Isotta

Isotta

gallops and sways

quicklythroughautumgravelpathsblanketed



here and there by



damp yellow and rust red damp f

a

l

l

e

n

leaves



first October humid chills

blend

with lunchtime clear sky warmth from above

Slush puppy heaven

(Cinnamon Summer II)

Growing up one of my favorite dirty pleasures was the slush, or slurpy, or slush puppy. The names changed with the convenience store, but the recipe was always the same. Crushed ice was pumped into a cup and copious amounts of sweet, florescent dyes were squirted in.  You drank this concoction until it gave you a dizzy headache, or you sucked all the syrup out of the ice. It didn’t matter that your tongue was green for the rest of the afternoon. Actually, it did matter –– it was a fringe benefit!

In Italy, they have a name for it: Granite. Anyone who has been to Italy is familiar with the machines swirling the already mixed ice and mystery liquid that are in every bar or gelato joint around the main tourist attractions. The flavors are often better than the convenience store variety of my youth, but not enough to take your mind off the fact that they are just slightly more liquid snow cones. 

Only a traveler to Sicily, where they claim to have invented granita, will understand just how satisfying flavored ice can be. Although, it is possible to find standard, tourist-trap granite – those candy shop machines are everywhere–– I have yet to find a more sublime granita anywhere else in Italy.   One of the best is at the Bar del Porto at the, well, at the bar at the port on the small island of Panarea in the Aeolian archipelago just north of Sicily.  Here the granite is dished out of stainless-steel ice cream containers, like those at Giolitti in Rome or other historic Italian ice cream parlors. The choices may be few: lemon; coffee (great sandwiched into a brioche for breakfast); gelso (white mulberries and almond milk, but all are wonderful.  The almond milk classic is my particular favorite. 

Last year a friendly bartender (who sadly was not there this summer) suggested we try different combinations - gelso and almond, coffee and almond, etc. But, it was not until the third to last night of our vacation when he greeted us with cinnamon sticks an

Cinnamon summer

Cinnamon is one of those spices that bring back memories. Especially, freshly ground cinnamon. This evening I made a quick stop at the Caffè Polar, the tiny bookshop café, with a free hotspot (still not very common in provincial Italy) here in L’Aquila, the city in the Apennine mountains where I live. My goal was a short cappuccino and a newspaper break, but that change, as I stepped up to the bar to order and caught a whiff of that, oh so familiar spice. The young woman behind the bar was busy grating cinnamon over a small glass cup of espresso.  As she tops it up with panna (dense cream), I ask how she would do espresso and cinnamon cold. It is a warm day, after all. “I would make a

Caffè Shakerato,” is her response. 

Caffè shakerato is the hedonistic Italian version of iced espresso. It consists of two shots of espresso straight from the machine, ice and sugar.  The ingredients are mixed in a cocktail shaker then poured into a flute or cocktail glass. In Milan, and a few other parts of northern Italy, Rebarbaro, (a semisweet bitter), or Biancosarti, (a vanilla-based liquor) are added before shaking.   It is great with a touch of freshly ground cinnamon. 

What I like about the  best spices is how they can turn on your memories that play on all of your senses.   I’ll tell you how cinnamon transformed evening strolls on the Sicilian island of Panarea last summer, in the next installment how.

Blood on my hands

For two Sunday’s in a row we were greeted at the gate of my family’s country home in Navelli by a tree a blaze with cherries. I don’t know the exact species but when you have four buckets of fresh, organic (we do absolutely nothing to the tree) cherries just two steps up a ladder, you don’t really care about the name of the tree. I am not a gardener or farmer –– the very thought of taking care of a garden or having a little farm makes me want to hide in bed.  But, when cherries are calling out to you like that…..   Well, there is nothing to do, but put on some old clothes and started picking

As Emily rode her bike and chased farm cats, Sofia read under the pines, and Linda cared for her wide-blossomed roses, I picked cherries that were so ripe handfuls came off without their stems.  Within fifteen minutes, my arms and hands were so sticky that I was taking breaks to rinse the sugar build up off.  When I was done picking, I had four buckets of ripe Apennine Mountain cherries and I looked like a doctor in a Mel Brooks film. 

The problem, of course, with any abundance of fruit, was what to do with it.   By nightfall we had eaten enough to last us a year. A few Tupperware containers full went to friends and family. So, I tried to make a marmellata (marmalade). Fania, my sister-in-law, is the real expert on this, simple but long process of making topping for ice cream or yoghurt or to spread on toast. The recipe calls for melting down (but not boiling) sugar in a few tablespoons of water.  The amount of sugar you use is  in exact proportion to cherries (1lb cherries to one pound of sugar).   Just before the sugar starts to brown, you throw in the well-rinsed and dried cherries and bring the mixture to a slow boil, stirring periodically until the juice around the cherries no long rolls down a wooden cutting board. Fania and I prefer putting in as little as a quarter the amount of sugar (you can always add it in later), which means that the boiling process takes longer because you have to wait until the cherries’ own sugar kicks in.  If you want you can add cherry liquor, amaretto or limoncello.  Spices, especially cinnamon, can make a nice addition to the marmellata, as well. 

