intimacy that might be compared to sharing a sacrament in a church, an intimacy unknowable in other circumstances.

In other words, the rigidity of Italian dining is what allows creativity and beauty to flourish.

If Nutmeg and Basil were two characters in a movie, they would be played by Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal.  When Harry Met Sally has been my favorite movie since I first saw it six years ago.

But when Nutmeg meets Basil in real life, it is even better than a romantic comedy.

Why?

Because you don’t know how it will end.

In this blog I will document and report on the intersection between Nutmeg and Basil.  In other words, the intersection between my life (I’m a Nutmegger, a native of Connecticut, the Nutmeg State*), and Italy (basil’s spiritual homeland); as well as, more generally speaking, the intersection between American food culture, Italian food culture, and Italian-American food culture.

*Connecticut is known as the Nutmeg State because historically, Connecticut merchants interspersed wooden balls with balls of nutmeg to boost profits in nutmeg sales, setting the ethical standard high for future state residents.

Stay tuned.

[image credits: marlerblog.com, howstuffworks.com, moviemobsters.com]

Bananas Justino

Really, Dave?

All you have to do is add lime juice to a handle of Maker’s Mark Bourbon and five bananas, along with the “miracle” enzyme pectin-ex for clarifying (available only in 25 L quantities, for about $500), spin it all around in a centrifuge, cool everything down with liquid nitrogen, and serve.

Dave Arnold, who blogs less frequently than his audience would prefer at cookingissues.com, spectacularly produced this technological delight for me and my classmates last night at the French Culinary Institute.

Pectinex SPL is available through cookingissues.com.