Patrimoni Italiani Nascosti

di Michele Alonzo

Sapevate che l’Italia è al primo posto al mondo per i siti considerati Patrimonio dell’Umanità dall’Unesco? Ce ne sono ben 47 in tutta la nostra penisola. L’Italia e’ un paese artisticamente ricco perche’ ogni regione ed ogni piccolo paese ha una sua personale tradizione artistica o artigianale, che risale spesso a molti secoli fa ed è stata tramandata di generazione in generazione.

          Questa volta non parlo delle classiche città d’arte visitate da milioni di turisti ogni anno: Roma, Firenze, Venezia, Siena, etc… Piuttosto vorrei che i lettori scoprissero dei piccoli luoghi, non noti alla stragrande maggioranza delle persone; insomma dei tesori nascosti che varrebbe la pena di visitare durante il prossimo viaggio in Italia. Ne ho scelti cinque, in ordine da nord a sud. Partiamo per il nostro viaggio immaginario.



Bussana Vecchia

          Il nostro itinerario comincia in Liguria. Nella provincia di Imperia, a pochi chilometri dal confine francese, c’è’ Bussana Vecchia, un piccolo paese fantasma che risale ad oltre mille anni fa, costruito in cima ad una collina, probabilmente per difendersi meglio dagli attacchi dei Saraceni. La parte originaria del paese fu distrutta da un violento terremoto 125 anni fa, tanto che fu dichiarata pericolante ed inabitabile, perciò una nuova città (Bussana Nuova) fu costruita a valle. Negli anni sessanta un gruppo di artisti decise di ritraslocare nella città vecchia e ricreare una piccola comunità basata su una vita frugale ed autonoma. Oggi Bussana Vecchia conta ancora poche decine di abitanti che vivono vendendo artefatti ed oggetti artigianali ai pochi turisti che la visitano di tanto in tanto.

Palmanova

          Dalla Liguria andiamo in Friuli, al confine nord-orientale con la Croazia. Entriamo a Palmanova, un antica città costruita dai Veneziani nel XVI secolo, è caratterizzata dalla configurazione planimetrica a stella con nove punte, che costituisce la parte fortificata del paese. Infatti Palmanova viene anche chiamata città stellata. La piazza centrale del paese è perfettamente esagonale ed al centro vi è una grande bandiera italiana. Alcuni secoli fa i Veneziani costruirono la fortezza per difendersi dalle incursioni degli Ottomani. Questa caratteristica roccaforte possiede tre cerchie di muri rinforzati e passaggi sotterranei per una lunghezza totale di ben cinque chilometri.

Faenza

          Muoviamoci lungo la penisola verso sud, ed entriamo  in Emilia-Romagna, dove a pochi chilometri ad ovest di Ravenna troviamo Faenza, nota per la manifattura di maiolica, ceramica e terracotta. Infatti il nome in inglese “faience” è proprio diventato sinonimo di ceramiche artistiche. Non a caso, a Faenza c’è il Museo Internazionale della Ceramica, che include pezzi di varie epoche ed origini geografiche. Nei mesi di settembre ed ottobre sono concentrati i maggiori eventi d’arte di ceramisti che attraggono numerosi amatori, collezionisti ed artisti da tutto il mondo. Faenza si trova sulla famosa Via Emilia, che e’ stata testimone di tante mitiche corse automobilistiche del leggendario Tazio Nuvolari. Circa venti chilometri a nord, su questa stessa via, si trova l’autodromo internazionale Enzo Ferrari.

Civita di Bagnoregio

          Percorrendo l’Italia verso sud, arriviamo al confine tra Umbria e Lazio, dove possiamo visitare un caratteristico paesino chiamato Civita di Bagnoregio, che sembra essere rimasto topograficamente isolato ed indietro nel tempo. Qui c’e’ una sola piazza principale dove la gente si riunisce dopo una passeggiata tra le piccole vie acciottolate di origine etrusca. Non ci sono automobili e i pochi abitanti locali (meno di cinquanta) godono di un tranquillo paesaggio rurale che si affaccia sulla valle del Tevere e che si trova a soli 100 chilometri dal frenetico ritmo della capitale Roma. L’antica città è tutta costruita in cima ad una collina, sopra un terreno di roccia vulcanica friabile, che ha subito vari processi erosivi nel tempo; per questa ragione Civita di Bagnoregio è stata inclusa tra i cento siti geografici a maggior rischio di estinzione al mondo.

Matera

          Dal centro Italia, andiamo verso la fine dello stivale e ci fermiamo nella regione Basilicata, dove c’è un’altra cittadina che si trova in un canalone che ha subito un processo di erosione del terreno da parte di un vicino torrente: è la città di Matera, che è per lo più conosciuta per i suoi famosi Sassi, considerati come luogo di uno dei primi insediamenti umani in Italia. Matera è l’unico luogo al mondo dove la gente può vantarsi di vivere nelle stesse costruzioni dei loro antenati di circa diecimila anni fa.  Le case qui sono in pratica caverne ed alcune strade a volte sono situate sopra i tetti di altre case. A causa del suo paesaggio primitivo ed antico, l’area di Matera è stata usata in alcuni film per creare scene raffiguranti la terra santa, come l’antica Gerusalemme. Proprio tra i Sassi di Matera sono state girate molte riprese del film La Passione di Cristo di Mel Gibson. Nel 1993 l’Unesco ha incluso i Sassi di Matera tra i luoghi patrimonio dell’umanità. Dovunque si vada e comunque si esplori l’Italia, si trovano tesori nascosti, luoghi affascinanti che ci riportano al passato, a storia e tradizioni millenarie. È forse proprio questa la vera Italia, quella che ci da emozioni, quella che ci fa sognare e capire quanto sia unico il nostro bel paese.

