A Slice of Life in Rome

By Patricia Winton

The Rome Reads Book Club met in a little-known bar to select next year’s reading list. We chose this bar because it provides two amenities required by the group: reasonable proximity to public transportation and ample parking. This group is made up of people who drive wherever they go, including a couple of motor scooterists, and those who get about on buses, trams and trains.

Everyone was settled with glasses of fruit juice or beer when I arrived. I went to the bar and collected an acceptable, if not outstanding, glass of wine for a couple of euros and joined my friends.

At the next table, a group of Chinese men and women gathered over drinks and embroidery. They worked on a communal project using the same fabric and gold braid, frequently comparing their work. One woman rethreaded her needle from time to time, pulling it through the fabric and up over her head. They reminded me of a quilting bee I saw my aunt host when I was a child.

Some Italians grouped around another table, sharing glasses and gossip, a favorite Italian passtime. On stage a couple of musicians tuned their instruments, occasionally drowning out our conversation. Some Italian teens strung out a line of chairs before the stage, preparing to enjoy the show. We put our book choices to a vote. The Chinese continued to stitch.

A singer joined the musicians, and they performed a set. The teens slouched in their chairs, ears on the band, eyes on passing girls. The Italian adults laughed at a joke. We assessed our book choices and assigned dates for each discussion. The Chinese admired their handiwork.

The band took a break. We folded our notes and talked of vacation plans. One goes to Stromboli, an Italian volcanic island; another is off to a music festival in Strasbourg, France; a third plans to loll at Lake Vico north of Rome. I am off cruising some Greek Islands. The teens bunched together to trade insults and assess what they’d heard and seen. The Chinese continued to stitch.

The musicians returned and struck up a catchy rhythm, heavy on the bass. Outside, a dog joined in, barking to the beat. The band took another break; we gathered our belongings and ambled away, leaving behind the gossiping Italians, stitching Chinese, and barking dog.

On the street, we wished each other a good summer--those on wheels heading in one direction, those on foot another.

A good time was had by all.

December Choice

Talking Trash

By Patricia Winton

When I first came to Italy many years ago, I lived in a town on the Tyrrennian coast. The post-war town had tree-lined streets of two-story houses. The garbage collectors came on bicycles. They left plastic bags each time they came, and we filled them with our trash. On collection day, we put the bags outside and the cyclists collected the trash and carried it away in large cylindrical containers attached to the front of their bikes. An idyllic method for an idyllic setting.

The Old View Outside My Door

Things are different here. Rome is a city with narrow streets and no alleys. There’s no place to hide the trash. The dense population creates mountains of trash daily.When I first moved here, a row of dumpsters stood outside the front door of my apartment building; others lined the block a few doors down. Colors indicated what to put into each: white for paper; blue for plastic, glass, and metal; green for everything else. Trash trucks came every morning to empty the green ones, but the other two were emptied infrequently. Often, piles of bottles and bags of paper littered the pavement. And dumpster diving gypsies patrolled the neighborhoods on a regularly scheduled basis to dig through the trash, ripping open bags of garbage in their quest to find things to resell.

A couple of years ago, the city began a new recycling program designed to educates citizens slowly in an attempt to change behavior, and I think it’s working.

The Cleaner View

I live in one of the experimental neighborhoods, and the process has fascinated me. First, notices went up announcing that the city planned to begin collecting organic garbage to compost. The green dumpsters would be removed, and everyone would be given a container for kitchen scraps.

These notices remained in place for a few months. Then employees of the city trash removal service visited every apartment in the neighborhood, handing out buckets, paper bag liners—with instructions printed on the outside. Every morning—weekends and holidays included, small trucks park throughout the neighborhood, collecting the organic trash in one container and non-recyclables in another. The trucks move every couple of hours, but they are only a short walk for the residents. For me, there’s one available in every direction I might take when I exit my home.

The Guide

Many people chose not to participate in the program and continued to put their trash in the dumpsters as usual. Then one day, the city took the dumpsters away. On my block-long street alone, this action freed up about a dozen parking places. Dumpsters for recycling paper, plastics, etc. moved around the corner. They are emptied daily.

While many people still don’t recycle, more and more do participate in the program. A number of independent recycling efforts had already been initiated: medical waste containers stand outside all pharmacies; used clothing receptacles dot the city; little boxes to receive spent batteries can be found on many streets.

