From Heartbreak to Heartburn!

If you read my third post, you realize I truly love everything Italian-especially Italian cuisine.  I must take after my Great Aunt Sally, who we nicknamed G.A.S, which stands for her initials, not her intestinal system.

Great Aunt Sally 1968

G.A.S. always cooked Italian and grew her own tomatoes in front of her apartment building in Brentwood, California. They were the most robust tomatoes I had ever seen.  Red, round, plump-Perfect for homemade pasta sauce.  I’m sure I must take after her or somewhere in my gene pool there were intermarriages between Jews and Italians because my main diet is Italian food. Just give me garlic, onions, olive oil and fresh basil, and I’m simply in heaven.  Not that I don’t love chocolate, but there’s something scintillating to the senses when sautéing the above ingredients. 

Her husband, my Great Uncle Morey-affectionately known as G.U.M. -had no idea what chicken soup with matzah balls was, chopped liver, knadelach or other Jewish treats because she only cooked Italian.  That was her thing.

I’ve had this <ahem> sort of reputation for cooking…badly.  It really wasn’t my fault that I almost burned down two kitchens and my brother ended up with food poisoning. 

My brother has always been super skinny, much to his dismay.  So, one summer when I was visiting him in California, I decided it was my mission to help him gain weight.  Keep in mind I was a teenager with a big heart and zero knowledge about anything kitchen-ish. My entrée was:  Cottage cheese with fruit.  Like how would I know that’s what you eat when you’re on a diet?  Anyway, after I looked at the bowl of white cellulite and chunks of fruit, I thought, How boring!  Immediately I took out food coloring and decorated his dinner.  When he came home later that night, I proudly presented my first home cooked meal for him.  His face dropped.  I looked into the bowl and saw that the colors ran together, looking more like mold than anything made for human consumption.

That was the last meal I cooked for him.  Ever since then, I’ve had this reputation to live down. 

It didn’t help that my dad couldn’t cook, either.  The day after we had this incredible lobster dinner-again, I was a teenager so don’t judge me too harshly, I decided to make lobster salad with the left-overs.  Not knowing how many minutes I needed to cook a hard boiled egg , I ended up breaking into the shells too early with gooey yellow yolk running down my arms. By the time I used up 18 eggs, I finally got it right and the rest as they say is history.  Unfortunately, mine.

Every Mother’s Day, my dad would don himself in a chef’s apron and hat, walk out to the backyard with arms filled with hamburgers and buns, tongs, lighter fluid and coal.  He’d march over to the Hibachi grill and get it good and hot. My mother had prepared brisket meat into round, plump shapes ready to be cooked by my father.  Dad carefully arranged the meat on the grill and immediately mashed, mutilated and basically destroyed the food with a spatula, removing every trace of fat and juice. When they were burned and black, he removed them and placed each one carefully on a bun and with a look of contentment, served us a Mother’s day lunch we’d never forget…or be able to eat.  I grew up thinking grilled hamburgers should look like a hockey puck.  What did I know?   All I can say in my defense, is that I can’t deny genetics.

Fast forward twenty years…Okay, I admit, I’m a slow learner…but when I finally get it…you get it good.  And I mean that in a good way.  So, over the last two decades when it came to cooking, I always prepared something Italian for friends and family. Until one day.

One of my Indian clients was cooking something aromatic and I went crazy.  I’ve never had a sense of smell and all of a sudden, my olfactories were working over time.  I begged for the recipe and the following week, she handed over her prize possession: her mother’s recipe for Moglai Chicken.

It was to die-for.  Literally.

I want to share the recipe with you, but I must caution you to read my next post before attempting this! 

You’ve been warned!

<<<Broken  C diminished chord running up the piano keyboard in the background

creating suspense and drama>>>

Love is in the Air

What could be more romantic than walking at night through a fine mist of drizzling rain in the Piazza San Marco in Venice?

Sweethearts stroll arm in arm; lovers steal kisses in the shadows.  The gentle soft rocking of gondolas nearby is a rhapsody, playing all night long.

Venezia…the city of love. The city that captured my heart.

Having suffered many sad days at sea alone on my honeymoon, I was finally reborn in Venice.  Wearing a little red dress to lift my spirits, Venice became my new lover.  I found my smile and joie de vivre and then a handsome stranger found me.

A young couple that I met on the ship saw me wandering around Piazza San Marco and invited me for drinks.  We sat at a table for four and ordered sinfully delicious Italian pastries and wine.  An orchestra playing Duke Ellington tunes serenaded us.  The conversation ebbed back and forth and as we became acquainted, I didn’t notice a gentleman was being seated next to us.

He tapped my shipmate on the shoulder.  “Where did you buy your cigar?  I’d love to have one with my cognac.”

Men!  I gulped my dessert wine, resolved to smell like Eau de Cigar.

Glancing up, our eyes locked. He was gorgeous. And I was suddenly spellbound. 

“I didn’t really want a cigar,” he confessed.  “I wanted to meet you.”  He looked  at the empty chair next to mine.  So,where’s your husband?”

Tears flowed as I told him my sad story.

“That guy made a huge mistake. Lucky me!”

A flower vendor was passing by with a wicker basket filled with colorful roses.  The tall handsome stranger bought all three dozen and gave them to me.  Cradled in my arms, we walked arm in arm through the plaza. Love was in the air. And an exciting romance was in full bloom.

Lady in Red

I was in bed fast asleep when I was awakened by the ship’s Captain’s voice over the intercom: This is your Captain wishing you a good morning.  We will be cruising into Venice at 10 am.  Be on deck 17 to witness our grand entrance into the city of love.