           

Giovanni Falcone: a Modern Hero

by Michele Alonzo

             May 23, 1992 is one of those days when Italians still remember, after exactly 20 years, what they were doing in the moment the media announced the assassination of Giovanni Falcone. On that day judge Falcone, his wife and three bodyguards were killed a few miles from Palermo, his hometown, in one of the most brutal massacres carried over by Sicilian Mafia.

The site right after the explosion

            The cold execution of one of the most prominent judges of that time shocked Italian public opinion. Giovanni Falcone had dedicated his whole life to the investigation of illicit activities operated by the most powerful Sicilian Mafia families, so uncovering the complex hierarchical structure of Cosa Nostra. Together with another judge and friend, Paolo Borsellino, who would also be killed by Mafia only two months after him, Falcone had discovered money laundering among bank accounts held by the criminal organization, that had made huge profits from drug sales between Sicily and United States since the 70s. For this reason, he had been appointed head of the Anti-Mafia Pool, a group of prosecutors having the only purpose to enquire and to report Mafia’s criminal activities to the Italian government. In 1987 Giovanni Falcone was the head of the famous "Maxi-Trial of Palermo" that resulted in sending to jail 360 Mafia members for a total of 2,665 years and forced them to pay 12 billion Italian lire in fines. In 1984 actually Giovanni Falcone had convinced the so-called “repentant” Tommaso Buscetta to testify against his former affiliates, so bringing to justice the most important bosses of the families that controlled large territories in Sicily. Maybe it was just this brilliant victory against Mafia that cost him his own life a few years later. They never forgot and never forgave this offense and decided the assassination of their primary prosecutor.

 

Giovanni Falcone (1939-1992)

The personal life of Judge Falcone was greatly influenced by his role of primary investigating head of the Anti-Mafia Pool; his transfers from one place to another, together with his family, always occurred in absolute secrecy and were never planned in advance. Falcone had been threatened many times and had escaped attempted murders in the past. In June 1989 a bomb was found on the beach where he was spending a brief vacation with his wife. For security reasons his family was immediately transferred in a remote safe location on the island of Sardinia.

            Judge Falcone was aware to live on the edge and that his life was at risk every day, but never backed off from the duties he had been assigned. Notwithstanding of this, Falcone continued to engage on his battle, until May 23, 1992. On that doomed day a thousand pound of TNT was remotely ignited, making a whole stretch of the highway to Palermo airport blow up right when Falcone, his wife and the bodyguards of his escort were driving by. The explosion was so powerful that it was recorded by local seismographs as an earthquake.

Memorial stone where he was killed

            Falcone’s funeral was attended by the whole city of Palermo and by people coming from everywhere, national and foreign politicians, collegues, family, friends and simple people who want to pay him the last homage. It was broadcasted live on national television and watched by millions of Italians. In May 2004, a memorial stone, listing the name of all victims of that tragic day, was placed on that ramp of the Palermo-Capaci highway. The International airport of Palermo was re-named in honor of Falcone and Borsellino, who sacrificed their lives in the name of justice. After his death, Falcone was awarded the Civil Gold Medal of Honor and in 1992 was named by Time Magazine one of the top heroes of the last 60 years. One day, during an interview to a newspaper, Falcone had stated “Mafia is by no means invincible. Mafia is a human act operated by men and, as all human acts, it has a beginning, an evolution and will have an end”. And we have to believe him.

La Cucina: How low can you go?

The last time I posted about kitchens, La Piazza friends thought I had already hit the bottom of the "cucina barrel" when I contrasted my kitchen in Cincinnati with the one I borrowed from a friend on the Italian Riviera.

In case you missed that post, here's my kitchen at home::

Where I have more than everything I need and I am more than happy.

 

 

 

 

This is the kitchen at my friend's apartment:

Simple, but temporary, and I was happy.

Michele and I have bought an apartment in Savona recently and when you buy a home in Italy you buy the walls, the floors, and almost nothing else.  I'm still waiting for IKEA to install the kitchen at the end of the month and for the last several weeks I have used a small table and a microonde (microwave), washing my dishes in the bathroom sink (thank-goodness they got that installed before Michele left for the United States).

OMG, what am I going to do with this?

I am happy to report that it can be done.  You can buy Chinese take-out and there's at least half a dozen wood-fired Neapolitan pizzerias within walking distance where I can grab a Margherita to go for 4 Euros - and it's ready in 5 minutes. 

But I prefer the taste of food I make.  And, believe it or not, 4 or 5 Euros is an expensive meal compared to the way Michele and I eat at home.  So the other day I made an investment in a box of recipes, "Microonde, Le Migliori Ricette" for 5 Euros and after a week it has already paid for itself three times over.

And I am happy.