This education program provides a complete guide of what to recycle where. The color-coded guide provides an index of things you might want to throw away. Have some leaves and flowers from gardening? That’s brown for organic. An umbrella? Green for non-recyclable.

The program hasn’t made its way across the city yet, but in my little neighborhood, things seem cleaner. That’s a good thing.

The Earthquake in Your Kitchen

By Patricia Winton

The earthquake that struck northern Italy on Sunday took lives, injured many people, destroyed countless homes, and ravaged cultural treasures. The region, and all of Italy, will feel the effects for years.

But you may feel the effects as well. At least your dining table or your pocketbook may.

The devastated region, Emilia-Romagna, produces some of Italy’s finest cuisine and the basic ingredients that create it including cheese, wine, prosciutto, and balsamic vinegar.

The wine, called Lambrusco, is cultivated from a grape that dates to the Etruscans. While people in the US probably know the sweet variety better, Italians prize the dry one. According to news reports, the quake damaged several factories that produce the wine, but it’s unclear if the vines themselves were hurt. Ironically, the town of Viadana, within the quake area, celebrated a Lambrusco festival Saturday; it had been scheduled to continue Sunday.

Yesterday, I saw Lambrusco on sale at a local supermarket, obviously part of a long-planned promotion.  I suspect that the wine will be off the shelves at that low price today. And since Italian vendors don’t offer rain checks, I also suspect that it will reappear in a couple of weeks at a higher price.

Balsamic vinegar aging in casks

Lambrusco is drunk young, so even if a warehouse of bottles was destroyed, it won’t take a long time to recover. For balsamic vinegar producers, on the other hand, it’s quite a different story. Only Modena and nearby Reggio Emilio produce true Balsamico and age the most revered for up to twelve years. A destroyed warehouse of that represents more than a decade of work. Thousands of liters of balsamic aging in the casks have been lost. The tallies are still underway to assess the extent of the damage.

You have probably seen the destroyed warehouses for aging Parmigiano Reggiano cheese. Early estimates suggest that the quake damaged or destroyed as many as 500,000 wheels, with estimates as high as a million euro in losses.

Food inspectors are currently trying to see how much can be salvaged. Some of the cheese near the end of the aging process can be saved. If the wheels have been merely broken but not contaminated, the cheese can be vacuum-packed and sold. Any cheese adulterated must be destroyed. The broken wheels of cheese that have just begun to age must also be destroyed.

Grana Padano, another cheese from the region, suffered damage as well. The production area spans a larger area, so the percentage of loss will probably be lighter. That, too, remains to be seen.

And finally, prosciutto—ham. Specifically, we’re talking about Parma ham, the best of the best. Farms raising the pork that will become Parma ham and several factories producing it have also been struck.

The agricultural consortiums and the unions have requested government financial help, including relief from taxes due in June, but those decisions await resolution.

So, if you’re eating Italian today, or later, think about these losses. We’ll all be affected for a long time to come.

A Bimbo by Any Other Name

By Patricia Winton

Today on Novel Adventurers, I write about children’s games in Italy, including one called Bimbo. In English that word carries a pejorative connotation—a sexy, female airhead—but in Italian, it’s a word wrapped with parental love.

Bimbo is the diminutive of bambino, a male child—from birth to around puberty. The feminine version is bambina, or bimba. It’s not unusual to hear a father call out, “Bimbe (plural), venite qua,” (girls, come here). The use of bimbo or its feminine or plural forms suggests affection, in the same way that my grandfather called me Patty while others said Patricia.

The Oxford English Dictionary (OED) records the first usage of bimbo in English in 1919; at that time it meant a man who wasn't very smart. And in the 1930s, cartoon character Betty Boop—who in today’s English could be called a bimbo—had a boyfriend named Bimbo, sorely lacking in intelligence.

The word bimbo, meaning woman, first appears in the 1929 version of the OED, citing an article in a scholarly journal; it didn’t have a negative meaning then. But two 1929 films moved the word bimbo towards it current English meaning. In the first, a silent film called Desert Nights, a sexy, wealthy female thief was called a bimbo. But the more celebrated, The Broadway Melody (the first “talkie” to win an Oscar), probably holds the honor as the chief vehicle for transporting the meaning to a sexy, dumb woman. In the film, an angry character calls a chorus girl a bimbo.

There’s a shop near my home called Bimbo Point. It makes me smile every day as I pass because the juxtaposition of the two languages could lead to confusion. Italians understand that the shop sells children’s clothing, but what do English speakers who don’t know Italian think? Another shop nearby, Io Bimbo (Me, Baby), also deals in children’s items.

