I'm sure there's nothing left to say about Italy's food that hasn't already been said by more talented writers than me. But, one of the magnificent things about Italy in general is everyone who goes feels like they're the first. The food, so far, is deserving of its own post. When I die, I'm certain I'll have never eaten finer food. Last night we had Tuscan style food. We didn't know it was Tuscan style but the waiter told us. No idea what that really means except they don't have seafood and the wine is sublime. And cheap. We got this whole bottle for less than one glass in the US. We started with figs and prosciutto for an appetizer. They brought the figs, whole, on one plate and the prosciutto on another. No frills, no fancy prep, just the food. Fresh, simple, glorious. I wanted pasta. I hadn't had it yet and, well, it's Italy. It's a law. I ordered the Carbonara. I make it at home but wanted to taste the real thing. Needless to say, I probably won't make it anymore. Hard to believe pasta, butter, prosciutto and eggs could taste so heavenly, but it did. Hubby had the Pasta Castalinga - named after the restaurant. Castalinga means housewife. So, they've got it going on in Italy, those housewives. This pasta had tomatoes, chili flakes and basil. Sweet, spicy, light, perfect. I knew it was time to go when hubby started to recommend this fantastic pasta to the other ugly Americans sitting at the next table...the Pasta Cunnilingus. Dessert. Even though we'd stuffed ourselves and drank a whole bottle of wine...well...dessert was still a no brainer. Especially almond biscotti dipped in Vin Santo. When you get to the pearly gates, this is what they're serving. I swore I'd never eat again. Till breakfast. When hubby and I travel, we make it a point to never eat at the hotel we're staying in. We prefer to take our chances out and about. But, our zillion dollar hotel room came with breakfast so we felt like we had to. Good call. How could you not eat in a place so lovely? And how could you not love a waiter who brings you your own foot stool. I mean, right? Even the flowers were delicious. I just wish I could've filled all these plates. I tried. I think I even love that toaster. Man can't live by bread alone. So how about some of this? And this... A little bit of this... Or, this... Or, this... Yeah, I know...ridonkulous. No, I'm not kidding. Yes, there's still more. If you're feeling healthy. Healthier... A little cereal? Granola? Pumpkin seeds? Yogurt? Like, the best in the world...yes, that's a whole wall of champagne back there. That's what I'm talkin' about. Thought they'd never ask. I know, looks like I hardly ate a thing. That was my first plate.
I've gotta go...we're getting ready to go to dinner. And I ran out of time before I could add lunch pictures. So glad I brought my fat pants.
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Today is Kenneth's birthday. He's our youngest. Which, can't be right because no one his age can be our youngest. I won't say how old he is. This is still my blog, after all. I'll give you a hint though, this photo is more than ten years old... I have to confess I'm not sure what an ode is. I think it's poetic. Even though I could find out in half a second what it means, I'm not gonna. I just like it. This is still my blog, after all. In this instance, it means "Shout Out." Kenneth is one of those people who are not appreciated enough. So, today, on the anniversary of his birth, I'm gonna appreciate him, show him some love, with one of my favorite things - a list. This is a list of some of the things I love and appreciate about Kenneth. Almost everything I know about baseball, I know because of Kenneth. Well, his Dad too, but it isn't his Dad's birthday. I know a double-header lasts a hell of a long time. I know what a change-up is. I know its important to count pitches. I know there's no half-time, cheerleaders, points, or crying, in baseball. What I still don't know is why the coaches and the managers wear baseball uniforms. Kenneth doesn't know why either. Kenneth is thoughtful. He bought me this leg lamp because one Christmas TBS played A Christmas Story over and over for 24 hours. I said, "I love that guy's leg lamp. How awesome would it be to have a leg lamp of my own?" Now I can tell you, it is indeed, AWESOME. Because Kenneth bought it for me. You know you want it. Kenneth carries groceries without me asking him to. If you're cold, he'll give you his coat. He's never late. If he says he'll do something, he does it. He fixes stuff. He helps me with the techno crap on my website and Facebook page because I'm a zero. He once spent all day trying to hook up my new MP3 player in my car. He's that kind of guy. He was Best Man at our wedding. He made a toast that he'd thought of himself. This was big. Kenneth is shy, not terribly fond of public speaking. But, I've never heard a better toast. Except for the one his Dad made at our daughter's wedding. But, it's not his Dad's birthday. He cracked open the champagne and poured us a glass. He made me cry. This photo and memory means the world to me, and his Dad. All of our kids were fantastic on our wedding day. But, it's not their birthday either. This is Cosmo. This is Kenneth and his sister Kristen's arms. She gave him this rabbit for his birthday, a zillion years ago. I love that he gave his rabbit such a cool guy name. Even though she was a girl rabbit. I love that he will probably be embarrassed that these photos are here. He will probably be embarrassed by this whole post. But, that ship sailed. Not sure why Kenneth's head is cut off in this photo. But, I love that he planted these roses for us. He worked at it all day. They were beautiful and the only thing I missed, and miss still, since we sold that house. I love that Kenneth thinks anything happening below the waist is hilarious. Fart jokes? Fuggetaboutit! Naked fart jokes? Stop...he's dyin! Oh...he laughs at my jokes too. That's key. He also read both my books, in manuscript form. Even the first, really crap one. He didn't even say it sucked. I love that. I have stuff on my book shelves that can only be called, tacky. My sock monkey Jesus, my naked fat lady salt and pepper shakers, my Van Gogh figurine sans ear... Kenneth baptized this shelf my tacky shelf. I LOVE it that Kenneth has kept this tradition alive and has his own tacky shelf. This is Nunzilla (she rolls and spits sparks out of her mouth) and the Expanding Nerd. He started out a minuscule sponge like thing and when soaked in water, he expanded. You know you want one. I love it that Kenneth is a good cook and made this meal himself last Thanksgiving. No, that's kind of a lie. I love it that Kenneth re-creates the exact meal that I've made at holiday time for the last decade, plus. Right down to the apricot jam I spread on the bottom crust of the pumpkin pie. That's really something. Traditions are for carrying on. To know that this dinner has meaning to him, well...that's everything, isn't it? Speaking of carrying on. This is Kenneth and Madison, our now 11 year old granddaughter. It's hard to believe how much time has passed since I first met Kenneth so many years ago. Before Madison was born. We've grown. The funny thing about writing is it never goes the way you plan. This blog, for instance. I wanted to salute Kenneth on his birthday. But, I noticed there's a pattern here. It's as much about me as it is about him. Kenneth makes me feel like my best self when he's around. That's the gist of it. I feel like a good mom, a good friend, a good cook, and don't forget, funny! So, happy birthday to Kenneth. I'm thinking of him today and all the years we've gotten to know one another, and all the ways knowing him has made me happy. I wouldn't trade them, or him. He's my youngest kid, and that's that. I know one thing for sure, when Kenneth gets married...she won't be good enough for him and I'll be the mother-in-law from hell. You could ask my sons-in-law to elaborate...but it's not their birthday. This is George and Alice. To the untrained eye they look pretty much like everyone else. They are SO NOT like everyone else. I'll start with George. He's tallest. George is a musician, engineer, attorney, quasi-geologist, father to twins, husband. A conversation with George goes like this: George: That was when I was a pirate. Me: Ahhh...what? George: Yeah, pirate. I used to swing in on a rope. Aaaaargh. There was more to this story, but he had me at pirate. Or, George: Yeah, that was when I fixed the air-conditioning at the Chicken Ranch. Me: The whorehouse Chicken Ranch? George: Yeah. When I was in high school my parents retired and moved to Nevada. Right. I'd forgotten that the natural progression was, you go to high school, your parents retire, then you're fiddling with the air-conditioning at a whorehouse. Me: You just happened to find yourself there when the air conditioning broke? George (with an aren't you simple look on his face): No...my mom sent me. She made friends with a lot of the girls. Of course. Or, George: That was when Ray Charles came to my house... Or, George: That was when I went camping in Australia and got invited to the male puberty ceremony with the aborigines... You follow me. Then there's Alice. She's a pipeline engineer, mother of twins, wife, and entrepreneur. She owns and operates a Chinese restaurant, a chain of massage stores, and I'm not sure if she still owns that factory. Alice left China, her traditional Chinese family, her culture, her language, to come to America, alone. She arrived not speaking much English, but still managed to buy and operate a business with thirteen branches. She is the only person in her family to not have had an arranged marriage. She married her pirate-friend-of-Ray-Charles-whorehouse-repairman-male-aborigine-puberty-ceremony- guest-guy, because she wanted to. Because, she told me, "He's the best, purest man I've ever known. He's all the way good." Be warned, if you sit still next to Alice long enough, she'll buy you, remodel you, bring a couple of her cronies over from China to bitch slap you into shape, hang an "Open" sign around your neck, and expect you to turn a profit in a week. Alice didn't like the food at the only Chinese restaurant in their town, so she bought it, remodeled it, brought a couple of her cronies over from China to bitch slap it into shape, hung out the open sign and its going gangbusters. Lucky us, we were treated to a feast there with George and Alice, just recently. The food kept coming. We kept eating. I think they brought about 65 lbs. of food to our table. I thought we'd died and gone to Chinese heaven. If Buddha ate Chow Fun, he got it at Alice's restaurant. BTW...sometime during the evening, perhaps mid-pirate story, George quoted something from my blog. Me: George! You read my blog? George: Yep. My sisters do too. I passed it onto them. Let me tell you, finding out that George reads my blog and passed it on to his sisters is like discovering Francis Ford Coppola watches the videos of your 1st grader's school play on YouTube and forwards them on to Sophia. I digress. The first time I met George and Alice, they'd attended a company soiree. George and hubby work together. A little known fact - All Asians know when there's another Asian in their midst. They might not know how Asian you are, or what kind of Asian, but if you've got a drop of Asian blood they will find you. And when they do, you're in the pagoda for life. Alice found me. My soul sistah. She's treated me like family since that day. The second time I ran into George, he'd attended a company soiree, alone. Alice had taken a fast boat to China to buy a factory or some such (Alice buys factories in her off time). I had the opportunity to talk to George. Me: Where's Alice? George: China. Buying a factory. Me: Oh, well...nice to see you, at any rate. George: Can't stay long. Me: Why? George: Because Alice is in an all-girl Chinese band. She plays the Chinese mandolin (I could be wrong on the exact instrument, but what's a girl to do?) and sings. Me (not catching on): Oh...well...she's in China, right? George: Yeah. I'm taking her place. Me: You play the Chinese mandolin and sing in Chinese? (I let the fact that he wasn't a girl, slide) George (shrugs): I do all right. As he was leaving, he told me: George: You know, I got married really late in life. I'd given up. I didn't think marriage was in the cards for me. Me: I was speechless, for once. George: Then I met Alice. She opened up my life in ways I never imagined. So, no. George and Alice aren't like everyone else. We're so lucky to know them, to call them friends. Yep, George and Alice are the cherry on top of our Chinese chocolate cupcake life. |
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