The Italian version of the microwave is very different from its American cousin.  It comes equipped with a special grill feature, a grill pan and rack that makes all the difference.  Yesterday I made a Risotto con salsiccia e peperoni.  Today I did a Parmigiana di zucchine that should have been enough for three meals, but will only last two because it was so good.  Of course, like all things Italian, cooking with the microwave takes a little longer than it does in the States.  It took me almost an hour to batter and grill the zucchini, make the sauce, and meld the flavors.  But it was worth it.

Ladies, the most important thing I've learned from this moving between cultures is that it's the lowly refrigerator that's the most under-appreciated of all the kitchen appliances.  It doesn't have to be a Sub-Zero.  It doesn't have to have a water dispenser in the door. But cheese gets moldy really fast without one and mine cannot arrive too soon, no matter how many grocery stores are on my block.


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A Love Affair with Pane



Martina

by guest writer Martina Mullen

When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie…that’s a PANE! Bells'll ring Ting-a-ling-a-ling, Ting-a-ling-a-ling…that’s a PANEEEEE! I sing this song as I dance, twirling, through my kitchen. No, I have not fallen in love with a boy named “Pane.” I am singing this song because I sing it every time I make fresh bread – I become super excited while the bread is still in the oven but almost ready, and I sing. Sounds crazy, but you do crazy things when you’re in love. And I’m in love with delicious, crusty bread.

                  I haven't always been this way. I didn't even know about fresh, crusty Italian bread until I was 20 years old. I began on my bread path when I was a child and fell in love with the typical Southern breads such as cornbread and biscuits. By the way, to this day there is little I wouldn't do for a fresh, homemade biscuit, served next to a veggie omelet or with some strawberry jam or honey. (If you all could please excuse me, I have to take a moment to recompose myself after thinking about the deliciousness of the homemade Georgia biscuit). Anyway, this post is not a post about biscuits, so let's leave that to its own deserving post another day.

                  The cuisine of the southeastern US doesn't reflect a great amount of Italian influence; thus, it can be difficult to eat authentic Italian food, whether it be from the supermarket or at restaurants. In addition, when I was little, my Italian-American mom didn't make homemade bread because she was working full-time kicking butt and taking names as a lawyer. Because of these two factors, the tradition of crusty Italian bread was not present in my childhood world at home or in restaurants. Any "crusty" bread that I had the opportunity to eat was usually previously frozen, soft after being reheated, covered in butter and garlic powder, served during spaghetti night at our house or with Olive Garden's spaghetti and meatballs (fun fact: this dish doesn't actually exist in Italian cuisine - it doesn't make sense to match a chunky sauce with delicate, small noodles - the size of the noodles always goes with the size of the sauce). I didn't know that this bread would not be considered "delicious" in Italy. I ate it voluntarily - there aren't many things that I don't eat voluntarily - but the bread was never anything special. Then, when I was 20, I visited Italy for the first time and everything changed.



Crusty home-made bread

                  The year was 2006, and I was a student studying abroad at John Cabot University in Trastevere, Rome. Before the fall of that year, I had never been outside of the United States. Stepping out of the airplane for me was entering into another world. I walked around the city for my first few days unable to shut my jaw... I couldn't believe that these people lived there lives in another language, walking around, living within 2000-year-old ruins e nun se ne po’ frega de meno! (FYI: Roman dialect for they don't give a damn! - it's a super useful phrase in Italy, as Italians usually don't...give a damn that is.) The first day in Rome was a blur of hunger and exhaustion. I hadn't slept well on the airplane because I was so excited and when we arrived in Italy, I didn't have time to grab a bite at the airport. My first opportunity to go in search of food was mid-afternoon when we arrived at our apartments. I remember vividly descending the spiral stairs of my new home, and blindly turning right out of my building. What luck!, I thought, A bread shop right next to my building! (At that point I was unaware of the fact that it impossible to go 100 feet in Rome without finding some place to eat or drink something.) I entered the building - scared to death of speaking the language, but my hunger won over my fear and I asked for some bread. Quale tipo? (What kind?), the woman answered me. There are kinds? I thought to myself, and murmured, Ummm non lo so. Ho fame. Non ho ancora mangiato pranzo (Ummm, I don't know. I haven't eaten lunch).  The woman smiled, and without asking me, prepared my lunch. Spero che Le piaccia (I hope you like it), she said, passing me something wrapped in white paper.  Mille grazie, I thanked her, leaving the store. Once on the street, I hastily opened the paper hiding a crusty roll with some sort of spread. I took my first bite of bread and Nutella and died of happiness there on the street. Luckily it was not a crowded street, and after having resurrected from this death of joy, I gathered myself and reentered the bread shop to thank the woman. Buono! Grazie - buono! Grazie – mille grazie – che buono! I exclaimed, almost bursting from joy. In this moment, my love story with bread had begun: it had me. 

Nutella, an all time favorite!



                  I returned to the United States in January of 2007. There are bread stores here that make very good bread, but not very many in Georgia or at Notre Dame, where I was a student. And even if there were amazing bread places close to me, a good loaf of bread here is costly, and as a poor student, I was desperate. I began looking for a recipe that could resemble the bread I had eaten in Italy. After three years of trial and error, I was finally able to find a recipe that doesn't take much manual labor, but does need preparation a day in advance. I hope to share it with any of you that might miss good crusty bread or any of you that might want to try good crusty bread. Although it might not be made in a forno a legna in Italy, my family and I think it does the trick… and it goes great with Nutella.

                  I will leave you all with my new motto, taken from my Piemontese origins: Ol pà l’istofa mai!! (One never gets tired of [good] bread!!)

