tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76367655779271961152024-02-19T04:25:49.000+00:00mylittlevespaginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.comBlogger76125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636765577927196115.post-71637194896937309252013-04-22T09:24:00.000+01:002013-04-22T12:23:57.888+01:00Everyone's nuts for Nutella<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="text-align: justify;"><b>Very few cultural icons have an impact as high as Nutella. With over thirty books published on the hazelnut spread, film, TV and music reference it, and full page editorials on the alleged health benefits have been published. Amazing when you think, Napoleon can be credited with original the creation of the hazelnut paste from Piedmont.<br />
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<span style="text-align: justify;">Nestled between Maserati and FIAT on the ConfCommercio website of top 20 Italian brands by sales, Nutella is one of Italy’s most famous exports. Yes, two famous car companies are separated by this chocolate producer, rendered famous by its manufacturer, Ferrero. </span></div>
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As a child, summer holidays in the homeland would consist of getting through a jar without much bother. As I got older, and more boisterous, my brother and I believed that fighting over the last slither of nutella was the most grown up thing that you could do. Now, in our thirties, I would quite happily put him, a dad of two, in his place should we ever find ourselves in such a similar predicament. <br />
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The sight of fresh oven baked bread with a selection of either Nutella or fruit spreads could quite happily summarise my favourite childhood memories, but now, those days are nearly gone. I think we all have Mr Atkins to blame for that. <br />
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You see, before Atkins, before the bickering, before discovering the weird fact that Gerard Butler does indeed want to be buried with a jar of the hazelnut delight (don't take my word for it just google that one),I knew two things about Nutella. Firstly, in Piedmont it’s known as Gianduja, and secondly, I knew that both Napoleon and Hitler had something to do with it’s creation.</div>
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<span style="text-align: justify;">The Piedmont farmers whose range of produce spans from meats to dairy and even corn and wheat supplies, were also keen chocolatiers. In fact the region itself has laid claim to the creation of praline and chocolate fondant above many other produce.<br />
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It was during the Napoleonic wars that these very farmers got creative. Whilst Napoleon spent the majority of his time trying to destroy trade routes and thus create economic advantage over the Brits by stifling the export economy, the price of food commodities unsurprisingly shot up; in particular, cocoa solids. Rather than no longer produce chocolate from the solids, they added more milk and cultivated the hazelnut trees around the region and added these ingredients to create a chocolate hazelnut paste; later to be called Gianduja.<br /></span><br />
It was a pattern that was to be recreated some one hundred years later with the second world war. With food rationing in full swing across Europe, thanks to, well, you know who, the price of chocolate once again increased and a solution needed to be found. An Italian pastry maker, Pietro Ferrero, father to Michele Ferrero who would go on to created one of the world’s largest chocolate factories, took the hazelnut chocolate recipe and created ‘pasta Giandujot’, modifying the recipe slightly. <br />
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And even the word, Gianduja, has it’s own unique history. “A smiling Piedmontese peasant with a three point hat, riding around on a donkey clutching a duja of wine” This is Gianduja, a character created by Giovan Battista Sales who after fearing his other notable fictional character had too many similarities to Napoleon created a more representative character of the region. His name is apparently meant to come from “Gioan d’la’ douja” meaning “John of the wine people”, Piedmont being notoriously famous for its fine selection of wines even as early as the late 18th century.<br />
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And it’s amazing how far the spread has come since the 1940s. Random statistics about sales, “a jar is sold every 2.5 seconds across the world” to the amount of hazelnuts used in a daily production cycle “75 million”. The fact that it has it’s own “World Nutella Day” started by two bloggers who chose the week before Valentine’s day probably out of spite for all the happy couples; who knows? <br />
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And pop culture hasn't spared Nutella in books, TV or films. Nanni Moretti, a film pioneer of Italian irony and sarcasm famously devoured a whole a vat of Nutella after a romantic liason in the film <i>Bianca</i>; it was his own unique way of describing that men can't live off one decadent indulgence at a time. There have been over thirty books written solely on the subject of Nutella, and its facebook page was the third most liked until last year, coming behind Barack Obama and Coca-Cola. </div>
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<b><i>Is it the healthiest, no. Is it what you should all be eating on a day to day basis? Probably not. But Nutella has become the metaphor of desire, as Leonardo Pieracioni said in i laureati “do we want to sit here for the rest of our lives and cry over spilt nutella?" Probably! </i></b></div>
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ginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636765577927196115.post-59872007023851624502013-04-11T07:00:00.000+01:002013-04-12T08:53:24.072+01:00When John Gerber rode a Vespa... <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>The Vespa was designed to get people around war torn streets in Italy, designed and built by a navy supplier they were the transport of the youth. My nonni hardly took them out of the village, many wouldn't travel that far either. But one man defied all of these notions, taking a Vespa where no man would have taken one before, becoming an icon in the process.</b><br />
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John Gerber is a <i>'hero'</i>. He's not a household name nor are there any statues adorning the streets. He probably doesn't even have a street named after him; or he probably does and we don't know about it... yet. John Gerber was a rogue, very much a pioneer, his passion for the Vespa made him travel the world. </div>
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In 1966, John would ride through eight countries, starting in Minneapolis finishing in Panama. 18,000 kilometres would have been travelled, all unsupported, all on the back of a Vespa. (A single cylinder scooter that is). </div>
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Gerber had been inspired by the completion of the Inter-American highway which had been finished in 1963, his own recounts of the road would make you think that calling it a highway was somewhat generous; as he would later write <i>"between San Jose and Panama City lay 300 miles of unpaved road, much of it over 11,000 foot mountains. The condition of the road confirmed my worst fears. Foot wide boulders and pot holes were the rule rather than the exception". </i></div>
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His journey began in auspicious circumstances as well. After crossing the Minesota - Iowa border a light drizzle turned into a torrential downpour; after seeking rain shelter under telephone box for three hours he made it to the nearest motel for the evening, discovering the next morning that there had been wide spread flooding across the state. A decision to not risk travelling turned out to be the wisest, although the following days travels were done under 100 degree temperatures and not in the most comforting of sceneries. </div>
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On his travels, Gerber would discover that Mexico didn't allow Vespa sales because of anti-competition laws, that Guatemala's romantic sounding names qualified the nation as <i>'the most interesting' </i>and that Honduras may just be one of the best places to break down. After sheering pistons and finding dealerships that supplied everything but the parts he needed, Gerber turned to the locals,<i>"Latin American mechanics are noted for their resourcefulness and the head mechanic proved to be no exception, with considerable difficulty these obstacles were overcome."</i></div>
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The journey to Panama continued with stops in Costa Rica where he would get the opportunity to drive up the Irazu Volcano, active at the time.<i> 'The twenty mile paved road to the top was steep and winding, requiring first gear most of the way. Once at the summit superlatives abound in the description--magnificent, stupendous, mighty, marvelous, unbelievable, beyond the imagination--they are all justified.'</i> </div>
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The last part of Gerber's journey was arduous, he battled with poor road, weather and bike conditions. His earlier mechanical problems had returned and made riding the Vespa a near impossible task. He lost a silencer, the repaired piston was nearly destroyed and electrical problems didn't exactly help either. Panama City gave Gerber the time to rest and sight-see, after sixteen days which included repairs, Gerber set off home making the trip back in eleven days. </div>
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John Gerber would write of his journey in one of the many travel logs he kept. A year later he published the manuscript of his Pan-America tour which he subsequently submitted to Scooter World, the most published scooter magazine at the time; he was to receive an answer nearly two years later, unsurprisingly his work was rejected for a <i>'a young welsh rider who is doing an around the world trip on a Vespa'. </i></div>
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Gerber would go on to break world distance records, all unsupported, all on a Vespa. He would once again return to South America and spend nearly two years covering forty thousand kilometres submitting pieces from telegraph stations in some of the most remote locations on his journey; Scooter World proudly publishing his tales after the earlier rejections. And whilst his achievements weren’t splashed over the world news, he would go on to be a cultural icon for anyone mad enough to fall in love with the scooters from Italy, a new age explorer is perhaps most fitting. <br />
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<i>John Gerber's achievements could be matched today but the likelihood of it happening in such similar ilk, probably never; as Norrie Kerr a mod pioneer noted at the time, 'this guy has a backside like an ironing board to do this". </i><br />
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ginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636765577927196115.post-21474549808206588362013-02-20T08:33:00.000+00:002013-02-20T12:00:45.130+00:00The forgotten crisi, the political one... <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>Crisi </i>it has to be the most commonly used noun in the Italian language. <i>Crisi. </i>There's <i><b>la crisi</b> (the crisis) <b>una crisi</b> (a crisis)<b> la crisi finanziaria</b> (financial crisis) </i>and so on and so on. And yet, in all of this, we never hear of a<i><b> crisi politica</b> (a political crisis). </i><br />
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<i>Silvio </i>was forced to resign because of <i>lo spread. </i>Very little to do with the <i>bunga bunga </i>as many would have hoped. <i>Mario</i>, he reduced <i>lo spread </i>but then brought in <i>l'austerita'; </i>he didn't last much after that. <i>Pier-Luigi, </i>he according to the foreign press is the <i>'cigar chomping former communist'</i>, beating his much younger and apparently more popular political rival, <i>Matteo, </i>in the primaries; what a pity.<b> </b><i>Beppe, </i>he's popular, but has already declared, <i>'I won't be president'. </i><br />
