Fail: No Swedish Dip This Year

This lake was freezing, but it does not count.

I really, really hate to admit this, as it truly shows how slack my moral fiber has become after so many plush months of living in Europe, but this Thanksgiving I did not plunge into a cold body of water, as I have done for the past nine Thanksgivings of my life.

To back up, The Swedish Dip started when I was a junior in highschool, a formidable year for me when I also founded the Swedish Culture Club and succesfully completed a personal challenge to wear shorts to school for a whole year. That Thanksgiving, I decided to give the Holiday a festive, Scandinavian twist by completing what I called a "Swedish Dip": I built up significant body heat by running several miles and jumped in our swimming pool, which usually measures about fifty degrees fareinheit that time of year.

The Swedish Dip was so popular with me that I did it again next Thanksgiving. And the Thanksgiving after that. And after that, and so on. The tradition has carried on for nine years. I get warm, sometimes by playing soccer, riding bikes with my Dad, or just shooting hoops in our backyard, then I plunge in the pool, take a warm shower, and have a nap. It really makes for a great day.

But this year, I am living in Northern Italy where they do not know about Thanksgiving or The Swedish Dip. Being in a program with a dozen or so other Americans, we of course organized our own Thanksgiving dinners, but the day did not feel the same. We had to go to class, businesses were open as usual, and no one played touch football or watched an oversized, inflated Charlie Brown navigate the streets of New York. At dinner, we could not even confirm that we had eaten turkey. The bird had been purchased already cut into pieces by the butcher and tasted suspiciously of goose.

Because the day itself did not feel like a proper Thanksgiving, I did not feel the impetus to find a freezing body of water and jump into it (although I considered my options: the river close to our campus, irrigation ditches, sneaking into the outdoor pool which is closed for the winter, or skipping class to ride my bike to the nearest lake).

And again, because the day did not feel like Thanksgiving, I felt no sense of regret for ditching such a proud and storied tradition.

But later that night, once we had eaten plates of what we hoped was turkey, stuffing, potatoes, creamed corn, brussel sprouts, truffled mac n cheese, and cardoons stewed in tomato sauce (made by an Italian) and once we went around the table and shared what we were thankful for, I felt a sharp pang of regret. Now it was Thanksgiving, and it actually felt like Thanksgiving, and I had to find some cold water and throw myself into it. I got up from the table and tried to spot a nearby fountain from the balcony. They dont have fountains in our town, but if they did, no doubt I would have jumped in.

Instead, I resigned to failure. The Swedish Dip did not happen this year, and I had to give up my dream of a flawless consecutive record of dips. My only consolation will be planning the next Swedish Dip, an important dip, the 10th dip in history, a dip that will require custom t-shirt(s), and a dip that will occur in the right place: my own home, with some of my family watching (I can usually get one or two to come outside), and my little sister taking pictures.

Until then, I hang my head, and admit that Europe has made me a little bit of a sissy.

Bad Things I've Eaten: Five Course Lunches

As students of food, we have to be critical of our eating experiences, especially on our study trips. Even during the bus trips, stopping at Autogrill for coffee and pee-breaks can provide insight into Italian food culture (Personally, I love watching Italians standing around small counters and high tables to sip espresso and eat sandwiches at these rest stops. They take refreshment with a jauntiness and gusto you just dont find at a McDonalds along i-5 in the stinking middle of California).

Every time we eat provides an opportunity to think critically about food and culture. Our recent trip to Umbria provided an intense array of these opportunities, and I come away with these criticisms:

Almost everyday of the trip, our class sat down to a four or five course lunch. Sometimes we did lunch and dinner, which meant four to five courses, twice in one day, and as many as ten plates of food (sometimes more) within six or seven hours.

These meals displayed the wealth of Umbrian cuisine and the warmth of our hosts hospitality. But truly, this hospitality needs enlightenment. These big meals need tweaking.

Bold Tuscan Cigars provide mild relief for an uncomfortably full stomach.

When eating multiple courses, one has to trust that the chef has orchestrated the courses in such a way that one dish leads to the next, flavors intensify or increase in depth and complexity as the meal goes on, and most importantly, the diner has to trust that the chef has considered how much a human being can comfortably eat in one sitting.

In Umbria, we were shown no such consideration.