Easter Around the Italian Table

by Michele Alonzo

Italy is not only known in the world for its history, art, music and wonderful landscapes, but also for its delicious dishes and special sweets. For example, whoever is lucky to visit the Italian peninsula during the Easter period, realizes that every region has a variety of homemade artisanal products derived from traditional recipes. During Easter week one has the chance to enjoy typical sweets and cakes in any parts of Italy. I have chosen three, which are among the most popular: pastiera, colomba and casatiello.



Neapolitan Pastiera

Pastiera is a sweet symbol of spring. Made with a base of ricotta cheese, eggs and sugar, includes two ingredients that make it unique: orange flower water and soaked grain. All these ingredients are mixed together, along with milk, vanilla extract, candid, and then poured in a traditional handmade pie crust. Then they are covered by thin strips of pasta frolla crossed to form diamond shapes, before being baked.

Very often reality is mixed with legend and this is a unique characteristic that make Italy magic. The story of pastiera is bond to the myth of Mermaid Partenope. The legend tells that Mermaid Partenope used to delight with her singing the people living in the gulf of Naples. In order to thank the Mermaid, the local inhabitants decided to offer the fruit of their fertile land: flower, richness and power of farmers; ricotta cheese, gift from shepherds; eggs, symbol of renovating life; tender grain boiled in milk as symbol of abundance; orange flower water as fragrance of the earth; the aromatic spices from the Oriental lands and sugar, as symbol of sweetness of her supreme voice. Partenope, moved by so many gifts, went back to her kingdom, in the depth of the sea, and laid down these gifts at the feet of gods. They, fascinated by her singing, mixed all the ingredients together: the result was a sweet that was superior to the goodness of Partenope herself: la pastiera.



Colomba Pasquale

The second typical cake for Easter is colomba, so called because made in the shape of a dove, symbol of peace. The dough of this sweet is similar to the traditional panettone for Christmas, but instead of raisins, it is filled with candid fruits. The dough is worked by hand in the shape of a dove and then covered with pearled sugar and almonds, before being baked, after a long rising. The origins of colomba go back to the VI century, but in recent history it is a cake that Milan based company Motta has made famous all over the world. The challenge of the preparation is in the long preparation of the dough, therefore it is important not to hurry in order to allow the dough to rise.


Casatiello

Finally casatiello is a kind of rustic bread of Italian southern cuisine, prepared from a mix of flour, water, yeast, lard and a pinch of salt and pepper. Once the mixed is blended, little pieces of cheese, salame, ham and congealed pig fat are added. The whole mix is worked in a shape of big donut, which symbolizes the crown of thorns on the head of crucified Jesus. Four eggs are placed on top of the donut and covered by narrow stripes of dough in a cross before being baked. The casatiello should be baked in a wood burning oven (but also the regular home gas oven is fine) until it becomes of amber color.

This rustic bread is eaten at home during the Easter meal or as a snack during the traditional holiday trip on Pasquetta, the Monday after Easter, when Italians travel to other towns to spend this Catholic religious holiday with their families.

BUONA PASQUA to all our readers!

Melinda

Recipe for Pastiera (courtesy of our student Melinda Harris)

 

Dough:

Kneed the following ingredients. Wrap in plastic wrap. Chill for half an hour as you make the filling.

2 ½ cups flour (13 ounces)

1 ½ sticks unsalted butter

¼ cup sugar

1 tsp. vanilla

zest of one large lemon

2 eggs & 1 yolk

Filling:

Over medium high heat, cook the following 10 minutes. Stirring until creamy. Remove from heat and proceed to the next step.

1 can of Italian Grano

3 ½ ounces of whole milk

Zest of one large lemon

2 TBSP of butter

In a food processor combine:

(Preheat oven at this point to 370 degrees. Place a cookie sheet into the oven as it preheats.)

24 ounces ricotta (try “fresco” brand from Kroger. Found in gourmet cheese section)

1 ½ pounds of sugar

5 eggs

2 yolks

1 bustina of vanilla sugar (or 1 TBSP of vanilla extract)

1 TBSP of orange blossom water

Zest of one large lemon

In a very large bowl combine:

Ricotta mixture

Grain mixture

80 grams of candied orange peel (diced)

80 grams of candied fruit (diced)

Put it all together:

Roll dough to less than 1/8 of an inch thick. Place dough in a 10-inch diameter spring form pan. Save enough dough to cut 6 strips (1 inch wide). Pour in mixture into pan. Place strips over pastiera in a lattice pattern (creating diamond shapes).

Place pastiera on the heated cookie sheet. Bake at 370 degree for 1-1 ½ hours. Turn off oven and let oven cool with cake inside. Store in fridge until day of event.

Presentation:

On the day of serving, preheat oven to 400 degrees. Put pastiera into oven for 2 minutes. This will loosen the cake and allow you to remove it from the pan. Cut cardboard strips and place over the lattice dough strips. Sprinkle powdered sugar over cake. Carefully remove cardboard.  Serve and enjoy!

Happy Easter!

Hosting, Being a Guest... and Brownies!