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<i>Silvio, </i>he promises to give back <i><b>l'IMU</b>, </i>economists can't figure out how. <i>Mario, </i>he promised that he <b><i>wouldn't run for president</i></b>, three months into campaigning he's a seasoned pro. <i>Pier-Luigi</i>, he should have had this all wrapped up, but now he needs his 'friend'<i>, Matteo </i>to <b><i>not blow a thirty percent lead</i></b>; <i>Beppe, </i>he's won in Sicily but he still <i><b>won't see the inside of Palazzo Chigi</b></i>.<br />
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<i>Silvio, Mario, Pier-Luigi & Beppe, </i>they can't/won't even sit down together to discuss politics.<br />
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Promises made, very few kept. A new Italy or one that refuses to change? <i>La classe politica (the political class) </i>with very few new faces, forced to be run by <i style="font-weight: bold;">i tecnocratici </i><i>(the technocrats) </i>because the Italians wanted it that way... actually they didn't. The markets, the ECB, the EU, Angela Merkel, we all have our theories, showed their hands in that one.<br /><br />Lets take <i>Elvira, </i>from Naples. A lawyer and friend, disillusioned by party politics and it's public faces. <i>"I have a thousand doubts, but I can't not vote. That's not an option. It's a delicate time for Italy, but who do you vote for? One man, Silvio, kept saying the economy was fine, right until the last day of the technocrats taking over."</i><br />
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And then there's <i>Michelangelo, 27</i> from Bologna. He's a customs specialist, by my calculations, this will be the third time he's voted, it hasn't deterred him. <i>"Let's just say that the majority of people, from my point of view will still vote, they'll still be aligned to the ideologies that they've always lived by." </i>He continues <i>"there's a lot more resignation than apathy. Always the same people, very little innovative ideas, very few young people. Instead of whinging about the future, make a change, that's why you should vote." </i><br />
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There is a <i style="font-weight: bold;">crisi politica </i>after all, but nothing to do with the ministers, but it's voters. When you're presented with this as your choice, it's <i style="font-weight: bold;">crisi</i>,<i style="font-weight: bold;"> </i>but of a different kind.</div>
ginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636765577927196115.post-40979984464908426482013-02-12T08:00:00.000+00:002013-02-12T08:51:06.134+00:00I'll always dream of... <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>A step away from food today, my other passions in life, football and cars combine in this latest post. Few things truly represent Italy more than a Ferrari. If I was going to own one as a child, I needed a plan, somehow, becoming the next football sensation seemed like the most appropriate avenue. </i></div>
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You probably remember being asked as a child what you wanted to be when you “grew up”. Friends would say things that sounded relatively normal, ‘fireman’, ‘policeman’, ‘doctor’. There was always that child, Michael Cross in this case, that wanted to be a ‘footballer’; he was ceremoniously discouraged to ever dream again. <br />
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To be different however, my answer would not be what I wanted to be, but what I wanted to own. ‘Ferrari 308 GTB’. That was going to be my car, but ‘how was I ever going to afford it’ as Miss Burton asked me. ‘Rob a bank, Miss’. If Italians hadn’t developed such a bad reputation as gangsters I wouldn’t have been forced to visit the school nurse for a ‘chat’. <br />
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At a young age though, it had occurred to me that I needed a plan, how was I ever going to<b> legally</b> get my Ferrari 308? <br />
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This all happened at the same time of discovering that I was now a defender. Not the classiest, not the greatest, but armed with my diadora’s and my posters of Franco Baresi and a young Paolo Maldini, I was inspired. <i>‘Become a footballer’</i> I thought, <i>‘but don’t mention that to your teachers. Poor Michael, never saw it coming’</i>. <br />
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I would spend hours tackling myself, discovering that Franco and Paolo made what they do look relatively easy. Their ability something exceptional, something which few since have ever really recreated. If I could get as good as them, I could afford that Ferrari, the basic grasp of work life balance yet to afflict that naive seven year old. <br />
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I’ll see this side of me every week when I coach, the under seven’s now probably dream of a Bugatti Veyron, but I would take that 308 everyday; that was/is my dream car. Alas my football ability would never match up to that skill, my perennial injuries ensure that I’ll never get there. <br />
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If only aged seven I could have decided on another profession to get me there. I don’t have the stomach and I’m too sensitive to be a doctor. Too lazy to be a solicitor. And if I were a fireman, I’d treat every call out as a perfect on site cooking venue, not ideal when the aim is to save lives. <br />
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I was only seven, I had yet to discover anything other than ‘those’ careers, and now at thirty I’m even less likely to own a 308, but I can always dream. I should really have taken inspiration of where I saw the car for the first time, on TV. <br />
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I should have become a private investigator, I should have gone down the road of being the next Magnum PI. The car after all, comes with the job. </div>
ginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636765577927196115.post-33438460471214792532013-02-01T08:00:00.000+00:002013-02-01T09:15:20.807+00:00When life gives you lemons... <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>In a world where Danny De Vito has his own bottled brand of a Southern Italian liquor, I ask, how did that ever happen for a drink I associate with my uncle's home brew and BBQ parties going bad?</i></div>
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Red dots were splattered across the base of an opaque bowl containing the labour of a days work. “Making limoncello shouldn’t look like that!” uttered my uncle. He was right. I had not noticed my finger being sliced, nor the blood stained tablecloth that was under my hand. His mistake was my downfall; an open bottle of limoncello whilst making limoncello. My knife skills were desperately impaired. <br />
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Trying desperately to not laugh or show shock, I poured myself another glass. My uncle shook his head, “that will hurt in the morning” if only he meant just my finger. <br />
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Another digestivo, if any, that has made the transition from local campania produce to national recognition to international export; even Danny De Vito has his own brand of Limoncello. <br />
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There will be those who first taste the Italian southern comfort whilst on holiday, much to the exclamation of “oooff strong”. Over the years, friends and friends of friends have told me of their first limoncello moments, they always feature Sorrento, they are always followed up by tales of waking up with the worse hangover on holiday. <br />
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That’s where limoncello is misunderstood as a drink. It’s not served in pint glasses for a reason. It’s humble beginnings are still argued to this day. Between Sorrento, Capri and Amalfi, each are still fervently convinced someone, somewhere in their town first created it.<br />
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One such noted historical notion is one hundred years in the making.<i> “Maria Antonia Farace religiously looked after her garden of lemons and oranges. After the war, her nephew opened a small deli/bar on the island of Capri, in the region near the villa of noted psychologist Axel Munthe. The speciality of the bar was that of creating varieties of different liqueur from the plants. In 1988, her grandson Massimo Canale started his own artisan production of limoncello, and trademarked the name.” </i><br />
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Other noted folklores point to fisherman using lemon liqueur to warm themselves on cold winter days to some going as far back to Spanish rule of the Southern territories, however this is widely disputed as most Spanish soldiers were forbidden alcohol in occupied lands. <br />
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Between my uncle’s padlocked freezer (photographic evidence is available upon request) and my tenacious drive to barter down prices in airport duty free’s, I find myself asking, do I have a limoncello problem? Sure, most of the bottles I bring back are for friends, but then comes the summer barbecue and many beers later, I believe the term “mine-sweeping” of limoncello takes over come 11pm. <br />
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My own lemon tree, lemmy, is yet to yield anything close to a crop. It sits, waiting to grow. That's what plants do right, sit, waiting to grow?! It knows it's name is marked for greater things, that its lemons will produce something spectacular, that I could potentially start my own limoncello empire. If only...<br />
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A trip to Naples rarely goes by where I don’t have a glass. A freezer shelf without a bottle is something unheard of. It should never be added to a new age Tiramisu (looking at you Nigella!) and it's not to be drunk from a tray in a mix with several other spirits floating at the bottom...<br />
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If it's good enough for Danny De Vito to build a small empire from, then it's good enough to drink after your Italian meal, just not a pint of the stuff, ok? </div>
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ginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636765577927196115.post-25405396324655488982013-01-29T08:57:00.001+00:002013-01-29T08:57:41.741+00:00A gangster's favourite (murder weapon), Cannoli.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>In lieu of MyLittleVespa winning the “Canolo Award” for services to Italian food and culture, we decided to look at the award naming sicilian delight. </i><br />
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‘Leave the gun, take the Cannoli’ uttered Peter Clemenza after he and his assailant killer, Rocco Lampone disposed of his now ex driver, Paulie Gatto. Words that would be included into the top 100 most famous film quotes of all time, and introduce a whole generation of non-Italians to the sweet Sicilian dessert. <br />
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My own love affair with cannoli started when I was young, around seven years old. I remember that the local pasticceria had a few items left in the cake display, the popular sfogliatelle had all but disappeared, the barman joking that my dad had been in earlier that morning. All that was left were two pizzette and a cannolo. <br />
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Ever since that day I have endeavoured to find a cannolo (singular) ensuring that the ricotta is fresh, the candied fruit is minimal and that the chocolate pieces plentiful. This is how a cannolo should be, for me anyway. Yes, the shell should be crispy with that tinge of citrus and the crunch should be a sensory explosion, but finding ones like these is like witnessing a cannoli shaped solar eclipse, very hard at best. <br />
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And yet the cannolo is a dessert which should have more recognition than the Italian American gangster films set in the 1930’s or the Italian American gangster series set in the 1990’s, are you noticing a pattern? <br />
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The cannolo’s origin is steeped in history. Some argue that Cicero’s description of a “sweet lactose tube” was the original cannolo.<br />
