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Cooking with Wine

Jan3

The bus moved along quickly, despite Rome’s busy and sometimes winding, narrow streets. The cooking class Tammie and I had signed up for was several blocks from our Airbnb apartment. After riding for what seemed to me a long time, my daughter finally turned to me and nodded. Our stop was coming up.

Even before the bus lurched to a stop, we were on our feet moving toward the exit, clutching the handrails. When the bus pulled away a moment later, I looked around and asked, “Where is this cooking school we’re going to?” Tammie studied the instructions on her phone and motioned toward the end of the street, saying, “We have to walk a block or two.”

Hot, late afternoon sunshine beat down mercilessly on us as we approached a shaded street corner. Next to it was a large, multi-street intersection. My daughter urged, “Come on, Mom. We need to cross here, now. The traffic light is in our favor.” A tall cement wall on the other side of the street looked like it was holding back one of Rome’s famous seven hills. In the wall was an opening, and as we approached, I realized that it was a steep stairway with weeds growing out of cracks.

At the top of the stairs, we found an unremarkable city street lined with dingy buildings. Two men were leaning against the top of the wall smoking cigarettes. One of them motioned toward the first doorway and informed us, “If you’re here for the class, go right in.” I glanced around, looking for a sign or some other way that would indicate we were in the right place. Seeing none, I felt uneasy and unsure of myself.

Opening the door, I was surprised to find myself in a large, well-equipped kitchen. A man greeted us and escorted us past a dining room with a long table set for a dinner party to a small living room. There were six people already there sipping wine and making small talk. Our guide disappeared as introductions revealed one couple was from Chicago and the other two couples were from Newfoundland. The man returned and handed Tammie and me glasses of white, sparking wine. He noted that it was, “Prosecco.”

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Away in a Manger

Dec20

Sister Florence looked ancient. All we could see of her body were her hands and face, since everything else was covered with her flowing robe, starched wimple and veil. Her hands and face were very wrinkled. Sister Florence seemed especially old, because in the last few years, most of the new sisters assigned to our school convent were very young. Sister Donna, my first-grade teacher, looked no older than my sister who had just graduated from college.

Sister Florence’s advanced age prompted my third-grade class to speculate on whether she would possibly retire soon. By the beginning of November, it appeared that all the scary stories and rumors about Sister weren’t true. She wasn’t mean, wasn’t on the verge of having a nervous breakdown, nor likely to drop dead from old age during classes.

Sister Florence turned out to be kind. When we had our first snowfall that year, we were excited and couldn’t concentrate. She sighed but then instructed, “All of you go stand by the windows for a few minutes to watch the falling snow. When you sit back down, I want your full attention.”

Another example of her kindness occurred while a new convent for the sisters was being built next to our school that year. When the construction crew lifted the cross to its roof with a crane, she told us to watch, saying, “You’ll remember this all your life.”

On the last day of November, my class and I entered the classroom after recess to discover small, open-topped boxes with our names on them lined up on a blackboard eraser shelf. Hushing our whispering, Sister Florence unnecessarily explained, “Christmas is coming.”  

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Choosing What to Remember

Dec6

Sitting at the dining table at our Airbnb apartment in Rome, I took a sip of hot tea and commented, “You won’t be able to top what we experienced yesterday!”

Chuckling, my daughter took a nibble of a Nutella cookie and admitted, “That’s true! How could anything top our meeting Pope Francis and shaking his hand?”

Spreading strawberry jelly on a cracker, I confessed, “While waiting for our turn to meet the Pope, I kept thinking about the nursery rhyme that goes, ‘Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been? I’ve been down to London to see the Queen. Pussycat, pussycat, what did you there? I scared a mouse under her chair’. Only for us, the rhyme would go, ‘Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been? I’ve been down to Rome to see the Pope. Pussycat, Pussycat, what did you there? I shook the hand of the Pope, with excitement hard to bear.’”

Blowing on her tea to cool it, Tammie agreed, “We were lucky little pussycats to have that experience yesterday! Our visiting the Vatican Museum and the Sistine Chapel today won’t be as exciting, but I’m looking forward to it.” Proud to have planned so well, Tammie bragged, “We won’t have to stand in long lines. The tour will allow us to go, see, and leave. I’m also hoping to be the first tourists of the day to visit the Sistine Chapel and it won’t be crowded.”

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Castel Sant’ Angelo

Nov29

Leaning against a bridge rail, I squinted up the Tiber River towards Saint Peter’s Basilica. It was drenched in early August morning sunshine practically glowing in contrast to the blue sky and Rome’s iconic, green, balloon pine trees. Along the river, halfway between the bridge where I stood, and the Vatican, was a large cylindrical stone building. Pointing, I questioned, “What is that big, round, stone building to our right?”

