well, so much for

well, so much for positivity. i think i have to leave here. things just seem to get worse, and i don't know if this book will ever be done. i don't know what the story is, but i can't be here anymore. i can't be treated like this anymore, and i can't live like a miser anymore. i want to leave. i have to leave.

komak!

last night i made an iranian dinner for slow food at zibibbo. it was absolutely ridiculous. ridiculous. even though i haven't cooked in a restaurant in a loooong time and i was totally out of cooking shape (among other kinds of shape), and i have never made ANY of the dishes that were on the menu, it all turned out well. some things were better than others, and i had to fight for some aspects of the menu (i lost on most of them), but there were few complaints, which is a victory in itself in italy, land of picky/snobby/know-it-all eaters. i called my mom in a panic more than once. the first time my little brother (b, who, the last time i checked, was surviving on a strict diet of organic instant ramen) answered, and even he had some advice to me; he was highly amused by my desperate state of hysteria.

pants poems

i had this idea on the bus today--yes, i have lots of ideas on the bus when i am not busy staring down freakazoids who are staring at me, or evading the ticket verifiers--to write a poem using only the brand names of jeans. since i live in italy, i get to use italian AND american brands, so there.

preliminary list:
gap
banana republic
levi's
lei
gas
seven
diesel
j. crew
old navy
501 (or, five oh one)
dockers
abercrombie & fitch
the limited
express
polo jeans
calvin klein
playlife
gloria vanderbilt (from bsb)
lee (thanks, JD)

(i'm stuck. help me out, guys!)

the rules:
the poem can ONLY use these words, but names composed of 2 or more words can be separated in the poem. punctuation, where applicable, can be edited. it is at your discretion. my tips: make good use of line breaks and punctuation.

ready? let's play!

coach--i just realized that this isn't so different than those dadaist poems you had us do. was that you? tristan tzara?

sometimes, when the sun

sometimes, when the sun shines just so,
like it was this afternoon when i was riding the bus home,
i realize how lovely it all is.

everything.

and the days are getting longer
and the florence air gets that little tinge
of foreignness,
of italianness.

i remember how i felt when i got
off the plane,
that first breath taken in on the tarmac

and it all seems okay.
it all seems right.
i feel so lucky to live in
italy

sometimes,

when the sun shines just so.

nostalgia

gordito, do you remember that
time when we were freshmen, and

i probably browbeat you into
going swimming with me--

it was just a few days before that triathlon and i hadn't
practiced much
so we were going to

walk toward each other and meet and then
go down to the 33 and 1/3 yard long pool
down on bancroft?

do you remember how--
i guess i must have left late because you practically made it to
dwight way (dwong way?)--
you walked right by me?

i was confused.
i chased you down.
you said sorry, it was
because you'd removed your
glasses to go swimming that
you didn't see me.

i do.

then, we went swimming.
did you notice how
you can see the campanile when
you pop your head out for
a breath? and
how it's lined up
exactly with the half-
way point?

i did.

how did i

how did i just waste a whole notha day?

what is going on with this? i feel so crappy. at least i am warm.

maybe tomorrow i'll make some headway. i hope so. i can't let this get any worse. it is breaking my spirit.

today i wore striped socks and a striped shirt
but my pants covered my socks

and it was too cold to take off my fleece,
so no one could tell that i was was special
underneath.

i just looked like i
always do.


ancora lamento

i am not happy. it's cold. it's gray. i'm poor, with no paycheck in sight. the crepe i had for breakfast was too eggy (yes, i have strong opinions about crepes, big surprise). i am totally insecure and don't feel good enough about anything. i am worried that i will be stuck in mediocre food writing forever. heck, i am scared of being condemned to a life of mediocrity, period. i feel selfish and awful, because since i have no money, all i can think about is things that i want to buy. i am not normally like that. and i don't want anyone to give me any money because they are worried about me or feel bad for me. i just want to get paid for the work i have done diligently (ahem) and well for the past 5 months. i was promised a monthly stipend before i came to italy, and i have received nothing. it sucks. i am wrapped up in this misery. it's all i can think about. except for the fact that unless i go back to school soon, i will indeed be doomed to a life of mediocrity. bleh.

take THAT!

yesterday i was working on the book with benedetta--we were reading some drafts that i had written. i think that she thinks that i plagiarize everything from the internet, and bad sources, too. when we got to one entry that she really liked, she asked me "who wrote this?" uh, ok. yeah. that made me feel good.