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Move forward a few hundred years and further historic writings have shown that elsewhere on the Island of Sicily, Caltanisetta to be precise, a conclave of arab women would dedicate their time in the production of favourite arab food, in particular pastry’s and desserts, cannoli being one such treat.<br />
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But cannoli's history is also dated to carnevale, Italy's version of Mardi Gras, the Shrove Tuesday/New Orleans kind not the Manchester Canal St rendition. Carnevale celebrates the beginning of spring and subsequently it is hypothesized that the cannoli were a symbol of fertility, and their shape would suggest who it was the townspeople were bestowing their good wishes to. Luckily for the townspeople and for us today, cannoli were seen as too good to have only once a year and have become a pastry that can be enjoyed all year round!<br />
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And why are cannoli so popular in Italian American heritage? Once again we have to turn to Sicily for the answer. It is estimated that over 7 million Sicilians emigrated to America between 1876 - 1925, many searched for, and created businesses that tailored to their very gastronomic needs; cannoli being a must.Whilst ricotta was hard to come by as well as other specific ingredients, the immigrants developed new techniques and used a widely disputed recipe to recreate their favourite dessert. <br />
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The cannolo is a piece of food nostalgia, loved by many Italians across the nation, and probably more by those living abroad; perhaps because it's so recognisable and so hard to produce that those who choose to make them, know what they are doing. <br />
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But beware as the cannolo is also the chosen weapon of many a fictional mafioso. In the first Godfather, the cannoli are just something that you collect after committing a murder. In the third Godfather they are used as a murder weapon of Mafia don and consilieri, Don Altobello. Gorging on his sixth, yes sixth, cannolo, Don Altobello discovers that he's been poisoned when its all too late. <br />
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The moral of the cannolo tale, enjoy them. Unless you are some fictional don, the worst they could do is add to your waist line, as I discovered in the Summer of '05. </div>
ginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636765577927196115.post-75177636264950353142013-01-24T14:25:00.000+00:002013-01-25T07:18:04.535+00:00There's nothing like a Grappa<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div><i>In a MyLittleVespa first, Giancarlo Rinaldi (<a href="http://www.twitter.com/ginkers" target="_blank">@ginkers</a>) guest authors, and gets to the bottom of his passion for grappa and why it's so 'lethal' in one tiny glassful. </i></div><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WVZUyhWormI/UQE9r97o27I/AAAAAAAAAhc/QtGufHRJIcY/s1600/grappa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="297" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WVZUyhWormI/UQE9r97o27I/AAAAAAAAAhc/QtGufHRJIcY/s400/grappa.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Small doses are best advised...</td></tr></tbody></table>It seemed to me like the dining equivalent of lighting the blue touchpaper on a firework. Whenever we visited my relatives in Italy, they always poured my father a homemade grappa at the end of the meal. Then everyone retired to a safe distance to enjoy the spectacle.<br />
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A tirade of foul language was the very least we expected. Often he coughed and spluttered as if a tear gas canister had just landed in his lap. Sometimes it would take several minutes before the power of speech returned. All of which provoked great hilarity among his hosts.<br />
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But, I admit, I was intrigued by this devil's brew straight from the Tuscan hills. It often resembled some kind of Molotov Cocktail with - is this true or am I just imagining it? - a rag where the cork should have been. And everyone seemed to produce their own.<br />
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Even though I never tasted it during my teenage years, I was regularly encouraged to take a sniff. I usually recoiled quickly at the glass being brought anywhere in the vicinity of my olfactory organs. I feared, I think, that my nose hairs might be irreversibly damaged.<br />
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Then I remember too, my grandfather - Nonno to me - throwing a glass onto an open fire having mistaken it for water. The resultant blue flame shot up the chimney and produced a mushroom cloud of fumes which simultaneously stung the eyes and cleared the sinuses. It was the kind of incident which should have left his trademark moustache aglow. It certainly caused him to jump backwards as quickly as I had ever seen him do.<br />
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It’s not a drink I remember him being particularly fond of - from memory he was more of a Vecchia Romagna man. But I do recall the mountain men of old being fond of a nip or two. All deep voices, low-slung trousers and tales of gunning down a wild boar or two, they downed them for warmth and not for show.<br />
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I can picture the small, stubby glasses carrying the mysterious liquid most clearly around a card table with a game of Briscola in full flight. Or, if a pack was not to hand, within easy reach of men locked in a boisterous battle of the hand-and-number game Morra. Then, later, it was supped sporadically during an evening sing-song or sitting outside a one-horse bar watching the last sun disappear on a warm Garfagnana day.<br />
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My summer holidays touched upon that world but it was at Easter time that the door really opened. The tourists were gone and the days were colder and there was nothing much else to do but visit old relatives and the haunts of my grandfather’s youth. I did not realise at the time that I was glimpsing an era which was slipping away. And it left the burning aftertaste of grappa.<br />
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By the time I was old enough to take a proper sip, it was no longer quite the drink of my youth. The bigger producers had got in and homebrew was no longer such a widespread option. It was refined - at least by its old standards - but it still packed a punch. The Mike Tyson of after-dinner drinks.<br />
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"How on earth can you drink that stuff?" remains a common question among those I encourage to partake of a glass. Among the comparisons I have heard most often are paraffin, lighter fuel and petrol. Certainly, I wouldn't want to take it too close to a naked flame as my Nonno did.<br />
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However, for me, it still retains some link with a bygone age of mountain men that I never fully got to know. They would drink a glass without batting an eye or splash it in their coffee for winter warmth. They may well have dabbed a little behind their ears to attract wild animals towards their shotguns. Whatever it is, it feels like an alcoholic link to my ancestry.<br />
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Of course, it’s not a specifically Tuscan beverage (Piedmont and the Veneto lead the way), but it does come from that great peasant tradition of wasting nothing. When the winemaking is over, the leftovers could still be put to use. And, so, the seeds, skins, pulp and stalks were distilled again to produce a neat liqueur. The better the wine, so they say, the better the grappa. I’ve never quite become enough of a connoisseur to tell you if that is true.<br />
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Where once the only choice was take it or leave it, there are now restaurants which offer a selection trolley of grappas. You can have it Morbida (soft) or Secca (dry) if you like. There are even a couple of guidebooks to the drink which I own, even though I can imagine the mountain men snorting at the very thought.<br />
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It is not, nor will it ever be, a rival to whisky. Most of it is sold without much of an ageing process. Indeed, it only takes 12 months in a cask for a producer to be entitled to call it Vecchia (old) and after just another six months it can be Riserva (reserve) or Stravecchia (really old). Since the 1970s, however, Grappa di Monovitigno (Grappa from a single vine) has also been available in a move towards something like a single malt.<br />
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I’ve watched its evolution with more interest than most. I used to keep a blog about it - The Grappa Diaries - until I ran out of things to say. And I still feel alcoholically undressed if I don’t have a bottle in the house to offer guests and watch for their reaction.<br />
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Nowadays no big meal seems complete without it. Indeed, my uncle once memorably claimed that eating was really just foreplay to the grappa moment. It is, for me, part digestivo and part tradition. Perhaps it is no longer quite as rough and raw as those wild beverages of my childhood visits to Italy. But, nonetheless, it still has the capacity to make a few sparks fly.</div>ginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636765577927196115.post-91876940336625951972013-01-16T10:06:00.000+00:002013-01-16T10:06:25.328+00:00So-phia so good; A lesson in Carbonara...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Everyone remembers their first Sophia Loren film. I'll rephrase, most men remember their first Sophia Loren film. Whether it was alongside the great Mastroianni or directed by De Sica, you'd begin to realise that the fiery Neapolitan was equally versatile and hard to forget.<br />
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Loren is not just an actress, she is a symbol of the Italian "je ne sais quoi" (although that's a French idiom). Whilst she has her unforgettable demeanour and is nationally symbolic, she is also credited, by many, as the person that brought another Italian symbol to the wider world, Spaghetti alla Carbonara.<br />
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It was whilst Loren was filming the classic 1960 film, <i>"La Ciociara/Two Women" </i>that she stumbled across the recipe. Departures magazine quote the famous story; <i>'Whilst filming in the mountains a few hours from Rome, the crew came upon a group of carbonai (coal diggers) who offered to prepare the dish for them. The director, Vittorio De Sica, and Loren had second helpings, and she returned the next day to take notes as the men assembled the dish. (An accomplished home cook, Loren claims the recipe is verbatim. But while the results are first-rate, her rendition calls for cream—an addition most carbonara connoisseurs would not abide.)'</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GF7bSxdA9TY/UPQSyXQmr5I/AAAAAAAAAhI/0J2fXKqYxEo/s1600/carbonara-550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GF7bSxdA9TY/UPQSyXQmr5I/AAAAAAAAAhI/0J2fXKqYxEo/s400/carbonara-550.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sophia Loren and Carbonara, two of Italy's finest...</td></tr>
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So what is the true history behind Italy's second favourite export (after Loren) and should we really be adding cream?<br />
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<i><b>Origin; Romans of Testaccio, carbonai and American GI's</b></i><br />
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In it's most basic of forms, it's not too hard to guess what goes into a good carbonara, a "proper" carbonara. Eggs, pancetta or guanciale, ground pepper and pecorino Romano.<br />
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The <i>Testaccio neighbourhood of Rome</i> is credited with a dish called <i>unto e uova (fat and eggs). </i>This could be considered the first incarnation of carbonara. Importantly, the dish represents the peasant food of previous generations, bringing together pasta (in this case penne not spaghetti) and two other ingredients to make enough to last a whole meal as food was scarce.<br />