The pilgrimage guide standing next to me offhandedly commented, “Oh, that’s Castel Sant’ Angelo. There’s a passageway between it and the Vatican. When barbarians sacked Rome, it was used as an escape route for Popes. We won’t be visiting it on this pilgrimage.” Then, looking around he called out to my fellow pilgrims, “Let’s cross the bridge. The Pantheon isn’t much further.”

A Pope needing to escape from frenzied, pillaging Vandals intrigued me. I loved the idea of the Vatican having a secret passageway to the safety of a castle fortress! Unfortunately, my curiosity wasn’t satisfied during that trip.

Ten years later, my daughter Tammie asked me if I would travel to Rome with her. When I said yes, she ordered, “Tell me what you want to see there, and I’ll make it happen.”

My answer was, “I want to see everything, and this time that includes what’s inside Castel Sant’ Angelo.”

Tammie made good on her promise. On our third day in Italy, we visited the fortress along the Tiber River. In English it is known as the Castle of the Holy Angel. The history of this site dates to 135 A D, when the Roman Emperor Hadrian built a mausoleum there for himself.

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Unexpected Blessing

Nov22

“Tomorrow, we’re going to attend the Wednesday Papal audience in Saint Peter’s Square,” Tammie announced. “This evening we need to pick up tickets to attend. They’re free, but we need to have them.”

Tammie and I had just returned to our Airbnb apartment and felt totally exhausted. The effects of traveling a long distance and walking more than we were accustomed to doing during the last four days had taken their toll on us. As we stepped into the air-conditioned kitchen I asked, “Can we do that later? I want to lay down on the bed to rest.”

Nodding, my daughter admitted, “I want to rest, too. The idea of walking four blocks to the Vatican right now doesn’t appeal to me, either.”

The sky was darkening for night when Tammie commented, “We rested too long. Now it’s too late to get the tickets. We’ll just have to get up early tomorrow morning and get them then.”

The next morning, the dark shadows of night were reluctantly leaving the streets as we reached the entrance of Saint Peter’s Square. Eyeing a tremendously long line of people already lining the nearby blocks, I whispered to Tammie, “It’s only 7:45 in the morning! I can’t believe there are so many people here already! The Papal audience doesn’t begin until 9:00 am!”

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Refreshing Spirits

Nov15

Italian ambulance sirens make a peculiar wailing sound. One raced past our Airbnb apartment as I awoke that Tuesday morning. To my surprise, my daughter Tammie was already awake, uploading and labeling pictures she’d taken the day before. Slipping out of bed, I brushed my teeth and washed my face before going to the kitchen to fry eggs for our breakfast.

            Tammie came into the kitchen and sat down at the table. Pouring two cups of black tea, I commented, “For breakfast we only can have one fried egg apiece, a small wedge of spicy sausage and fresh grapes,” My daughter nodded her approval. Our shopping trip the day before hadn’t turned out the way we had planned. The half dozen eggs we purchased at a market fell on the sidewalk. Four of the eggs broke. Spicy sausage turned out to be so full of red pepper that eating anything more than a bite or two burned our mouths.

Placing breakfast on the table, I sat down and questioned, “What does my tour guide have on schedule for today?”

My daughter thanked me for making breakfast and announced, “I’ve arranged for us to join a tour of the Pantheon. We’ll get on a city bus in about half an hour and it’ll take us within a few blocks of where we want to go.” 

A cloudless sky and a bright sun greeted us as we left the apartment. We didn’t have to wait long for the bus, but I felt fortunate to stand under the shade of a small tree. All the seats on the bus were taken, but when we boarded, two people stood up and offered their seats to us. Surprised, grateful, and slightly embarrassed, I sat down.

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Left in the Dark

Nov8

I turned out the bedside light and lay in the dark listening to the murmur of customers talking, and the clink of silverware against china as they dined at La Soffitta Renovatio, the restaurant located directly located below our Airbnb bedroom windows in Rome. My daughter Tammie and I had just returned from having a meal there. We shared a stuffed and fried zucchini blossom appetizer. Then I ordered a risotto with baby squid, which I loved. Tammie enjoyed a dish made with long bucatini noodles in a red sauce with pepper flakes and guanciale.

It felt so good to stretch out to rest on the queen-sized memory foam mattress. Traveling from Minnesota to Italy had been exhausting. The sound of sirens from ambulances and police cars regularly punctuated the quiet sounds of the sidewalk diners as I drifted off to sleep.

            The sun was shining when I woke. Instead of staying in bed, I jumped up to take a closer look at the apartment. Flat screened televisions hung on the bedroom and living room walls, but all the stations were Italian. In the kitchen, I found a small refrigerator, dishwasher, microwave, and a two-burner induction stove. Above the sink, I found plates, bowls, and silverware in a drawer. The expresso maker I didn’t care about, but wished I had a tea bag when I saw the electric kettle.