Instead, when served a plate, we were also given a dare. This bowl of lentils, drizzled with bright green, "new" olive oil tastes delicious: nutty, earthy lentils spiked with peppery, grassy, fragrant oil. But, the same bowl of lentils could be your undoing if you eat the whole thing. There could be pasta, meat or fish, more vegetables, and dessert to come. Go ahead, eat all the lentils. "I dare you," says the chef.

Perhaps you resist, nibble at the lentils, soak up the precious olive oil with a crust of bread, and manage to stay strong through course one. Then comes the pasta, one of the best pastas you have ever tried or can at least remember. Rigatoni: cooked to a perfect, toothsome al dente with homemade pork sausage, fresh cheese, and black pepper. Again, the chef says "I dare you." This could be the best pasta you ever eat in your life. Surely, you are dying to finish the whole bowl, gather up the remaining sauce with a piece of bread, throw down your napkin, and leave Italy a changed man, but you still have no clue what comes after the pasta.

After the pasta, there is meat, or fish, or pork, served with roasted potatoes, mashed potatoes, vegetables. After this, they mock us with dessert and offer us coffee, like offering a cigarette to a man walking out to face the firing squad. Why even bother with the coffee? As if any us stand a chance of doing anything remotely productive with the rest of the day.


I hate to complain about being served so much amazing food, but the experience provides important lessons to chefs, hosts, restauranteurs, or anyone who has to plan a meal for other people: first, the chef has to think not only as a cook, but as a eater. Too many chefs think, "I could cook that, then cook that, and cook that...", but never ask, "Could I eat that? and then that? and then that?" I doubt any of these chefs could have finished all of their meals. Second, these long, multi-course meals aim to show off the skills of the chef and the delicous products of the region, but by serving so much, in the end, no one dish or ingredient ever has the chance to truly shine. Even if the chef serves the best roasted pork any one has ever tried, it will not taste good if the guests are already stuffed with beans and pasta.

Quite simply, less is more. The more these cooks served us, the less we could truly appreciate. End of criticism.

Good Things I've Eaten: Luca Parigi (my roommate) vs. Michelin Starred Piemontese Chef (Davide Palluda)

I came to Italy to learn more about Italian food and to eat lots and lots of it. Until now, I can still maintain that I've learned the most about Italian food by having an Italian roommate (A very passionate, opinionated, food-obsessed Tuscan). Luca, my roommate, has taught me all kinds of crucial tips, like using rosemary to season squash, how to make perfect bruschetta, or to add course salt by the handful to the pasta cooking water, and then to add a few tablespoons of the salty, glutinous cooking water to the pasta when it comes time to serve it.

And as a student of Food Culture and Communication, I've gone on trips all over Italy: we've been to the North and the South, the seaside, wine country, and the mountains. We've eaten from street vendors and in fancy restaurants. Still, most of the best meals I've had this year have been cooked in my own apartment, with Luca at the helm, giving his guidance, his palate, and the final word on when enough salt is enough, when the pasta is properly cooked, and if the risotto needs more butter.

So, in this entry of Good Things I've Eaten, I stack one of Luca's best meals against the best Italian restaurant food I've tried.

1.Luca's Peposo We have an answer to the cold, gray Piemontese winter: braised meat. On a crisp, gray Saturday this October we brought home a piece of tough braising meat the size of a two-month old baby and Luca knew exactly what to do. We stopped at the spice store for some black peppercorns, Luca donned his apron, sharpened his cleaver and went to work.
After three glorious hours of waiting, smelling the meat braise away in red wine and crushed whole peppercorns, and watching every window in the apartment steam over, Luca finally declared the meat was done.
Then we served up bowls of warm polenta and Luca's Peposo. The meat was tender and the sauce silky and unctuous with all the gelatin released by the broken down connective tissue. And the copious crushed and whole black peppercorns that give the dish its name, lent a clean, bright spicy note to cut through the richness of the stew.
This was real Italian food. Truly satisfying, simple, prepared with care, and specific to a region and tradition. I got dinner and a tasty, concise lesson on Italian food culture that night.