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Whilst we know <i>i carbonai </i>gave Loren her first taste of the dish, documents show that a dish, very similar to <i>unto e uova</i> was popular as early as late 19th century being featured in mountainside restaurants near Rome. This area, geographically near the biggest congregation of coal diggers is the birthplace of the of many folklores about <i>i carbonai </i>within Italian history. The <i>unto e uova </i>in this case would be cooked using guanciale, a more flavoursome cut of fat.<br />
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But one of my 'favourite' tales about la carbonara involves the <i>American GI's </i>in ally occupied Italy. Apparently, they brandished their rations of bacon and eggs to a neighbourhood, in return, instead of receiving a lynching, the neighbourhood got together and prepared the ingredients with a little of the local cheese, giving the American GI's and townspeople a recipe which has become the dish we have today. <i>Yet no one can describe where they got the name of the dish from... </i><br />
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<b><i>To cream or not to cream, that is the question?</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
The basic answer is no. Cream deserves as much place in a carbonara as pets in clothes; it may seem like a good idea but after a minute you know, something, somewhere, isn't quite right.<br />
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Cream was considered very much a luxury ingredient in the late 19th Century. If the story of <i>i carbonai </i>bares any truth, then packing ingredients to last weeks at a time, cream would have been the worst choice to take into the mountains as well. Cream in carbonara seems to have been included because most cooks wouldn't have been used to using the pasta's own cooking water to thicken the sauce; the sauce that most carbonara fans actually love. Maybe it's appearance of a creamy texture and glossy velour inspired some chefs to use it, and then proclaim that's the way to do it, but historically, there is no indication in it's evolution from <i>unto e uova </i>to creating <i>la carbonara</i>. (And you've guessed it, but my friend, yes her, Nigella, loves to douse the dish in "double cream" "white wine" and "nutmeg". Heaven forbid she did an Italian cookbook... or TV series...)<br />
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<i>"Un matrimonio Italiano/Marriage Italian Style" was my first Sophia Loren film. Forever repeated on a local Neapolitan TV station it tells a complicated story of infedelity, betrayal, marriage, and illegal children. My first ever carbonara was at Cichetto in Rome when I was six; salty, creamy and coated in pepper, a masterpiece if any, of Italian cuisine. </i><i>Sophia Loren to Italian cinema is the carbonara to Italian cooking. Loved by everyone, known everywhere in the world. </i></div>
ginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636765577927196115.post-38671643345927437212013-01-10T11:49:00.004+00:002013-01-10T14:53:57.005+00:00Stuck together like glue...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-17exvtR-wNA/UO6ool1gnVI/AAAAAAAAAg0/mWfG6OgeFMY/s1600/large_glue1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-17exvtR-wNA/UO6ool1gnVI/AAAAAAAAAg0/mWfG6OgeFMY/s1600/large_glue1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The only thing keeping me together... </td></tr>
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The injury bench. It's become my least favourite seating arrangement of the last sixteen months. I've experienced them all, from bruised ligaments, to muscular strains, to now, lacerated tendons. It's a far cry from the robust player I used to be.<br />
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It all started at six years old. My local village team had try outs, it was a cold August afternoon (it is England), and my first ever coach was a proud Mancunian. His football ideology could fill the stereotype void left by Bernard Manning on the best of days. Short, round and not particularly the fittest, his first words were "you're Italian. You can be a defender".<br />
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Training was a mixture of kicking a ball as hard as I could from the goal line, and sliding in the mud. Structure, if there was any, was more about whose dad could take a group of kids to matches every week. This was the 80's, there was no need for a CRB check back then, no one had SUV's or range rovers. Estate owning parents were the favourites, three kids could fit in the boot, and fit we did.<br />
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Whilst I had moved even further back into goalie position due to shortages, it was not for me. I was to stay there for several years, to the detriment of every team I played for. I was no Zenga, nor did I want to be.<br />
<br />
It was to be a summer holiday in Italy where my football position started to take shape. Roccarainola had a bevy of players that all wanted to be like their Argentine football idol, Diego Armando Maradona. They would imitate his movement, mimic his gestures and attempt close range free kicks like the one he performed against Juventus; many a child went home with black eyes and bruised chests. I was not stupid enough to stand in the wall.<br />
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My idol was a completely different player, a man who wore the red and black, il capitano Franco Baresi. And whilst admitting to liking any team other than Napoli (in Naples) in the early 90's was tantamount to public flogging, I would have to learn the art of saying nothing; although the coach, "Mister" knew full well where my allegiances stood.<br />
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When "il Mister" called me to play, it would take as little time to decide my position in Italy as it did in England. "You're the lad from England, you're a midfielder". It was to be an awakening. Drilled daily on position, tackling and passing, it was a far cry from the kick and run tactic that had been usurped so frequently in England.<br />
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Mister knew my Dad. For every club fine I received for speaking English, answering back or blasting silly shots from 40 yards, fines would be paid at the local bar, like most dad's they avoided the village in the evenings of training, knowing each son would have carried some heavy fine for something completely stupid.<br />
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And so we come to today. A makeshift centre back when well, a midfielder when lacking, a sweeper by the 50th minute and a poacher when, I have no patience to sit at the back any more. I find myself asking, should footballers really have positions? What if Lionel Messi could have been the greatest goalkeeper the world could have seen, or if Ronaldo were to be a centre back of colossal proportions?<br />
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<i>The idea has become far fetched, but experience has taught me, if you're good enough to play one position, you can be decent in others at pretty much any level. It's perhaps a question that should be answered by the professionals really; but until they come to some unanimous answer, I will continue to sit on the treatment table until I'm ready for yet another comeback, hopefully not injured or requiring glue. </i></div>
ginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636765577927196115.post-80841674049480104712013-01-07T08:59:00.002+00:002013-01-07T09:00:21.591+00:00A tale of two treatments...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I am the Italian Darren Anderton. If you have been following me for a while on twitter (or approximately two weeks) you know a day doesn't go by where something doesn't break. <br />
<br />
For different health reasons I have two MRI’s in a matter of weeks. In two very different countries. For the sake of warning and personal comedic tragedy, here are my experiences... <br />
<br />
<i><b>Appointment Booking</b></i> <br />
England <br />
Here we have the NHS. Getting an appointment requires a system so complicated a degree is required to ensure you’ve ticked the right box! After several unsuccesful attempts to do it online, you may proceed to phone booking. This is a mistake, you are better off going to your GP directly, however you don’t. You spend several hours talking to a machine to then be passed to an operator who suggests “visit your GP to arrange appointment”. <br />
<br />
Italy <br />
Call your Aunty who, knows the receptionist to some private clinic that does MRI’s. In turn, visit your Aunt to thank her for the call. You have an appointment, it’s tomorrow, precisely at the time you didn’t want it, be grateful, you have an appointment. <br />
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<i><b>Welcome Reception </b></i>England<br />
Corridor upon corridor you meander aimlessly until you find the Radiology unity. Adorned with signs of “danger, radiation” you carefully find a seat close enough to view some antiques programme but far away enough to not turn into the hulk. A receptionist calls your name and calmly informs you that you are next. A nurse walks over to welcome you to the unit, speaking in a soft tone they ask you to “kindly fill out the form, and if you have any questions, please ask.” Everyone smiles. <br />
<br />
Italy <br />
You walk into a building that looks like it should be shut down. There are no signs of “danger, radiation” but “caffe” spuriously espoused everywhere. After the receptionist stares you down for what seems an eternity, you are summoned to declare your name, address and pay 90 euros before doing anything else! You are told to go the MRI unit, which isn’t labelled. After 10 minutes of being lost, an old man (probably from the street) directs you to the correct area. No one smiles. <br />
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<b><i>Pre-emptive questioning</i> </b><br />
England <br />
The nurse who so kindly addressed you before is back. They run through all the answers thoroughly. They ensure you are comfortable, you are pushed for more information, more than you are perhaps willing to give, but persist. This is England, the nurses are underpaid, overworked and are just trying to be nice. God Bless them! <br />
<br />
Italy <br />
The nurse summons you to the machine, and asks “what did you do?” After proceeding to inform, you are asked “are you sure?” It’s Italy, they think you are lying from the get go! <br />
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<i><b>Examination</b></i><br />
England <br />
You are taken to a room where you can get undressed. Here, you calmly leave your valuables and dress into a robe. Here the nurse spends several minutes going over what is going to happen. Calm voice, remember, it’s England. Just when you are ready to lie back, the nurse hands over a remote “push the button to speak to us, we’ll be there”. You are subsquently given headphones, here Steve Wright on Radio 2 is softly whispering in your ears, the downside, Rhianna is being played. This can’t be good for the examination. The machine starts, examination begins. I fell asleep. <br />
<br />
Italy <br />
The nurse asks you to “take off your clothes”. You aren’t sent to a room. They are forever present, I’m persistently scared. After placing myself on the machine I’m told “don’t move. It’ll f*ck up the results”. I cover the crown jewels scared that radiation will do damage, the nurse assures me “nothing will happen, it may zing when you wee though”. Then in order the next three things happen; <br />
1) You are given headphones without radio, the nurse says “It’s noisy this thing, watch out” <br />
2) There is no remote to call the nurse “Just shout if you want me, I’m behind that glass. Make sure you’re loud!” <br />
3) The nurse leaves the room. <br />
<br />
After several minutes, the nurse walks back in. The machine isn’t working. On first play around, he decides that giving it a good slap is good enough to get it going. It doesn’t. The second time he walks in, you cautiously await what engineering marvel he has under his sleeve... he blows on the circuits in the back of the control panel; or as I like to call it... “the trick that makes DVD’s work”. He leaves the room, the machine begins, tests are done. </div>
ginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636765577927196115.post-14010617288166073802012-12-29T09:11:00.000+00:002012-12-29T09:11:49.925+00:00Chi chiange, fotte a chi ride...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