            My daughter suggested, “Why don’t we walk to the open-air market that’s nearby and get a few groceries so we can make breakfast and maybe a meal or two?”

            Sticking to the shady side of the streets as much as we could, we enjoyed window shopping, people watching and admiring blossoms on trees and shrubs along the way. As we walked, leg muscles that I hadn’t used much since I retired began to object. At the market, we bought eggs, salami, grapes, and a small bottle of wine. The hot Italian sun burned our skin as we walked back to the apartment.

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Stepping into the Sunlight

Nov1

With a jaw tightly clenched, I determinedly maneuvered my wheeled luggage away from the subway car where moments before, a pickpocket had tried to help themselves to the contents of my purse. I was tired and my feet hurt so badly, all I wanted to do was sit down. The journey my daughter Tammie and I embarked on yesterday afternoon seemed to have no end.

I left the subway behind with relief and struggled up the stairway with my luggage to the city sidewalk. I had no idea what time of day it was. In Wisconsin it would be early Sunday morning. Here, in Rome, it was late Sunday afternoon. I spent two days enclosed in metal airplanes, train compartments, and crowded terminals. The minute I stepped out into the sunlight, I took a deep breath of fresh air and smiled.

Tammie found a bench and sat down, saying, “Let’s sit and rest for a while.” All too soon, my daughter stood up and ordered, “Follow me.”

Doing my best to guide my wheeled luggage over bumps, ridges on the sidewalks and the cobble stone street corners, I questioned, “How do you know where to go? You’ve never been here before.”

Wheeling her luggage along with little difficulty, Tammie confessed, “I’ve virtually walked the streets of this neighborhood several times recently, using Google Satellite to become familiar with it.”

Ridges on the sidewalk made my wheeled luggage almost tip. I complained, “The wheels on my suitcase are acting like the balky wheels on a shopping cart. Why do all the street corner sidewalks have these ridges?”

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Leaving on a Jet Plane

Oct25

Tammie took this picture when we were on the train to Rome. I was tired, but she said I looked “Perky”.

Our plane wasn’t scheduled to take off until later in the afternoon. My daughter Tammie justified the wait by explaining, “If there’s a delay in getting checked in, we’ll still be able to board the airplane on time.” I nodded my understanding.

The building we’d just stepped into was huge and there were hundreds of people moving around, checking in, and dropping off luggage. Tammie pulled out her passport and placed it face down on the screen of a check-in kiosk. It recognized her, and immediately spit out a luggage label and her boarding pass. She instructed, “Now give me your passport.”

I’ve taken three pilgrimages to Europe since 2013. But on those trips, there had always been a tour coordinator who set the schedule and made the necessary arrangements for accommodations and activities. This was my first non-pilgrimage international trip. My daughter Tammie was the coordinator this time. She had bought our airline tickets, rented an Airbnb apartment, and scheduled tours.

Leaving on a jet plane isn’t something I look forward to doing because I’m not a good traveler. I get motion sick easily, my ears ache from changing air pressure, and I dislike being seat-belted in a crowded vehicle for hours on end.

Before boarding a plane, each passenger must go through security where all bags, purses, shoes, and electronics are X-rayed. Then the traveler stands in a scanner. When it was my turn, the alarm went off. Pulled over to one side, a TSA agent gave me a very through pat-down. After walking away, I whispered to Tammie, “Expect this to happen every time I’m scanned. I think my knee replacement sets the machine off.”

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When in Rome

Sep20

When I was a child, I loved listening to the radio when Dean Martin sang, “That’s Amore”.

The sun wanted to burn me to a crisp. Quickly gathering as many ground cherries as I could, I hurried into the shady, coolness of the farmhouse. In the kitchen, I dumped my golden treasure onto the table and sat down to take their husks off.

As usual, Mom’s ever-playing radio on the counter was tuned to WDLB, our local station. The DJ announced, “And for all you tender-hearted lovers, here’s ‘Sukiyaki’.” I loved this Japanese song despite not understanding a single word. The tenderness of how it sounded touched my fourteen-year-old heart. At one point the singer whistles the song’s tune. It sounded so beautiful. I wished I knew how to whistle.

From upstairs, Mom’s voice floated down to me, “Kathy, come up here and try on the dress I’m sewing for you.”

When I got upstairs, Mom was still guiding material under the rapidly moving sewing machine needle. I asked, “Mom, can you teach me how to whistle?”

Pulling the material out from under the needle and cutting the thread, Mom turned to me and commented dourly, “Crowing hens and whistling women always come to a bad end.”

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