 
A recent item in the Los Angeles Times seemed to be mixing languages. The headline read, “Ready for post-bimbo era in Italy.” Now, Italy has the lowest birthrate in Europe, but to begin an era with no babies is unthinkable! The article actually addressed moving beyond former Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi’s days in power. It examined his sexual exploits and the way he uses scantily-clad young women on his television stations.

Berlusconi created the first privately owned television station in Italy. One of its earliest shows, still running, parodies the news of the day with young women wearing few clothes prancing on stage to hand sheets of paper with news items to the hosts. These bits of paper are called veline, named for the onionskin paper that Benito Mussolini's censors sent to editors throughout Italy with their acceptable slant on the news.

The young women themselves came to be called veline, and they now appear on a wide variety of television programs, even in the pre-dinner hour. They also grace television commercials for anything from exercise equipment to yoghurt. In many ways the veline in Italian are the bimbos in English.

The drawing of the velina comes from Dianne Hales at  Becoming Italian Word by Word

Making the Bridge

Ponte Sant'Angelo in Rome

In Italy today, facciamo il ponte, we’re making the bridge. The first time I heard the expression, during my early days in Rome, a student stopped by my desk as she was leaving class and asked, in English, “Will we make the bridge next week?”

As an English teacher, I’m accustomed to trying to figure out what non-native speakers mean when they get the words wrong. I showed her the next week’s lesson, but she shook her head. Switching to Italian, she said, “Faremo il ponte la prossima settimana?”

I still didn’t get it. We don’t usually construct things in English classes. Finally, she was able to explain that because the following Tuesday was a holiday, would we bridge the time between the weekend and Tuesday by canceling class on Monday.

I assured her that we would not make the bridge. But as it turned out, we did. I arrived at school the following Monday to find the doors locked.

Now, I have this discussion about making the bridge several times during the academic year. It gets dicey in December and April. Thanksgiving at the end of November notwithstanding, I always take a day off for my birthday--December 5. And December 8 is a holiday in Italy; if a bridge is involved with that holiday, it means we miss a lot of class prior to the usual three weeks at Christmas.

Patriotic Fly-Over

In April, we often have Easter, where we take off the Friday before and the Monday after. In addition, April 25 is a national holiday commemorating the liberation of Italy from the Nazis. This year, the 25th fell on Wednesday, and students wanted to make the bridge—two days! That would have been a Ponte Lungo (long bridge), which, ironically, is the name of a Rome metro stop.

And so today we’re making the bridge because tomorrow, May 1, is Labor Day in Italy as it is in many parts of the world.

I just wish the workers who are tearing out a masonry wall in the apartment next door were making the bridge today. Their noise has my head pounding.

The She-Wolf in Georgia

The city where I live celebrates her 2765th birthday on Saturday, April 21.

You probably know the legend. Mars, the god of war and Rhea Silvia, daughter of King Numitor of Alba Longa, produced twins named Romulus and Remus. King Numitor was overthrown by his brother Amulius who then ordered the twins to be drowned in the Tiber River. A she-wolf found and suckled them, and later, a shepherd adopted them.

When they grew up, they reclaimed Alba Longa from their uncle and decided to found a town of their own near the place where they first encountered the she-wolf. Romulus began building a wall for the city on the Palatine Hill, but Remus jeered him because the wall was so low, jumping over it. An angry Romulus killed Remus and continued to build. Thus we have the city of Roma, not Rema. And despite the blurred lines between legend and history, not to mention changes in calendars, the date April 21, 753 BC has been adopted as the date of Rome’s official founding.

The Statue in Italy

Two symbols represent Rome in the international mind’s eye: the Colosseum and the statue. You’ve probably seen the statue, at least in photos, a pair of babies under the she-wolf, mouths open, reaching for her teats.

I first saw a copy of the original in Rome, Georgia, where I lived long before I came to Rome, Italy. A plaque at the base says the statue was a gift to the Georgia Rome from Benito Mussolini, but in her fascinating book, She-Wolf: The Story of a Roman Icon, Cristina Mazzoni tells another story.

Mussolini certainly gave replicas of the statue to potential allies, but, despite what the plaque says, he didn’t give this one. In 1928, a Milan-based rayon plant began construction of another plant in Georgia. Mazzoni says that, along with the machinery, the Milan business sent a replica of the company’s symbol—the she-wolf and twins statue.