There is a Neapolitan saying "chi chiange, fotte a chi ride" (Those who complain all the time are better off than those who show off all their wealth).<br />
<br />
It's symptomatic of the Italian condition to complain. Regardless of where they are, what they are doing, there is always a complaint somewhere down the line. I was complaining on twitter (nothing new there) about this image some have of Italy. It's really #notjusttuscanhills<br />
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I'll whinge and whine about the mammoth journey to get to Naples (in winter). The lack of time I have visiting friends and family (or how they don't visit me). And I'll complain about things out of my control (like 99% of everyone I know).<br />
<br />
This Christmas there was a lot of complaining. Not by me, but by those around me. People finding it hard, genuinely, to pay for food and bills. Some having to make the choice to either have heating and light or an extra loaf of bread and jug of olive oil.<br />
<br />
Italy is struggling. It's estimated that 6 million people are working in the black market, if not more. That youth unemployment is at 48%, and families living together at home well into their forties and fifties, up 22% in three years.<br />
<br />
Where there was work, there isn't. Where there is work, it doesn't pay enough. Where you volunteer to gain experience, it comes out of your own pocket, and where there is school, at any level, you pay for the most elementary of objects.<br />
<br />
Politics and politicians have systematically destroyed the wealth and beauty of this country for the last 60 years, and people are now talking of a repeat of 1968... A young promising political candidate seems to be the one which everyone voted for, yet somehow he didn't win his own primaries.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SXVs-Z86Bco/UN6zbK9HuJI/AAAAAAAAAgY/kr4yVl_gvqU/s1600/Matteo-Renzi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="261" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SXVs-Z86Bco/UN6zbK9HuJI/AAAAAAAAAgY/kr4yVl_gvqU/s400/Matteo-Renzi.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">not even Matteo Renzi could get voted in, although everyone wanted him?! </td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The list goes on and on...<br />
<br />
For all the love I have for my country, for all the desire I have to return one day, hopefully with a family, I'm finding it harder and harder to see things, hear certain things and tolerate most of the above. Take any romantic notion out of your head, Italy is like most countries, if you have a good job, you can live. If you don't, you can't.<br />
<br />
It really is #notjusttuscanhills. People are whinging, but I don't think they truly are better off, contrary to the saying. </div>
ginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636765577927196115.post-75677703467108063652012-12-20T12:26:00.002+00:002012-12-20T12:27:38.026+00:00When's a bottle of wine, not just a bottle of wine? <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When's a bottle of wine, not just a bottle of wine?<br />
<br />
It's becoming more and more part of my repetoir to ask such mundane questions, but I have been wondering about the significance of wine recently.<br />
<br />
Maybe this is just a sign of getting a little older. Yesterday whilst gift shopping, I found myself trying on a few clothes, things which before would have looked somewhat cool or trendy. Instead it instantly made me look like a complete prat; for want of a better word.<br />
<br />
My hair is more <i>conservative </i>my colour palette seems to be either <i>black, a variation of black or just, like black, but not quite black bordering on grey. </i>And whilst other colours are 'nice' they somehow don't suit me. Now, I seem to be muttering to myself in shops, <i>'this looks messed up'. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
And suddenly the Christmas shopping is now laced with more <i>grown up </i>ideas. Admittedly less creative, less enthusiastic, less jois de vivre. There's thought, there's anticipation, there's added stress. What do you get somebody when you know them so well, and your mind goes blank at just thinking about it?<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zIQRs3EI3FY/UNMD4JXocnI/AAAAAAAAAgA/dJrc-VAjWUY/s1600/pandoro_panettone_sconti.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="288" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zIQRs3EI3FY/UNMD4JXocnI/AAAAAAAAAgA/dJrc-VAjWUY/s320/pandoro_panettone_sconti.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wine and Pandoro, the adults choice of Christmas gift, surely?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And you can give <a href="http://mylittlevespa.blogspot.co.uk/2011/11/pandoro-or-panettone-which-one-for-you.html" target="_blank">Pandoro or Panettone</a>, according to Nigella Lawson, they're the same thing. But then get grief for giving a present that adds weight. How about chocolates? Unless your <i>'<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n1pg1zpNgB0" target="_blank">the Man from Milk Tray</a>' </i>it's nothing short of boring. Nope, finding yourself in a tizz are we? I thought so.<br />
<br />
What about social convention when it comes to gifts to the opposite sex? What if you get something that suggests anything more than friendship, even though that was never your intention! How about getting something with some thought, but it being seen as, a little too reaking of desperate?<br />
<br />
This is Christmas. Christmas as an <i>'adult'</i> and I'm not sure I'm quite liking it so far.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
So when's a bottle a wine, not just a bottle of wine? When you can give it is a gift that represents nothing but kindness, friendship and when the bottle is empty, something else to worry about recycling. </div>
ginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636765577927196115.post-54224214452663362362012-12-07T15:40:00.001+00:002012-12-07T15:40:41.715+00:00Is this desk taken? <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'n lying under my desk right now. It's not an ordinary relaxation technique, nothing which you'll be reading about either. I've started suffering bad migraines, this is somehow my own prescribed cure.<br />
<br />
And there are reasons, lots to be precise why I'm starting to get them, but none of which you'll care about. Nope, these are just horrible migraines, I now feel for those who suffer them. One of the reasons that I think has caused it is Christmas. To be more precise, the Christmas travel that I will endure in fifteen days time.<br />
<br />
Most people will try and relax at Christmas, many won't be able to. Christmas is stressful, let's not kid ourselves. Ever since I was young enough to remember, mine have consisted of being passed pillar to post in airports and suffering the indignity of having a suitcase that is overweight (thank you Heinz Baked Beans and Cadbury's Dairy Milk). There are no direct flights to Naples from the north of England in the winter, I've always changed at Brussels, Gatwick or Munich, on expensive operators and spending hours in an airport, waiting.<br />
<br />
But as time has passed, slowly and surely I started travelling by myself, finding the easiest option to get into Italy and then finding a way to Naples. Plane, train or auto mobile. Think Top Gear, only no racing.<br />
<br />
This year is no different. Manchester - Rome Fiumicino. Fiumicino to Termini. Termini to Naples. Naples to Roccarainola. I will see the odd recognisable character that over the years I have got to know. Franco, a train conductor is usually sitting at the same bar, every year, sipping on his morning macchiato. Nice chap.<br />
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For all the love I have for England as a nation though, my stress starts here. In all my years of travelling, (think well over 500 flights) I've never known a nation like it. I've never seen another nation queue so flawlessly. Upon seeing someone from the airline lift a phone, perhaps to do an internal call, a queue begins, the plane hasn't been called, but a queue forms. And as time passes it gets bigger and bigger.<br />
<br />
It can be up to 40 minutes before anyone actually starts boarding the plane, but that doesn't matter. To the Brit, they are in the queue... F&*K YOU if you aren't! And you will hear the tut's and the "excuse me there's a queue here" when someone with speedy boarding dares to go to the front, after being so politely called upon.<br />
<br />It's an unnecessary stress, the holiday doesn't begin there. The holiday doesn't end there. But to some, many, it feels that way.<br /><br />And Rome isn't any better. The bus driver who takes you to the terminal because, you're incompetent of walking 50 meters yourself, is actually having a coffee. The train which takes you to Rome central is never monitored, but you NEED a ticket, only there are no ticket machines.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZICxfqrJj-0l4GnCT3R8fUO-ZvY_TXZBVh0BHxF4cxnEMxU_LSAW47m8eBXHXnNUDOVdmqh4hDWR6ldzcg6umUdnMI9SHVpyPvkkIUW5CUcW6g8bMbXy3tAEh9FwrW64jxUjcBk_DeYLn/s1600/FerreroTermini_533x350.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZICxfqrJj-0l4GnCT3R8fUO-ZvY_TXZBVh0BHxF4cxnEMxU_LSAW47m8eBXHXnNUDOVdmqh4hDWR6ldzcg6umUdnMI9SHVpyPvkkIUW5CUcW6g8bMbXy3tAEh9FwrW64jxUjcBk_DeYLn/s400/FerreroTermini_533x350.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Termini last Christmas</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In all of this madness though, you are presented with the highest class of European engineering. A train which dares go faster than the Japanese counterpart, it sits pretty, surrounded by travellers sipping on espresso, reading La Repubblica or Corriere Della Sera to boot. This is Italy, everything has to look at least, good.<br />
<br />
This year I bought my ticket in advance. €9 for quiet business class. A journey which takes 50 minutes, the distance of Manchester to London, and yet the only thing I can hope for is there to be a desk; after all the kerfuffle, I'll need one to lie under. </div>
ginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636765577927196115.post-64537457430528127812012-11-08T09:00:00.000+00:002012-11-08T09:14:20.247+00:00Too good to be Stru'....<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's that time of year again. I get more grey hairs, my blood pressure seems to incandescently increase at just the thought. My bank balance takes a hit that needs several moneysaving expert tips to fix.<br />
<br />
You would think that Milan were playing. You would think that someone is butchering yet another Italian "traditional" recipe. Nope, it's just me, my PC and booking a flight for the festivities. My only consolation is that I am reminded of something; something greater than my excitement can handle; Christmas food. Pandoro, vongole, baccalà and struffoli!<br />
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<b>Stru for what?</b><br />
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Small, crisp, coated in honey with "hundreds and thousands", it is the modern adults sweet shop in one spoonful. Think of it as the stage before a maltesser and you're half way to understanding just how good these are!<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-upoR6XCtB7s/UJrVUMobpzI/AAAAAAAAAfQ/EKm-qRz26r4/s1600/struffoli-romani.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-upoR6XCtB7s/UJrVUMobpzI/AAAAAAAAAfQ/EKm-qRz26r4/s320/struffoli-romani.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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This, however is not a traditional Italian dish; no no dear friends, the Italians have to thank the Greeks for this Christmas delight.<br />
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It was sometime during the 1600's when Naples was under part greco control that the desert came to being. The name Struffoli comes from the Greek "Strongoulos" which means round, and guess what? Struffoli are round. Deep fried dough balls, coated in honey and depending on your region certain elements of local cuisine are added for extra effect.<br />
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<b>Getting stressed again... </b><br />
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OK, when I said I was less stressed thinking about them, that was a lie. Now I'm feeling more stressed. Here's the reason, Struffoli are given as presents, dependent on the giver you know who makes the best; vis a vis, you need to be prepared to sprint, elbow, leap and fight for your spoonful.<br />