Martina Mirandola Mullen

 by guest writer Martina Mullen

After having lived in Europe during the fall of 2011, I moved to Cincinnati in January, hoping to establish a more permanent residence. This move came with the usual discovering of a new city and its people, but also included a bit of reverse culture shock as I re-acclimated to aspects of an American lifestyle.  I missed not having the time and option to go to fresh, local markets, but was easily able to make do with Cinci’s Jungle Jims and Findlay Market. Good crusty bread is harder to find, but does exist and tastes delicious when make the effort to locate it.  And although I walked everywhere in Rome, I quickly readjusted to the lifestyle of automobiles in America, and even took it one step further by adding an hour-long commute to and from my new job. However, I am still adjusting to on specific aspect of my fellow Americans, and finding it hard to do so.

            When did the rules of being a guest or a host change? Call me old-fashioned in my great age of 26, but it seems to me that the feeling of entitlement of my generation to have what you want, when you want it, how you want it, has superseded the need to be a good guest or host.  Let me explain. After moving to a new city, I feel the need to meet people. I’m a social person and not having friends does not sit well with me. So, I met a few people from my apartments and invited them to dinner. I soon found out that this experience was not going to be as easy as I had imagined.

            First, I had to take inventory of allergies and intolerances: How many lactose intolerant people? Anyone allergic to nuts? Do we have any celiacs in the crowd? Other strange allergies I don’t know about?  I can’t blame any of my guests for these. You can’t help your gluten intolerance and I can’t help the fact that cheese and my stomach are unfortunately not friends…and I’d like all of my guests to leave my house alive. However, Round 2 of planning gets a little more complicated: Is anyone a vegetarian? How about vegans? Are there any food taboos associated with the religions of my guests? Any other social or cultural restrictions I should know about?  Again, my American respect of individualism prohibits me from becoming too annoyed. Vegetarians should have the freedom to make a statement of principle and, being Catholic with its No Meat Fridays, I not only respect but empathize with those who cannot eat certain foods due to religious prohibitions.

            So I’m driving back to my apartment two days before my dinner, trying to configure a menu to accommodate the gluten-free guest, my cheese intolerance, the vegetarian, and the Muslim guest when I run into one of the invitees in the parking lot of our building. After exchanging small talk, I run my potential menu by him: bread, risotto with sun-dried tomatoes, vegetarian eggplant and zucchini moussaka with no meat and cheese only half of the dish (can be eaten as a side or entrée), and a roasted chicken. He cringes. My heart sinks. “Does that sound okay?” I ask.  “Well….I don’t really like eggplant,” he explains. Okay. So now we’re going to Level 3 of planning of a dinner: accommodating all of the specific food preferences of your guests? “No problem,” I say, “I’ll figure something else out.” I think of another dish all the way up the stairs – I need one filling enough for a vegetarian to eat, but that could also serve as a veggie side dish for the meat eaters of the group. I draw a blank and ultimately decide to tack a salad on the growing menu  so as to accommodate my new eggplant-hating friend.

            The next day I realize I should make a dessert. I have a great recipe for olive-oil lemon cake in one of my cookbooks; it’s different and still really good. I run this by a new apartment friend over drinks. She cringes. My heart sinks…again. “Ooooo, I don’t really like lemon,” she says. “No problem,” I respond, “ How about peanut butter fudge?” It’s fast, easy, and tasty, I think to myself. Take a guess at what happened next…her boyfriend is allergic to nuts. At this point my brain is exhausted and I don’t even feel like cooking anything, and then I throw out my last attempt, “What about brownies?” Her eyes light up, “We love brownies!!” BINGO. I should have gone there first... American can resist the brownie.

            What ever happened to eating what the hosts cooks? When did inviting people to dinner turn into the host being a personal chef for multiple guest, commissioned to appease the tastes and restrictions of each individual? I can’t say that I’m not guilty of imposing my no-cheese or cream restriction on my host, but I am a little surprised at the detailed explanations of “can’t do” foods that I am given by guests.

            In the end, the dinner turned out well – we had a nice showing of 5 people plus us with - this is not a joke - a vegetarian, a no-pork eater, caeliac, and a no-cheese eater. I cooked all day and presented a buffet of food for the guests to choose from. Some guests ate a little of this or that, and the three non-restricted ate a little of all of the plates. The only food that no one passed up was the brownies. I said goodbye to the last guest, mentally exhausted.

          As I sat on the couch after everyone had left, I reflected on the night. All of my efforts rendered me with two vital conclusions: 1)These days, it’s better to go out to eat with new friends, and 2) You can’t wrong with the food that no American can resist…the brownie.