2. The "Sorpresa" Tasting Menu, Risorante all"Enoteca I've only eaten a few fancy tasting menus in my life, but sometimes the sheer number of dainty plates can water down the experience, as memorable flavors and presentations get lost in the relentless onslaught of perfect, beautiful, delicious food.
I can remember every dish served at all'Enoteca.
And two plates stick out. First: cod steamed with fresh herbs and served with tomatoes, eggplant, and zucchini. And second: fresh pasta stuffed with creamy raschera cheese, served with shaved white truffles and butter.
These two dishes are bold in their simplicity. In this first, the chef elevated humble ingredients by cooking and seasoning each element to absolute perfection. The tomato tasted exactly how a tomato should taste, he teased out every potential for flavor in the small wedge of eggplant, and every other vegetable reached its full potential as they worked together with the flaky, dense fish to create five or six very different but cohesive bites (the plates are small here). In the second dish, the chef took on the challenge of one of the world's most precious ingredients, and he nailed it. He respected the quality of his white truffles by giving them a simple backdrop of pasta stuffed with mild cheese. The pasta had a pleasant chewiness, the cheese inside had just enough bite to not be boring, and the truffles and butter that took on their flavor were given free reign over the dish. After this course, I could truly say that I had eaten white truffles from Alba.

In kitchen stadium, I think Davide Palluda would beat Luca Parigi. Invite the Michein starred chef into our apartment to cook us dinner, he wouldn't stand a chance. We eat pretty well over here.

Good Things I Have Eaten Entry #3: American Hops

On the first week of class after summer break, we did two days of beer class. With lectures in the mornings and tastings in the afternoons, we summed up a whole world of beer in twelve hours of class.

I learned a lot about the brewing process and the different styles and traditions of beer making.

I had always thought that I love all beer rather equally, but actually, I learned that I don't love beer itself, I love the hops in beer. Monks in the middle ages discovered that hops (bitter, green, cone-shaped flowers) help preserve beer and provide a pleasant bitterness and balance to the final product.

English and American styles of beer tend to go heavy on the hops, but not all hops are created equal. Different varieties of hops have decidedly different aromas and lend very different flavors to the beers. English hops tend to be spicy and reminiscent of Indian food, and English Ales, although interesting, in general don't taste that good (especially when served warm and flat, pumped by hand from a cask).

I can proudly say that American Hops are the best. Cascade is the hardest working American hop, and it gives the distinctive, crisp, citrus aroma to great American Pale Ales like Sierra Nevada. In two days of beer tasting, Sierra Nevada tasted the best. Full flavored, refreshingly bitter, satisfying but not cloying like the syrupy, bready Belgian beers, S.N. completely stole the show, all thanks to the mighty American Hops that go into it.

Some get turned off by the robust, piny bitterness of American Pale Ale, but these are not only my favorite beers, but my favorite beverages in the world. I like them more than any wine, cocktail, soda, coffee, or tea that I drink. I am truly a converted hop head.

An American Hop Head.

Working Back Through My Travels: Lisbon

Oh boy was I impressed by Lisbon. Never has a place without surfing made such a strong and immediate impression on me. The city feels small but bustling. There are tons of cool, old cultural sights. Awesome old buildings, a big church that was built in the 1300's, a Moorish quarter you can only enter with a tour guide because the narrow pedestrian streets criss-cross in such a tight, overlapping maze that anyone but a local would get lost (and locals still get lost there). They have a bridge that looks just like the golden-gate bridge. They have awesome weather and deep blue sky. The old part of town, just above the city center, is packed with restaurants, record shops, and cocktail bars. A seven-euro cab ride takes you from the airport to downtown. The food is good, especially the baked goods (like slightly sweet Portuguese cheese tarts).

Lisbon is one of those rare places, where after just a short time, you feel like, "Wow, I really want to live here. This place is cool." The city just has a really good vibe and energy, and along with the rest of Portugal, it doesn't get enough credit.

So I'll say it here: Lisbon is f***ng awesome.

Good Things I've Eaten: Entry #2 (French Edition)

Our class just spent the last week in France on a study trip. Although it is easy to make fun of their silly accents, high taxes, penchant for clothing with horizontal blue stripes, rampant cigarette smoking, and funny hats, their food has to be taken seriously. Below I've listed only the best and most memorable food and wine experiences of the week:



1. Bresse Chicken, Montrevel-en-Bresse When the farmer took us to the pastures where he raises these chickens, I think we all felt a slight pang of jealousy for their lifestyle. Each bird has fifteen square meters of verdant pasture to himself. They spend their lifetime frolicking on the carpet of green, native grasses, eating locally grown corn, milk, and insects. They hang out, they look for worms, they exercise, and they soak up the warm sun and fresh air of the French countryside. Towards the end, they spend a week in a warm, dark room to relax and fatten up for their big day.
For lunch, the farmer served the chicken simply roasted, with only a touch of salt and pepper and the roasting juices as a sauce. These birds have a clean, satisfying flavor that is hard to describe. They taste how a chicken is supposed to taste, and every morsel carries this essential, pure chicken flavor. This, the simplest meal of the trip, easily reigns as the most memorable and satisfying.