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I'm not prepared, I'm injured. My leap isn't as good as it should be, my spoon skills are diminished and my strength skills couldn't hold off Nonna let alone a stampede of cousins, uncle's and my dad! Who'd have known that training like Rocky would be required just to get dessert? <br />
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England, you may have your minced pies, we have our Struffoli, and we fight over them as well! <br />
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ginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636765577927196115.post-63650852573123061352012-11-02T13:32:00.000+00:002012-11-02T13:35:31.120+00:00Benvenuto, "Frothy Coffee"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We have a store room in Italy. It's not magical, and it doesn't lead you to Narnia. No, it's a common sized store room that you would find in any flat on the boot shaped peninsula.<br />
<br />
The biggest difference with this store room however, are its contents. OK, there are the usual suspects; light bulbs, cleaning products, mop, vacuum cleaner, fold away chairs and so on. If you were to look closely you would start to notice items not commonly found in Italy. Baked beans, Paxo, HP brown sauce and importantly, Yorkshire Tea!<br />
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The most unusual of suspects though is... Nescafé! Yes, we seem to have loads of the stuff, the combined strength of which would make up for 2 espresso's, at most. Over the years, the arguments that have ensued over baggage weight to transport these very items, have been things of folklore legend.<br />
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The issue is this, the Italians seem to bloody love it! It's a requested item, it's given as a gift, people will come to the house early in the morning just to have a cup; not great when I greet them with my Don King hairstyle and old man pyjama's!<br />
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<b>Una tazza di NeshKafay </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Put simply, question the Italian on the validity of calling this a coffee, they can't. They announce it as more of a "English 'coffee'" something different, something foreign, something for the morning after the espresso.<br />
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And they don't even say Nescafé. Italian diction makes it sound more like an Armenian wedding invitation than a Swiss company product nestled in the bosom of lake Geneva. Yes, the Italians ironically can't pronounce the name of a coffee.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mBbt35PrmAw/UJPKjjZxAgI/AAAAAAAAAe8/28fEkIn-DWc/s1600/nescafe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mBbt35PrmAw/UJPKjjZxAgI/AAAAAAAAAe8/28fEkIn-DWc/s200/nescafe.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We have all shapes and sizes in our "piece of England" store room</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So Nescafé for me, in my house is actually known as "Eengleesh Kowfee". How ironic because now it seems, the Brits are also fed up with the complicated nature of Italian named drinks.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Long live the "Frothy Coffee" </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
It seems that Debenhams have promoted a very English approach to coffee language barriers, and reduced the names of the most common of Italian coffee exports to the past.<br />
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The Capuccino has now become, and wait for it "Frothy Coffee". What about the Macchiato, I hear you scream? "Coffee with a splash of foamy milk". How about the Caffe Latte? "Really really milky coffee" and so on.<br />
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If an Italian walked into Debenhams though and used the same system, let's say for a "Doppio espresso, macchiato con cacao" It would turn into "Two really really short coffee's in the same cup with a splash of foamed milk and some chocolate powder"... Italians, such snobs!<br />
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Yes, no matter the country it seems that the easiest way to order a coffee, is to be literal.<br />
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ginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636765577927196115.post-55734227388173270292012-09-25T12:24:00.001+01:002012-09-25T12:24:57.876+01:00The curse of the Meatzza... <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Ah, Nigella. As soon as she appears with a new TV series and subsequent cookbook, people start salivating and talking about her greatness as a ‘domestic queen’. <br /><br />She probably is. <div>
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<a href="http://entertainment.ie/images_content/rectangle/620x372/Nigelissima.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://entertainment.ie/images_content/rectangle/620x372/Nigelissima.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />I have always known her food shows to posses the double entendre, the sexual innuendos passed with such ease that she is making the viewer captivated for the next screenshot, enough to continue watching. <br /><br />Listen, my friends made some mini-lime cheesecakes and brought them round at the weekend. They were amazing, I tip my hat to you Ms Lawson; you are the princess of the pud. Mary Berry still holds the crown. <br /><br />But her latest series, passed off as ‘speedy Italian cooking, made simple in the eyes of Nigella’ is trying to be a contradiction of things, that’s where I take exception. <br /><br /><b>I’m probably being a bit thick about this</b> <br /><br />Look, Nigella states that this is her take on Italian food. Granted, when Jamie Oliver or Gordon Ramsay go down that route, there are no issues from me. I have none. There isn’t any pretense to good old Jamie using summer veg in his Carbonara; he’s not telling me that this is the original thing, he’s telling me that the flavours go well together. I tried it. They do. <br /><br />It’s not traditional. <br /><br />And Nigella isn’t trying to be original, or that’s what she claims. Her claim is that her “spiritual home for food and culture” is il Bel Paese, and that these recipes are just “borrowed ideas”. Fine. That’s just another way of saying “my take on things”. Great. <br /><br />But halfway through her first show she tries to justify that Italian food is not traditional to begin with. That there are no set rules. By using two different cookbooks for the same recipe there are differences; and this is evidence that, “anything goes”. A contradiction to the premise of the show.<br /><br /><b>Frustrating yet simple... </b><br /><br />If I were to use that logic, then adding five spice to my puttanesca should be classed as Italian and fine then? How about marshmallows to my Tiramisu? <br /><br />I don’t care or couldn’t care less how you decide to do your pasta, if the sauce is different or not. What I do find frustrating is when there seems to be this justification that because it is different from one cookbook to the next, it becomes all relative and it’s still Italian. <br /><br />Italian food, to the purist is about maximising those ingredients around you. Making best use of four to five ingredients per dish, at most, for even the most basic pasta recipe. And she is right, recipes change from one town to the next, but they have commonalities, sense of origin. It is frustrating, beyond frustrating but that's Italian cuisine!<br /><br />I think Nigella is creative, her Nutella inspired cheesecake is genius, he version of tagliata with the chips cooked in cold oil is new one for me. However, Meatzza is nothing to do with any recipe I know of or could find in Italian food history; that’s not to say that it shouldn’t be Italian of nature but it’s not, Italian. And the cheesecake, even in her own admission is nothing, Italian, just inspired by Italy. <br /><br /><b>I’m paying for... </b><br /><br />I couldn’t help but feeling that Nigella’s plot to sell more books, based on the favoured Italian cuisine of many is a bit of a con.<b><i> It feels like I am paying for an Alfa but getting an Austin Allegro</i></b>.<br /><br />There will be jokes about the “wrath of De Blasio” and fairs fair; I am a food traditionalist to a degree, some of my greatest creations in the kitchen have been <i>inspired</i> events but they aren’t traditional in the culinary objectivity I impart on shows like these. <br /><br />This show is like craving a “proper” pizza, buying a Domino’s pizza and then saying, “It’s not like the one we had in Naples”. <br /><br /></div>
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ginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636765577927196115.post-29174062810995634862012-09-04T12:19:00.000+01:002012-09-04T12:19:19.148+01:00Wallowing Kings sanction great desserts! Babà Mania!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Who here was raised in the 1970's? What about those living in Naples?<br />
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Well, I was neither born in that decade, nor am I currently living in my home town any more. Nope, this is me just asking the question because if you were/are in either category then you will know what a Rum Babà is. That's right another food post, but stick with me, I promise, the history of this gem is brilliant.<br />
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<b>It starts with a king </b><br />
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King Stanislao Leszczinski to be precise. It was the 1700's and he basically picked a fight with Russia, and lost. Now, unlike most other kings who would retire to private quarters and sulk, he surrounded himself with scholars and artists etc and tried to get better at, "lots of different things". This in turn made him, 'slightly alcoholic'.<br />
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As he proceeded to wallow away and throw his weight around, he asked for a dessert which would "take away all the pain". The speciality at the time was something called a kugelhupf. Basically a light, spongy cake but bland and no taste.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rFnKgIQxcSI/UEXgeIhtYSI/AAAAAAAAAek/WGJ4bx3KZxA/s1600/baba2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="161" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rFnKgIQxcSI/UEXgeIhtYSI/AAAAAAAAAek/WGJ4bx3KZxA/s400/baba2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Babà Napoletano</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b>You know what happens next... </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Yes you might have guessed. As with the <a href="http://mylittlevespa.blogspot.co.uk/2011/11/pandoro-or-panettone-which-one-for-you.html" target="_blank">Pandoro legend</a>, someone in the kitchen manages to knock over a bottle of the King's favourite drink, Rum. It coated the cakes and gave them a different texture and colour. The King was so delighted with the dessert it soon became a favourite of the royal household.<br />
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And why's it called Babà? Well, it seems the scholars did do something good after all. They made the King read "1001 Nights" (which everyone should read!) and in honour of it's main protagonist, Ali
Babà , he called the rum soaked kugelhupf,
Babà!<br />
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Because chefs were regularly exchanged between royal households, it didn't take too long until the dessert made it's way to Naples, and soon became a favourite of the partenopei people.<br />
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<b>It's a bit like Worcestershire sauce really, isn't it?! </b><br />
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And so there you have it, a wallowing King and a slip of the bottle, and you have a "new" dessert. My culinary fortunes have only come about with Worcestershire sauce with cheese on toast one night at university, drunk. Oh well... </div>
ginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636765577927196115.post-87449904202391199252012-08-16T10:44:00.000+01:002012-08-16T10:44:30.617+01:00I'll take ten Cantucci... you mean Biscotti di Prato...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I had a dream. (Most other sentences that start this was are more profound, don't expect that here.) I was in Florence and I was sat, at a bar. The waiter comes over and asks "what can I get for you, sir?" And out popped, "Cantucci and vin santo please". <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have never, in public, asked for Cantucci or Vin Santo. Of course, if nonna has made some, trust me, you are fighting a losing battle if you think you are going to get any. But it had me thinking, as most food does, why are Cantucci called, Cantucci? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>A bit of history </b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
Cantucci or Cantuccini are historically known as "Biscotti di Prato". That is correct, nothing whatsoever as similar to Cantucci in spelling or pronunciation.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ptl0Nu1m2DY/UCy8QqeJi7I/AAAAAAAAAeE/u9Ha7Yp2ilI/s1600/cantucci.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ptl0Nu1m2DY/UCy8QqeJi7I/AAAAAAAAAeE/u9Ha7Yp2ilI/s400/cantucci.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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The first ever documentation on the recipe dates back to the 18th century where basically, a recipe was created and then stuck in a safe somewhere in Prato (Florence). Then in the 19th century a pastry chef, Antonio Mattei, discovered the recipe and kept everything pretty much the same. In 1867 he took the cooked biscuits to a show in Paris where he won a special, culinary prize! </div>
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So, culinary plagiarism of sorts created the biscuits, but it doesn't explain how they got from being known as "Biscotti di Prato" (biscuits of Prato) to Cantucci. </div>
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<b>It's all in the name of a shop! </b> </div>
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<div>
This is a bit like calling your child after the place where they were conceived, or who the doctor was the brought them to the world. Yes, the name for Cantucci actually comes from the name of a shop that sold the twice baked (because that's what Biscotti means, Bis - twice, cotti - cooked) goods. It was il signore Mattei himself who sold them under the pseudonym, Biscotti di Cantucci; a different type of biscuit all together, but because their popularity was decreasing and the Biscotti di Prato were so popular, people just naturally assumed they were the same thing! </div>
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So there we have it, the next time you are buying these treats from the deli, supermarket or in Florence, just remember, you are being sold Biscotti di Prato, re-branded as Cantucci because, it's just easier to say I guess. </div>
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As for the Vin Santo, that's something to do with monks. </div>
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ginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636765577927196115.post-79365127773517951672012-08-08T09:35:00.001+01:002012-08-08T09:36:35.032+01:00The hugging equation<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Ok, I think I've finally lost it, or maybe I've finally discovered something that will make all the difference to the world.<br />
<br />
Inspired by one man, I have, I believe, discovered what makes the "perfect hug".<br />
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<b>Arise Sir Steve! </b><br />
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The thing is, when Sir Steve Redgrave was chosen to be a pundit/expert/technical coach no one at the BBC had even contemplated the uniqueness of the 6'5 rowing legend. He has become the man that the BBC turn to for those big hugging moments. I can picture the producers now, screaming down the microphone; "Shit, where's Sir Steve? There's a bloody moment here where we can get a hug, live on TV... I DON'T GIVE A TOSS WHERE HE IS, GET HIM NOW" or something to that extent.<br />
<br />
The man has single-handedly changed the dynamics of social interaction on TV and now, the rest of the world.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z9V0K6oOQ5U/UCIkWfvMWnI/AAAAAAAAAds/c4EaR22qywk/s1600/sirsteve.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="281" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z9V0K6oOQ5U/UCIkWfvMWnI/AAAAAAAAAds/c4EaR22qywk/s400/sirsteve.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just look at the size of the man! PERFECT HUG EVERY TIME!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<b>The equation </b><br />
<br />
There are three key elements to a "perfect hug" then according to my visual, anecdotal analysis; <br />
<br />
1) Height difference. How tall are you, how tall is the person you are hugging. Fundamental, if the person is taller, guaranteed good start, if shorter, the next two must come into play.<br />
<br />
2) Size of 'levers'. Generally the longer, the better. Shorter armed folk don't try as hard.<br />
<br />
3) Weight. Put simply, is the person you are hugging/get hugged by, heavier than you?<br />
<br />
If all three elements are in favour of the hugger;<br />
<b><i>hd + l + w = Sir Steve Hug </i></b><br />
<div>
<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
<div>
Other equations include: </div>
<div>
<b><i>>hd + l + w = The "Tom Daley" </i></b></div>
<div>
<b><i>hd + >l + w = The "Sir Chris Hoy" </i></b></div>
<div>
<b><i>hd + l + >w = The "I can't think of a person, but have a go anyway" </i></b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And so on, and so on... And if you don't trust me, try it out with some friends, work colleagues etc, I guarantee if you have someone that meets the Sir Steve Hug, keep them close at all times. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>If you see Sir Steve... </b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
Give him a bloody big hug, or ask for one! </div>
</div>ginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636765577927196115.post-58378061394834893872012-08-05T12:14:00.001+01:002012-08-05T12:21:26.131+01:00Britishness is the key to the Olympics!I wasn't fused when London got the nod for the Olympics. I didn't, until the start of the games think London could deliver on the expectations that those who meticulously planned it think it could deliver. <br />
<br />
I was an anti Sebastian Coe individual. <br />
<br />
And yet, I am finding myself feeling a fool today. <br />
<br />
From the start these games have been about one thing, celebrating Britishness; and what a bloody good job of it they are doing. <br />
<br />
From Danny Boyle's opening ceremony which paid tribute to the NHS, and the export of Britains greatest asset, music, all through to the handing of the torch to another generation; there has not been one greater single event which can demonstrate getting it right when it counted. <br />
<br />
We've had the tears of joy to the tears of abject misery; athletes expected to fail, winning, and athletes expected to win; fail. <br />
<br />
And Britain, it's unique multiculturalism, the apparent "crap" that a Tory MP was so idiotic in tweeting, has been a real star. A Somali born runner, whose home became the UK, chose to run for GB. He chose to! A mixed race athlete who was deemed to be unsuitable for competition at a young age, stuck with it and wakes up Olympic champion this morning. Well done Jess! <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
You will have the naysayers, the people that instead of talking of sporting brilliance and the wave of emotion will look at how the men's football team went out on penalties, shaming one man in the process. The daily mail will write about "plastic Brits", but what do you expect from a xenophobic, celebrity obsessed, factually inaccurate paper, positivity and truth? <br />
<br />
The truth is, for every naysayer there are ten yay-Sayers. That's what Britain is, a plethora of diversity, and one that finds itself celebrating more than music and the health service today, but athletics and and champions elect. <br />
<br />
From an Italian, raised in the UK, I am but a Britalian at best, I guess That may anger the daily Mail elite, but I don't care. <div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-byXLVGyIVf4/UB5XM9hIgwI/AAAAAAAAAdU/R4GzHRj5ONU/s640/blogger-image--1523918289.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-byXLVGyIVf4/UB5XM9hIgwI/AAAAAAAAAdU/R4GzHRj5ONU/s640/blogger-image--1523918289.jpg" /></a></div>ginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636765577927196115.post-39698635961217474492012-07-23T10:58:00.000+01:002012-07-23T10:58:28.872+01:00Dear Bradders...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's an affectionate name that I have conjured for the man who made sporting history the other day. Bradley Wiggins, or Bradders to you and I, was quite simply, flawless.<br />
<br />
And the thing is, Bradders has done what Boardman couldn't achieve 20 years ago, or Hoy even four years ago. He's got people passionate about cycling, so much so that the proverbial band wagon that enshrines victory and something which John Terry can be seen jumping on at every occasion, really has been in full swing for the last few weeks and is set to run further into the Olympics.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9MzaYe7rFxk/UA0d3sPH75I/AAAAAAAAAdA/OrwP1UySFGg/s1600/_61737790_bradley_wiggins_new.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9MzaYe7rFxk/UA0d3sPH75I/AAAAAAAAAdA/OrwP1UySFGg/s400/_61737790_bradley_wiggins_new.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<b>Bollock ache...</b><br /><br />With my big... I can't even say it, "end of twenties" party just a few months away, my bike riding has never been great. I genuinely think that I still need stabiliser wheels, that my crash helmet is probably too bulky and that my attempt to make lycra look good was indeed, failure waiting to be noticed. <br /><br />The only way to get better is however spending more time on the bike, breaking that saddle that causes coccyx numbness and excuse the expression "bollock ache". <br /><br /><b>Look mum, no hands </b><br /><br />However I feel that my pursuit of this may have come to a point of fruition. You see, yesterday whilst watching the final stage I agreed to take part in a midnight bike ride this September from Manchester to Blackpool; the star attraction, seeing the illuminations, something I've not seen since I was 10. <br /><br />It's 52 miles, it's in pitch black, but I'll be with my mates, on a bike trying to achieve something for a good cause, and why not! <br /><br /><b>But it had me thinking</b><br /><br />There are so many things that I haven't done before my "end of twenties". I'm only left with a few months to achieve these things. For example, I've never climbed a tree. Admittedly when your mum effectively tells you "it's a sure fire way to meet god" it stops you dead in your tracks. <br /><br />I can't ride a bike with no hands, yes, no hands. Not even for a metre. I'm sounding like a complete geek/wuss but trust me there is something really not right about not holding onto a bike! I want to learn how to do that!<br /><br /><span style="background-color: white;">And there are loads of other things, so many I can't even remember, but I'm compelled to spend the next 2 and a bit months going all out and trying to achieve them. It may break me physically and financially, it may send me to the doolalee bin or something less worse.</span><br /><br /><span style="background-color: white;">The point is, I'm alive and currently, healthy. Before I start aching in places I never knew existed or regretting that I never did them, I think it's time I did.</span><br /><br /><span style="background-color: white;">So basically, Dear Bradders, thanks fella for winning the Tour, you have inspired me to get on a bike and climb a tree, better than that yellow jersey after all!</span></div>ginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636765577927196115.post-90824647666702450332012-07-19T14:04:00.000+01:002012-07-19T14:22:41.192+01:00(not) spitting in the eyes of the Neapolitans<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It seems my last post, all about food origin and tradition has struck a chord with some of my twitterati. (Is that even a word?) So much so, that the brilliant <a href="http://www.twitter.com/northernwrites">Chris King</a> (aka Northernwrites) <a href="http://www.northernwrites.co.uk/2012/07/tradition/">wrote a post analysing my argument of tradition and evolution of food</a>.<br />