i've also started to fight back (finally) at the "you americans" generalizations that get thrown my way constantly. i wave my arms all around and declare (in the haughtiest possible way) "vuoi italiani (insert ridiculous generalization about italians here)!" but sadly, it doesn't work as well as i thought it might--it just induces a lot of snickering (is that the same as sniggering? what IS sniggering anyway?).

the honeymoon

i am way too excited about this blog. i am sure, though, that like everything else in my life of half-finished things, i will stop being so eager about it eventually.

things i want to write about: campolmi's beautiful yarns and my swordlike italian knitting needles; the neon yarns that seem to be troppo hip this year; are boxing shoes trendy in america right now? because that's what all of the cool kids are wearing here; la pentola del diavolo; nerbone; dario; my new best friends tarocchi and sanguinello; the elections in italy; spinach and raisins; italians and weather; what i will buy if i ever get paid (lovely things from quelle tre, all'ancora secca, and the farmacia, among others); e, tantissime altre cose!

things that happen to you once you have lived in tuscany for long enough

you stop to care about time. specifically, being late. everything is chronically late: the bus (45 minutes), mail (7-10 days), people who tell you to meet them at 8 am in the rain (35 minutes), my paycheck (5 months), my new yorker (3 weeks), my harper's (5 months and counting). well, you get it.

you start to become an even BIGGER food snob just to keep up with people and their major opinions. if you don't have an opinion on EVERYTHING you eat here, then you just won't make it.

you start to forget how to speak languages you grew up speaking, and yet you STILL haven't conquered the subjunctive.

salt becomes your new best friend (ok, salt was already my best friend).

somehow, the saltless tuscan bread becomes more palatable.

you stop pronouncing the K sound even when you speak english.

hideous fashion statements like exposed seam jackets start to look good to you.

to avoid looking like an american, instead of ordering a cappuccino in the afternoon, you ask for a latte macchiato.

you start to eat pasta multiple times a day.

offal starts to look appealing to you.

the fruit and vegetable vendors at the market start picking out your groceries without you having to say a word.

you start to crave salad all of the time, and realize how good you had it back home (green-goddess dressing! beets! any salad dressing! little gems!)

you start to tear up at the mention of mexico or korea in the news, ethnic cuisines seeming a far away, impossible dream.
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AK, i bet you're going to want these as badly as i do.

well, what the heck, i think i'll just post all of my stationery and design links here so that i have them all in one place. in case you can't tell, i am obsessed with letterpress:

alphabetique::bethge hamburg::carrot and stick press::el casco::iomoi::j. herbin::julie holcomb printers::jack and lulu::knock knock::little tree press::marie papier::mira aster::sukie::paperhaus::papivore::page::patty curtan::r. nichols::nava design:: rudi rabitti::russell + hazel::snow and graham::soolip::turquoise::dewey howard::flax::puddle jumper press::rock scissor paper

i'm a worker bee

when i get sick of my little apartment and feel like i am going to choke in there, i pack up all of my stuff and make the trek across the hall. i set up in my friend/landlord's apartment all over his dining room table. i spread out all of my cookbooks and notebooks and dictionaries and pretend to work for a few hours, fooling him and his roommate into thinking that i am oh-so-diligent and smart. but really, i just play spider solitaire and check my email. and now, i have this blog to distract me more.

although, maybe if i started thinking short and sweet, like this, i'd be better off.

about the murder

i still don't know if it was technically a murder, but i do know that there is a bunch of "zona polizia" tape up all over the doors of the dead guy's apartment (i hold my breath and look away and run past it every time), and the latest thing that i have heard is that the old dude had a lover or someone who is a possible suspect. i still don't know how he died, though. and there is some speculation on why there were always young people coming and going out of his apartment (drugs? sex? no one knows. well, i don't). i'll let you know when i find out.

bella italia

in case that other story is way too long for you, here is something much shorter with a similar "oh, italy" effect:

BELLA ITALIA

From a Tuscan travel brochure.

Spending a holiday by Mazzocchi-Marilli's like to find the hospitality of old friends. Beside you can feel an atmosphere of thoughtlessness and light-heartedness, which only a Tuscan farm can offer.

--from the Jan. 26, 2004 New Yorker