The Statue in Georgia

The statue created a stir in Georgia. The Milan business had thought that it would be placed outside the factory, but it instead took a prominent place in front of the City Auditorium. While most people appreciated it as a work of art, others were shocked by the frontal nudity of the babies and the fine detail of the she-wolf’s anatomy. Frequently, the naked babies were diapered and the wolf draped during important events at the auditorium.

Some people even suggested sending the statue back to Italy, but that was too expensive. It had come from Italy as part of the machinery shipment. A return trip would have been as a work of art with ensuing taxes, not to mention the cost of shipping 1500 pounds.

Finally, a compromise led to a plaque proclaiming this statue to be a gift from Mussolini himself, who still was a somewhat admired world leader. The plaque says that he gave the statue as an “omen of prosperity and glory” from the “Eternal Rome to the New Rome.”

One of the twins was stolen in 1933, perhaps as a prank, but a replacement arrived from Italy with little fanfare, signaling that Georgians accepted the statue as part of the cityscape.

When Mussolini allied with Hitler in World War II, the statue entered a maelstrom of controversy again. Some people wanted to dynamite it; others to cast it into the nearby Oostanaula River. One car salesman advocated “melting it down and shooting it back” as bullets. Calmer heads prevailed and the statue was hidden away throughout the war.

In 1952, just over ten years before I first saw it, the statue emerged from hiding. It now stands in front of the Municipal Building, still bearing the plaque crediting Mussolini as the giver.

Spears for Spring

Many years ago, I bought a house with an established asparagus bed. When I moved in, the season had just ended, so I had to wait almost a year to harvest. The following spring, I examined the bed daily, almost hourly, to look for the first green spears poking up through the mulch.

During that first season, I ate asparagus two or three times a day: asparagus with poached eggs, asparagus risotto, asparagus with hollandaise. My favorite way of eating it was, and is, to dip the still slightly crispy spears into melted butter; it’s satisfying to have the butter trickle down my chin as I chew.

Some years later, when I belonged to a community garden in Washington, DC, I planted asparagus and waited the then recommended two years to harvest. I didn’t have as many plants as before, but I enjoyed this asparagus just as much.

A few years later, when I left the garden, I transplanted the asparagus to space behind the building where I lived. I wonder now if anybody finds the asparagus, recognizes it, and enjoys the treat. I fear that the gardener just mows it down when he begins the springtime cleanup.

My thoughts always turn to asparagus when spring arrives. It began appearing in Italian markets about three weeks ago. Those first bundles of green spears seemed lonely, having been shipped in from Spain or North Africa. The prices were high, and no vegetable seller wanted to invest in too much of the high-priced commodity; they had only a bundle or two on display.

Last week, the local asparagus popped up in profusion—rows of neat bundles stood at every market veggie stall in preparation for Easter. They lured me to open my wallet. I brought home a bundle, and using the process Julia Child outlined in The Way To Cook, I snapped off about an inch from the bottom of each spear. I stood the spears in tall containers with about two inches of water in the bottom and covered them loosely with plastic bags.

I’ve been feasting on all my favorites, but I also tried out a new recipe for Pappardelle agli Asparagi e Gamberi—Pappardelle with Asparagus and Shrimp. Pappardelle are extra wide noodles (about 1/2 inch) but you can substitute other pasta.

PAPPARADELLE AGLI ASPARAGI E GAMBERI

1 pound asparagus

2 tablespoons chopped flat leaf parsley

1 pound pappardelle (or other pasta)

2 tablespoons butter

1/2 pound cleaned and shelled shrimp

1 small onion, chopped

2/3 cup heavy cream

1/3 cup white wine

Salt and pepper to taste

1. Clean and cook the asparagus until just tender. It should be somewhat underdone because it will cook more in the sauce.

2. Remove the tips and set aside. Cut the remaining asparagus into rounds.

3. Meanwhile, melt the butter and add the chopped onion. Cook until soft, but do not brown.

4. Add the shrimp and cook until it is no longer transparent. Add the white wine and cook to evaporate.

5. Add the asparagus rounds, reserving the tips for garnish.

6. Stir in the cream, cooking and stirring for another minute or two. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

7. In the meantime, cook the pasta. Drain, reserving a part of the pasta water.

8. Add the pasta to the sauce and stir to mix, adding some of the reserved pasta water if it seems too thick.

9. Divide the pasta among four plates, garnishing with the asparagus tips.

10. Enjoy!!