A Concert for the Light of Life



Massimo La Rosa

On Tuesday, April 3, 2012 at 8:00pm, Massimo La Rosa, Principal Trombone of the prestigious Cleveland Orchestra will perform in a special benefit concert recital taking place in the Robert J. Werner Recital Hall, CCM Village, on the campus of the University of Cincinnati. The initiative is a collaboration of the Consulate of Italy in Detroit and University of Cincinnati-Conservatory of Music. All proceeds from ticket and LaRosa’s “Cantando” CD sales will benefit the A.N.F.E. organization and its Light of Life Fund, which helps families whose children with retinal disorders need urgent corrective eye surgery and treatment performed in the United States by Italian doctors. The children are born up to three months premature and early surgery can restore full or partial vision. To date, over 200 children have been helped. The Memorial Fund also pays to bring Italian doctors to Michigan to learn this surgical technique and assist the families with residency during the recovery process. The fund is operated by A.N.F.E., Associazione Nazionale Famiglie Emigrati, a non-profit organization founded in 1947 to assist and support the Italian community throughout the world. The concert in Cincinnati follows a previous one in April 2011 held at the Cleveland Museum of Art before an audience of over 300, which raised over $ 8,500 between ticket and CD sales, as well as donations. The success of the event quickly persuaded Marco Nobili, Consul of Italy in Detroit and Serena Scaiola, Vice Consul of Italy in Cleveland, to broaden the initial scope of the project, expanding it to the one in Cincinnati,  followed  by a performance at the Embassy of Italy in Washington D.C., and a grand finale at the “Teatro Olimpico” in Vicenza (Cleveland Sister City). “The response from the Cleveland community was simply too extraordinary to limit it to one concert only”, both Nobili and Scaiola point out. “Thanks to Massimo’s selfless commitment as well as the collaboration given us by the Conservatory, we are able to bring this marvelous event here in Cincinnati. This is important not only for the funds that will be donated as a result of the recital, but also to raise awareness regarding this affliction and its possible cure”, they concluded. “Massimo is very young and yet, has already established himself as a world class musician”, says Vice Consul Scaiola. “As Italians in Ohio, we all must be so proud of his engagement with the prestigious Cleveland Orchestra. I wish to thank him for lending us his superb talent for such a worthwhile cause, and invite everybody to join in our efforts to give a child the gift of eyesight”. The worthiness of the cause is obvious to LaRosa himself: “The idea to bring music to people to help others in need is very close to my heart and it feeds a desire to lend my talent to support our Italian community both locally and overseas. Knowing that the life of a child and their family will be changed for the better as a result of our efforts, is the greatest reward we can think of.”     



La Rosa in Cleveland (April 2011)

 Massimo La Rosa joined The Cleveland Orchestra as principal trombone in September 2007. He previously served as principal trombone of La Fenice Opera House in Venice from 1996 to 2007. He has performed as guest principal trombone with La Scala Opera House in Milan, the Santa Cecilia Symphonic Orchestra in Rome and the Teatro Comunale in Florence. Recently named “New Artist of the Month” by Musical America, he has released a solo album titled Cantando. Born in Palermo, Sicily in 1974, Mr. La Rosa grew up in a small town outside Palermo and began playing the trombone in the community band when he was nine years old. La Rosa is on the trombone faculty at the Cleveland Institute of Music, and has also presented master classes and recitals at several American universities and conservatories including the Manhattan School of Music, the Cincinnati College-Conservatory of Music, Indiana University, De Paul University and the Juilliard School. He will be accompanied by Elizabeth DeMio, well-known as a collaborative pianist, recitalist and soloist in the Cleveland area.

This concert is co-sponsored by the Italian School Amici in Cincinnati. We invite everybody to consider participation to this special event: please purchase your tickets and spread the word in order to help a good cause. Grazie!

Event & Tickets information:

Tuesday, April 3, 2012, 8:00pm

Robert J. Werner Recital Hall

CCM Village, University of Cincinnati

290 CCM Blvd.Cincinnati, OH 45221-0003

Tickets: Adults: $ 15; children (under age 12): $ 10. 

To purchase, please make checks payable to:

ANFE LIGHT OF LIFE

& send to the following address:

Vice Consolato d’Italia in Cleveland

Hanna Building, Suite 618

1422 Euclid Avenue

Cleveland, OH 44115

 

A Tale of Two Kitchens

 This is my kitchen in Cincinnati just before we moved-in:

Cincinnati Kitchen

In the part of the kitchen you can't see, there's a great, big (I mean giant-big) double-door pantry and at the other end of the counter along the wall, there's a great, big (but not giant-big) refrigerator with additional storage above it.  There are also drawers and more cabinet space in the island. 

Here's the kitchen in the apartment where I have been staying for the better part of a month in Albisola:

Albisola Kitchen

Please note that this is the ONLY storage space: plates and glasses on the bottom shelf, all my food in the upper right quadrant.

No dishwasher.
No dryer.  (that's the washing machine between the stove and sink)
No garbage disposal.
And you have to light the burners and oven on the gas stove with a clicker thing.
No mixer, blender, food processor or fancy equipment of any kind.

The point is this:

I don't miss my kitchen at home at all because it turns out I have everything I need in that one little cabinet.  I hang the laundry out to dry on the balcony.  I stop by the supermarket down the street to get whatever I need that day, and I go every day so everything is fresh.  I eat less meat (too expensive) and more fruit.  I mash potatoes with a fork.  I squeeze lemons with a fork. And I whisk eggs with - you guessed it - a fork. 

I've seen a LOT of simple, tiny kitchens like the one in the apartment my friend inherited from his grandmother (and seldom uses).  But I feel compelled to admit that this is a bit austere even by Italian standards.  Today's double income households are pretty snazzy and have room to store lots of the kinds of stuff we stuff our kitchens with at home in the United States.

The real surprise is how quickly I've adjusted to the minimalist approach in the kitchen - and the meals have been great, almost all of which I eat at home.  Of course with prosciutto crudo, perfectly sliced, some fresh mozzarella and focaccia still warm from the panificio around the corner - well, a great meal in Italy doesn't require a lot of fancy equipment, does it?