<br />
Chris' point is a more articulated and better written piece on the subject.<br />
<br />
Effectively we are saying the same thing. Tradition would have us dictate and think that unless something is prepared using those original ingredients, it can't be classed as truly authentic. Case in point, "Bolognese" sauce, different to Ragu alla Bolognese. What we further agree on is this; just because it isn't classed as traditional doesn't mean that it can't be nice.<br />
<br />
That's where I think in some ways the Italians are unique. There seems to be a food snobbery, the Mr Darcy-ism that I so fondly talked about in the last post.<br />
<br />
<b>Pineapple on Pizza </b><span style="background-color: white;"><b><br /></b>Confession; I have eaten pineapple on pizza in the past. (The Neapolitan fatwah is now enacted). It wasn't amazing, it wasn't bad, it was different. It's not the first pizza I would ever choose to eat, it's not a cardinal sin to have eaten it. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LUhs4gvp9c4/UAgFZKDyMnI/AAAAAAAAAc0/nV1i9_SjaGE/s1600/hawaii.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LUhs4gvp9c4/UAgFZKDyMnI/AAAAAAAAAc0/nV1i9_SjaGE/s320/hawaii.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
So three years ago I hosted some friends for a "dinner party". We got onto the subject of Pizza, and how the Neapolitan pizza was immense etc etc. And then I started in trying to make a point, a point which ties in with the whole element of tradition and pizza wouldn't have pineapple on it. I didn't articulate well.<br />
<br />
In fact I went on a charge of "Pineapple on Pizza is atrocious" blah blah. Now, my friend who said fuck all, all night long interjects with "you've had pineapple on pizza before, actually more than once".<br />
<br />
Well, that was the mood killer. The point I was trying to make about it not being traditional, lost in one outing, and ever since I've been subjected to abuse by people who weren't even there.<br />
<br />
<b>Drive by Pineappling... </b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
I've had a pineapple left on my doorstep, Naples has been renamed Pi-Napoli, and any time the spiky bastard fruit is on special offer or at a market stand I get the good old nudge and "fancy some pineapple".<br />
<br />
Let's be clear, I don't love pineapple. I don't want to elope with the thing or really have it in my day to day life - unless I've eaten something which requires it's digestive properties. No, put simply, there are three or four people that keep bringing it up, all the time.<br />
<br />
So I ask, for the sake of sanity and all pineapple related joking, just please, please, let it drop. </div>ginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636765577927196115.post-58615167287675915962012-07-18T12:32:00.000+01:002012-07-18T12:32:35.114+01:00Pride and prejudice; the Bolognese dilemma<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>"Welcome to the land of the Bolognese sauce" </i>one man excitedly exclaimed as I entered a local Italian restaurant. For all the years of living in England, and dissecting the myth that Spaghetti Bolognese wasn't in fact Italian, it seems my work is far from over.<br />
<br />
It had me thinking though, should Italy now start taking credit for this dish? <br />
<br />
<b>Ragu alla Bolognese and a Neapolitan twist</b><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><b><br /></b>The Bolognese sauce that you know has got nothing to do with the Bolognese sauce that </span><i style="background-color: white;">probably</i><span style="background-color: white;"> inspired the dish. </span><br />
<br />
Firstly, the sauce is better known as Ragu alla Bolognese. Ragu comes from the French language (ragout) which is a sauce based on meat thickened with either tomatoes/onions/milk. As tomatoes were sparse in the region at the time, it seems that milk and onions were used more in the preparation, giving more of a bechamel sauce than anything else.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Secondly, the pasta associated with the region of Emilia Romagna, and in particular Bologna is tagliatelle. </span><span style="background-color: white;"><br /><br />And finally, spaghetti is a traditional dry pasta, and tomatoes hail from the same region, Campania. So the combination of a dry pasta and "main" ingredient from one region, with the preparation method of slow cooking meat into a sauce from another region has given us this whole dish. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /><b>It's a question of pride and prejudice </b></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1GjdeEjU6go/UAacKwWJYNI/AAAAAAAAAco/-pY_KBQVZlQ/s1600/spaghetti-bolognese.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1GjdeEjU6go/UAacKwWJYNI/AAAAAAAAAco/-pY_KBQVZlQ/s320/spaghetti-bolognese.jpg" width="319" /></a></div>
My cousin recently visited England, and at one Italian restaurant he ordered Spaghetti Bolognese. I warned him, I pleaded with him<i> "don't do it, but if you do, don't judge it"</i>. He enjoyed it, his comments however; <i>"well, you wouldn't eat something like that in Italy, but for over here it's nice"</i>. <br />
<br />
And there is maybe the problem. My cousin was suffering "il signor Darcy-ism", far too proud to say that something which didn't seem Italian on the surface, but was Italian in ingredients, preparation and essence, was essentially nice.<br />
<br />
Maybe that's the problem with Italian food mentality sometimes. If it's nice, if the heritage is Italian, then rather turning a nose to it, embrace it. Amazing that now I can research on Google Italy "Spaghetti alla Bolognese" recipes. Yes, all Italian ingredients, no Worcestershire sauce in sight.<br />
<br />
I mean, it's not as if I am claiming Dr Oetke pizza should be considered nice, or the real Italian thing.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>ginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636765577927196115.post-22914231777780886852012-07-07T09:32:00.000+01:002012-07-07T09:32:20.431+01:00Briscola, my cousin, Gianni Morandi<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"Do you want to play Briscola?" <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
These are six words which inflicts a paralysing fear into my body without much effort. I rarely accept the offer to play Briscola, for I know, humiliation is only minutes away. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>It's not talking to women or some religious thing</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's much worse. Briscola, for those of you who aren't aware, is a traditional Italian card game. Now how can I, a man who is an adrenalin junkie be scared of a card game you all wonder? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Put it this way, I don't have a clue how to play it. I have been taught over years, literally 20 + and I still don't have a clue what the game is about. To be honest, I genuinely think, someone is making up the rules on the spot. It's like a great big conspiracy, everyone against me. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Origins</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
The game that is most currently played today is more in line with the version that the Spaniards created in the 1500's. Before that however it is presumed to have come from France, where the word Brisque was the actual name of the game. Brisque means 'Old Soldier' and it was the elder soldiers who would take time out to play the game. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
However, the cards themselves and the style date back even further, to 500ad where in ancient Arabia these games were once again used by the military but to help strategise the armies. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
It's introduction into Italy seems to have happened through the region of Friulli Venezia Giulia, like with coffee, and it developed a life of it's own on the peninsula. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It seems, the game is actually simple, although I challenge you to understand it! There are 40 cards, two players take three cards each... I shouldn't really try to explain because I don't really know. But you can check it out <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Briscola">here</a>.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>My cousin, a game and Gianni Morandi... </b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
My cousin has been in England the last fortnight, yesterday he challenged me to a game. Whilst I refused, he coaxed me. He explained the rules for the thousandth time, at no point did I think this was going to end well. But something very strange to started to happen. Apparently I was winning, and by a good margin. My confidence grew, my cockiness with it. </div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white;">The problem is, I'm a bit of a gambling man, therefore any bet proposed on a winning streak will make me just say, yes. When the outcome of you losing a bet is to potentially perform a song on camera to take back and show Nonna, and now potentially the youtube world, that's when the brain should have stepped in and say, NO. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white;">It didn't. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
It seems dear friends, I was hustled. Hustled good. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So later today, I will be performing a Gianni Morandi favourite, because my cousin thought 'everyone likes Gianni Morandi'. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The moral of the story is, learn to play Briscola, learn it well, and never, ever, play with my family. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<iframe width="480" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/7eLBR4xQt_4" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
<br /></div>
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</div>ginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7636765577927196115.post-56069148325340027692012-06-22T14:09:00.000+01:002012-06-22T14:16:00.091+01:00Meu desafio Portugues!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So, remember that blog post a few months ago where I was going to see if I could learn Portuguese in 3 months, thanks to Hugo? I even said I'd write a piece in Portuguese to prove my ability... Well here is the abomination to the language I have come to rather enjoy and learn.<br />
<br />
Dear Portuguese friends, if you want to tare out your eyes (or mine) after reading this, please don't...<br />
<br />
Algun meses atras, creio Avril, i desafiou-me para apprender o Portugues, ou melhor, falar em Portugues basicas no tre mes. <br />
<br />
Meu motivos, aprender Portugues basicas para falar com pessoas quando eu ia participar de um corso de futbol a Cascais y Guincho.<br />
<br />
O futebol foi cancellado, porem eu continou a aprender, porque creio que o Portugues es um lingua muito linda. Tem muito similaridades com o Italiano e o Espanhol. Sabe que o meu Portugues nao es perfeito preciso praticar muito. Felizmente tenho o meu amigo Luis que recibe muito sms e <a href="http://www.twitter.com/MyBigCookies">tweet</a> e ele me incentivou a continuar, apesar de minhas habilidades terríveis!<br />
<br />
Sou capaz de pedir "onde mora?" e "qual e' o melhor esquina para...?" dois sentencas que sou muito importante ;) ah e "tenho fome, onde esta o pasteis?"<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u9BB-3QS4PU/T-Rt5HKeTuI/AAAAAAAAAcc/ojR3VIUbdjU/s1600/300px-MargaretCafe_PasteisDeNata.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u9BB-3QS4PU/T-Rt5HKeTuI/AAAAAAAAAcc/ojR3VIUbdjU/s1600/300px-MargaretCafe_PasteisDeNata.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A questão mais importante, onde estão os Pasteis</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Curiosamente eu descobri que os dias da semana nao tenho nom. Solamiente Sabado e Domingo. O otros dias tem "a segunda-feira" ecc. Aparentamente o motivo es algo a ver com a praga...<br />
<br />
Espero que pode continuar a falar e practicar o meu Portugues e um dia escrever e post original e espirituoso no meu novo idioma encontrado; Até então, Forca Portugal e até mesmo você, homem de cabelos lisos, CR7!<br />
<br />
P.s. I apologise for all grammar e vocabulary mistakes, go easy on me!<br />
<br /></div>ginodbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08534348237563462705noreply@blogger.com0