(actually this all happened in June;-) 

ANCIENT HISTORY

I'm including here the first few lines of a great poem published by Gillian Nevers. I'm not including all of it because I'd rather you visited the poetry webzine where they are published (http://www.oakbendreview.com/poetrypage.htm). I want to support Gillian's poetry AND the webzine.

ANCIENT HISTORY

It’s raining again and Rome is on my mind

and August and the way heat burst from

the pavement and how the air turned heavy.

We climbed the grand stairway, crossed the square

to the overlook and leaning against the rough wall

watched tourists mill through the ruins below.

(the resti of this poem can be read here: http://www.oakbendreview.com/poetrypage.htm

Panarea (written last August)

There’s a full moon over Panarea tonight

Constellations of mast-top lanterns mirror the same starts above

That guided Phoenician sailors, ancient astronomers,

Summer seducers and vacationing dreamers

Tonight music, voices and the ripple of waves float up to my patio

from catamarans and velieri swaying in the sepia sea below

Dattilo, Basiluzzo, pipe-smoking Stromboli and proud, isolated trees

sit like cut-out shado in a motionless diorama

Above a dandruff of fades starts watch over sugar cube villas

climb up from the coast like a tropical candy crèche

Italian’s Detention Illustrates Dangers Foreign Visitors Face

(from today's New York Times, I've heard similar, documented stories, and believe me, even if it's only a few thousand, it's really bad for America's image in Europe and for it's tourism industry, especially now that the Euro is so strong. There is no excuse for there not being any quick reviewal service, safeguards or swift administrative punishment for immigration staff who abuse their broad powers. read the rest of the New York Times article here: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/14/us/14visa.html?th&emc=th . Unlike the immigration officials who made the mistakes and then punished the Italian for trying to contact his embassy to see his girlfriend, I love my country.)

Italian’s Detention Illustrates Dangers Foreign Visitors Face

By NINA BERNSTEIN
Published: May 14, 2008
He was a carefree Italian with a recent law degree from a Roman university. She was “a totally Virginia girl,” as she puts it, raised across the road from George Washington’s home. Their romance, sparked by a 2006 meeting in a supermarket in Rome, soon brought the Italian, Domenico Salerno, on frequent visits to Alexandria, Va., where he was welcomed like a favorite son by the parents and neighbors of his girlfriend, Caitlin Cooper.
But on April 29, when Mr. Salerno, 35, presented his passport at Washington Dulles International Airport, a Customs and Border Protection agent refused to let him into the United States. And after hours of questioning, agents would not let him travel back to Rome, either; over his protests in fractured English, he said, they insisted that he had expressed a fear of returning to Italy and had asked for asylum.
Ms. Cooper, 23, who had promised to show her boyfriend another side of her country on this visit — meaning Las Vegas and the Grand Canyon — eventually learned that he had been sent in shackles to a rural Virginia jail. And there he remained for more than 10 days, locked up without charges or legal recourse while Ms. Cooper, her parents and their well-connected neighbors tried everything to get him out.
Mr. Salerno’s case may be extreme, but it underscores the real but little-known dangers that many travelers from Europe and other first-world nations face when they arrive in the United States — problems that can startle Americans as much as their foreign visitors

.......

Ms. Cooper said that at the airport, when she begged to know what was happening to Mr. Salerno, an agent told her, “You know, he should try spending a little more time in his own country.”
Another agent eventually told her to go home because Mr. Salerno was being detained as an asylum-seeker.
“The border patrol officer said to my face that Domenico said he would be killed if he went back to Italy,” she recalled, voicing incredulity that, in his halting English, he could express such a thought. “Also, who on earth would ever seek asylum from Italy?”
Twelve hours later, when Mr. Salerno was granted a five-minute phone call, he called Ms. Cooper and denied saying anything of the kind. Instead, he said, the asylum story seemed to be retaliation for his insisting on speaking to his embassy.
After being turned over to Immigration and Customs Enforcement, he was taken to the Pamunkey Regional Jail in Hanover, Va., where he ended up in a barracks with 75 other men, including asylum-seekers who told him they had been waiting a year.

..........

(It is also totally absurd that anyone sane would ask for asylum from Italy in the US. Whoever invented that should be fired, or at least required to spend their next vacation doing volenteer work in Italy at their own expense.)