Come Walk With Me

Michele left to go back home on Wednesday, which means my three months in Italy are almost over.  Soon I'll have to live "American" again.  So I've parked myself in front of the computer for the last few days thinking American things like balance sheets and business plans and what kind of events School Amici students might enjoy in 2012, trying to get myself ready.

Albisola

Albisola, the town where I'm staying in Liguria, is a beach town, so quiet at this time of year that a lot of the shops and restaurants are closed for long "giorni di ferie," little hand-printed notices with the dates taped to the locked and shuttered entrances.

Today is even worse than usual.  It's the Epifania, a national holiday and the official end of the season, the day that the ugly witch brings the children their best presents.  But it's almost four o'clock by now.  Dinners are finished, gifts unwrapped, and in the predictable rhythm that is Italian life, I can set my watch by what they will do next, the same thing the Italians do after every Sunday dinner and holiday at grandma's house.

Homes in other countries are tiny compared to the United States.  So the best part of life happens outside in the public spaces and it happens all year round.  After the tables are cleared, all the ladies apply a fresh coat of lipstick and pin a sparkly broach to their lapels.  They wear their favorite high-heeled, leather boots.  For the teenage girls with the long, shiny hair that swings gently back and forth as they walk, maybe it's their best pair of skin-tight jeans, the ones with the fancy embroidery on the back pockets.

Arm in arm, they'll slowly appear, mothers and daughters, old married couples holding hands, friends who have been friends for as long as they can remember, old men on canes shuffling next to their sons behind the baby-strollers, every other one walking a funny, little dog dressed in a fancy little dog coat.  And, of course, the young lovers.  (There are always young lovers in Italy.)  They will all head out to the piazzas and promenades, wherever it is that they go to walk in their particular town to see and be seen, to wish each other a never-ending stream of sincere and heartfelt goodness:  Buone Feste. Buon Natale.  Buon Anno.  Buon Inizio.  Buona Befana.  Auguri.  Auguri.  Auguri.

In Albisola that place is "lungomare," an almost two kilometer stretch of playful tile sidewalk next to the sea.  It was designed and installed in the 1960s by the local ceramic artisans when real estate developers built a series of practical apartment buildings just behind the medieval alleys, homes where regular, working people might also enjoy proximity to the pretty beaches. By the time I get there the sun is almost down and the only real color that is left shimmers off the deep emerald-blue water, a few puffy pink clouds scattered across the creamy, dreamy horizon.

A picture I took on another Sunday stroll

At first, I walk like I'm trying to go somewhere.  Like I have an appointment.  "Permesso," I say quietly as I squeeze around and between the clumps of family who have stopped to chat.

Apple.  Orange.  Broccoli.  Peach.  After a few minutes it's hard not to notice that I am doing it wrong.  Where am I going?  What's the rush?  Is there a gelato with my name on it somewhere up ahead, one that is already starting to melt?  After a few minutes I slow down and match my pace to the place where I am.  I breathe.  I notice a toddler who has obviously learned to walk somewhat recently as she pitches herself ahead of her parents going full tilt and then panics that she might have lost them.  The mother runs to the baby and folds her in her arms, laughing.  I smile.

At times it is as though we have all stopped walking and are waiting in a line for something.  But that's OK.  That's just fine.  I catch snippets of conversations as people pass in the other direction.  "Cinquecentosessanta Euro," one man says to another, although I have no idea about what.  "Mi piaceva," a woman tells her companion and I make note to remember how to say I liked something in the past.  "Che fai?" "Ascoltami." "Vieni qui." all the parents say to all their children over and over.  These are my favorite language lessons.

By the time I get to the tunnel that marks the passageway out of town, I feel like I'm drunk.  Not fall-down drunk, but that tipsy kind of drunk after a glass or two of nice wine where you feel so good that you just don't care about anything anymore. It must be the air.  It must be the light.  It must be particles of energy that bind these special people to each other and this lovely, lovely place.  I notice that they are noticing me, wondering where I'm from and why I'm walking by myself.  But it's hard to feel alone in Italy where it's bad manners to enter a restaurant without saying "Buongiorno" to the other tables.  I wish I'd put on some lipstick before I left the house.

The business plans.  The balance sheets.  They don't matter anymore.  They never did.  What matters is this special moment, the perfect beauty of this day and time, time, time to walk along the sea, to look at it the same way you've looked at it everyday of your life and still be pulled to it, fascinated.  That's enough.  The same walk every week, every holiday, yet different every time, children growing and old people dying and married people still walking side by side.  That's enough.  Good food, good friends, and time to enjoy them.

* * *

Wait.  Hold everything.

Look what I've done, will you? I made an essay out of my passeggiata, a blog post so I wouldn't waste it.  I had to have a goal, you see.  How "American" of me.

 * * *

In a few weeks I'll roll my 50 lb. suitcase to the plane and go home, back to the compulsive doing of big important things that is the amazing culture that produced me. Do we return from our travels and leave them all behind, thinking, eating, sleeping, like the same American that left?  No.  Luckily, that's impossible.  Because the real souvenirs, the precious ones, the ones we're always looking for even if we don't know it, are the ones that get inside us.  In the middle of a normal American day with all its normal American preconceptions those are the ones that whisper to us about what's really important in life so insistently that we can almost smell the hint of salt in the breeze from the sea. . . .

Buon Anno, my fellow travelers!!!  Auguri.  Auguri. Auguri.