City of Love! Who cares, I thought, pulling the sheet over my head to cocoon myself from being inVenice-Alone, Heartbroken and Depressed.

I didn’t have this same feeling of dread in Florence, Naples or the other Mediterranean cities as I tried to forget my break-up. But this was different.  I was in Venice on my honeymoon, alone. It was too much for me to bear.

I exhaled wearily.  Running away to the Mediterranean and being alone on a ship with more than 3,000 people was indescribably lonely.  The ship was filled with honeymooners and the chapel was bustling with love-birds making promises to love each other for a lifetime everyday at sea.  And as my luck would have it, the chapel was located right next door to the computer room…so, everyday when I sent an email home, I had to walk by the chapel, see the happy couples and face the inevitable:  everyone was happy, in love and getting married-everyone except me.  Even the empty chair next to mine in the dining room was a constant harsh reminder that I was alone with a group of happy couples in love.

I sat up in bed and looked out the window and suddenly realized that love is real-I was surrounded by it daily.  And that was a good thing.  It gave me hope. And with that epiphany, I leapt out of bed, determined to embrace my life and new future.  No more pity party.  I had a life to live and I wanted it to begin in Venice.

After I showered, I put on enough make-up to cover a continent and puffy eyes and slipped into a va-va-va-voom outfit.  I was in Venice!  In a red dress!  And I was going to find my smile, once and for-all.

I raced to the top deck and entered the city of love and enchantment, in a red spandex dress and new outlook on life.  I squeezed in between hundreds of passengers to stand by the railing and see Venice from a bird’s eye view-something most people will never see by land. Tear-drop size rain drizzled delicately over us and a light mist covered the city.

Over the intercom, Andrea Bocelli’s beautiful tenor voice began singing in Italian “Time to Say Goodbye.” Tears flowed down my cheeks. The song touched my heart and changed me profoundly.

I suppose it’s all about perception-the glass ½ empty or the glass ½ full---it just depends upon who’s pouring and who’s drinking.  And so, on the balcony, I said goodbye to the past and welcomed the future.  Who knew that night, I’d meet a tall, dark handsome man in San Marco Square who would capture my heart and bring a smile to my face.

That's Amore!

I just love, love, love everything Italian:  Italian history, the language, music, art, archeology, and of course: clothing, shoes, purses and accessories. But most especially~ I just love, love, love the men. They are so handsome and charming that even if they insulted you,  saying in Italian, “You’re fat, ugly and your breath smells like onions!” you’d swoon as you looked into the dark eyes of the charismatic man of the Mediterranean whose romance language made you feel drop dead gorgeous!

So, if you say Italy, what do I think of first?  MEN!

Okay…then what’s the second thing? 

If you say pasta~ I say without hesitation-Al Dente. Just the thought of it gives me indigestion!  Even though I love, love, love everything Italian, indigestion is not one of them.  To the tooth does not translate well to the stomach.  What’s their hurry to serve hard Spaghetti a la Bolognese? I’m dining al fresco-not al dente!  

After years of eating to the tooth, they must have developed a world-class digestive system…after all, they date back to the Etruscans. 

Antacid, anyone?

Have Ticket~Will Travel

Sometimes I feel like a priest, albeit a Jewish female priest, because people share intimate experiences with me.  All I do is say hello, and they unburden.  I’m sure I’m a good listener, although, I’m equally sure my family would disagree.  I’ve finished their sentences and interrupted them for years.  But listening to a stranger is different.  I don’t know h/her story.  It’s all new-An aural adventure.

When I say Venice…what comes to mind?  I close my eyes on the airplane as people are boarding, contemplating gondolas, vaparetti, the pungent aroma of garlic and olive oil at cafés, listening to jazz in the evening in St. Mark's Square, Murano and Burano Island. Venice-The most romantic city in the world.

An overweight passenger jolts me and my fantasy as he nearly falls into my lap.

“Sorry,” he says embarrassed.  “My name is Tim, and I survived cancer.”

Geez, cancer!  I don’t even say the word aloud.  If it must be said at all, I say it in hushed, dulcet tones.  Frankly, I prefer to refer to it as the “BIG C”...to ward off the evil eye.  When I think of Venice and strolling over bridges, meandering around the ancient island…I certainly don’t think: Cancer.

Poof! My images of romance are evaporated with that one word.  What does one say? “Hi, I’m Heidi.  Congratulations on surviving cancer.  I’m going to Venice.”

I turn my iPod on, touch Andrea Bocelli’s name and with closed eyes, I am transformed by music and imagination.

Hopefully on the second leg of my trip from Dallas to New York, before flying to the city of love, the island of enchantment, my fellow passenger won’t be sharing anything more than a bag of peanuts with me.

Cruising in Crisis

The first time I was in Venice, I was on my honeymoon.  Alone.

Weeks before my wedding, my fiance got a case of cold feet.  So cold it would have ended Global Warming once and for all.  So, what do I do?  My dreams were shattered.  My future was stripped away without a reason.

I could remain in Tucson in the sweltering heat of the summer or take the depression to the Mediterranean.  Let the Italians deal with it.  It was a no-brainer.

Most people plan a cruise a year ahead of time, planning and saving for a great vacation.  But not me.  I cruise in crisis.

I called my travel agent.  "Get me out of here!" I pleaded.  And so she did.  As luck would have it, there was only one room left on the ship which was leaving within days.  With bikini in hand, I exhaled a sigh of relief. 

So, when my trip to Italy this summer was planned, I was delighted to replace sad memories with a heart full of love and new tattletales from abroad.