The Honor and Weight of Citizenship

Michele's speech from the Naturalization Ceremony on December 9, 2011

About 12 years ago, on March 31, 2000, I stood where you are standing; on the other side of this hall, swearing my American citizenship. It was a decision that I made after having lived in this country for exactly a decade. It was something I did with passion and with acknowledgement that this country was my adoptive land, my second home.

I came to the United States in 1990 from my hometown, Napoli, in Southern Italy. Four years prior to this, while traveling by train in Italy, I met my former wife and decided to relocate in the USA, to start a family, to find a good job and to begin a new adventure in my life. It was a typical fall day in October and I remember looking at the New York City skyline from the plane while landing in JFK. I had a feeling of excitement and a feeling of curiosity, but also a feeling of uncertainty and loss for the homeland that I was leaving behind. I am sure this is something that more or less you all experienced, when you first came here. It was not an easy choice for me, and I am sure it has not been an easy choice for you. You will always be bonded to your homeland, your place of origin, and the adoptive land, the land where you live now; there are many things that one can forget, but not the childhood spent with your own family, in your hometown.

I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I did not know of the existence of Cincinnati until I came here. I knew New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, but not Cincinnati. So it was literally a step into the unknown for me.

The United States in my mind, and I think in the mind of many Italian people of my generation, always represented the top notch, the land of dreams, the place where you can find the best, the most advanced and richest place on earth, the country where space is not an issue and everything is big. So the idea to come into this new territory for me was also fueled by the curiosity to see the US in person, to live and work here, and to refine the language.

Speaking about big, the very first images I have after landing in this country were the huge 18-wheeler trucks on the four lane expressway. To me they were just giants, because I had never seen them before.

The language was not a big problem at the beginning because I had always studied English with pleasure and to me it was a great opportunity to communicate in a way that I had always dreamed about: to be fluent in English was my ultimate goal.

I have to say that I don’t believe in destiny, but when I look back on my life I have to come to the conclusion that I was destined to become an American. My legal Italian name is Michele, but my mother, brother and all my relatives call me Mike, even if every legal document says Michele. So for three decades before I came here to the States, I already had an American name: Mike. The only difference was that my mom spelled it in the Italian way, which is M A I C H, perfect Italian phonetic for Mike.

For many years I have asked myself, what encouraged me to move to the United States and finally become a US citizen. I don’t have one simple answer; maybe there is not a single answer. For me it was a blend of different components, some rational and some irrational. It was definitely love for the person I married; it was desire of wider opportunities of work, and it was also the dream of discovering a new land, finally traveling throughout the United States of America.

I don’t know what your story is, the motivation that you had to come here after leaving your country. Everybody has a story and everybody has a dream. The steady stream of hardworking and talented people coming here from all over the world has made America a leading country for over a century, an example of productivity, a place where people with skills are valued and reach the highest level of the social strata. This is something that I have always admired in this country: we call it meritocracy, accomplishment based on merit. Even in this global economic crisis, I think the world still looks at the USA as a land of great opportunities, a land of hope, challenge and freedom.

Of course we all realize that we are lucky to live in the 21^st century and to have come here in these years. It was much harder for our previous generations, those who arrived here on ships to Ellis Island decades ago. Think about how communication has changed since I got here 20 years ago: now we have Internet, Skype, cell phones and satellite that can connect us with our family and friends on the other side of the world instantaneously. The phone call that used to cost me $10 every Sunday, I can now make for pennies.  It was different, of course, for those who came here long before us, when a handwritten letter could take a month to be delivered to their relatives.

Let’s not forget that the stigma against us immigrants living in any foreign land just a few decades ago was much stronger; immigrants were never equal to American citizens. Now some immigrants have reached high prestigious positions in the American society and no longer have to struggle for their rights. I don’t have to be self-conscious about my accent.  Actually my daughter’s friends think it’s cute.

So from today on, you will be part of the American family, you will be walking on a soil that is part of your new home; you will be an integral part of the American society and will be able to climb that ladder that will take you to success if you are an honest, hard-working person, just like any native US citizen.  Now you can call yourself an American.

Of course, you will probably still have the traditions and habits that you had before coming to this country. My wife says that in some categories I am and will always be Italian. You can imagine what those categories are: food, my sense of time and the way I discuss. I will never be able to eat overcooked pasta with sugar in the sauce; I will not be on time at nine out of ten appointments; and I will always want to talk and talk and talk about an issue for days on end without reaching a solution to the problem. Italians love to discuss… with their hands of course!

Everybody has a story.  Everybody has a different reason for the choice he or she made to come here. Now each of you, each of us, has a common denominator which is the American citizenship. Being a citizen of the United States of America is a big honor and has a stronger meaning when you really feel it inside. You have made the decision to stand here today and swear to protect and honor your adopted country; it means you are committed.  Now you are truly a part of this huge nation and will carry on the principles and beliefs that have made this country a role model and a symbol of progress and prosperity for past generations.

Be proud of being American; it is a decision you will never regret.  But don’t forget who you are, where you come from and the people you left behind, because there will always be moments in life when you will sense those original ties, the roots from your past. Those roots are a big part of your contribution to the richness and imagination that is the United States of America.

You made a courageous choice leaving your home land, and you made a tremendous choice coming to the United States. Today, by choosing to be officially an American citizen, you have made an important step that will be carried on by your kids and grandchildren. You have marked a new way not only for yourself, but for your entire family in this honorable country.