2. Perfect Salads One thing France definitely has on Italy is its salads. While French food seems to lean heavily towards butter, animal proteins, and duck fat, they offer fresh, crisp salads as a counterpoint. Fresh lettuces, maybe tomatoes or carrots, and the bright, tangy Dijon mustard vinaigrette and nothing more. Simple, refreshing, satisfying, the salads in France are done right.



3. Chablis Terroir: the term gets thrown around quite a lot nowadays and the concept of "terroir" seems mysterious and complex like most fancy French words. But when it comes to wine, terroir means one thing: soil-driven. In Chablis, we tasted at two different wineries with slightly different approaches, but each house had the same goal. They want their wines to showcase the unique, mineral-rich soils of the region. The first winery produces single vineyard/appelation, unoaked Chablis. Crisp, clean, mouthwatering, although they use the same varietal (all Chablis is Chardonnay), these wines are a far cry from the California Chardonnay I'm used to. The second winery (actually a large co-op of growers with a centralized wine-making operation) uses some oak in their Chablis, only because they feel the oak helps bring out the minerality by softening the green, fruity flavors. Again, these wines were, crisp, clean, and delicious. The man leading the tasting couldn't emphasize enough the importance of minerality. Chablis should taste like the minerals in the soil. After tasting more than ten Chablis, I think we got his point.

4. Steak Tartare, Brassiere George, Lyon The restaurant was big (Huge actually. I'd guess 500 seats), bustling, old-school, and very, very French. The lighting was retro. The waiters wore bow ties and black vests. The menu was big and full of classic French food: all the best dishes that got exported to bistro menus in the United States, served in one place and done right. Escargot, Steak Frittes, Cassoulet, etc... My decision was easy. I had to have the Steak Tartare, which they still prepare tableside. The waiter brings the freshly chopped meat, an egg yolk, tobasco, mustard, capers, onions, and salt and pepper, asks you how spicy you want it, and then mixes it all up and plates it right on the spot, with an air of cool, professional indifference. The tartare was seasoned perfectly and served with fries and salad. I couldn't have been happier.

Working Back Through my Travels: London

I have to write at least something about all the great places I've visited in the last two months. Things have been too busy recently, always one thing to the next, and I am afraid if I don't stop and look back at these great experiences, they will get lost in the blur. The amazing moments won't add up to anything if i don't write them down.

On the way back to California for my sister's wedding, I stopped in London. I spent a weekend with my best friend since Kindergarten. He has been living there for over two years now. I had been to London before, but Aaron showed me a completely different side of the city. Here are some of the highlights of the weekend:

1. Saturday morning, Borough Market Jamie Oliver popularized this market, which used to have a grittier, working class feel to it. Now it may be a little touristy or geared towards yuppies, but there's no arguing with the products on offer. Amazing fresh baked goods, cheeses, wines, beers, juices, oysters, sandwiches made from melted Raclette cheese, huge wooden tubs of pestos and olives. Almost anything you could want. Aaron and I grabbed coffee and then walked around. The products were arranged so beautifully and had such vibrant colors that just walking through the place, taking it all in, was a truly satisfying experience. We didn't even need to buy anything.




2. Rock and Roll Dance Party, Saturday Night Aaron described this pub as "The Happiest Bar in London". We had a group of about eight, and we were some of the happiest pub-goers in London that night. They play 60's and 70's rock music, geared towards dancing. Air guitar, leg kicks, faux-vocals, arm swings, more air guitar, anything goes when you're dancing to rock and roll. We didn't dare leave until all our clothes were sweated-through and the DJ stopped playing music.

3. Flea Markets, Sunday Morning We went to two different flea markets, each with a slightly different feel to it, and each with a huge diversity of goods for sale. Cool old sweaters, jackets, coats, scarves, glasses. New merchandise, old merchandise, cameras, records, fridge magnets, bags, ties, suits, almost everything. The second market had a food section, where vendors sold fresh ethnic food. Spanish, Indian, Japanese, Mexican, Chinese, Thai, and it all looked good. More importantly, people were really gathering in all these places. Diverse cross sections of the city came to purchase goods, to eat, to walk around, to see or be seen. It was impressive to see.



4. Coffee at "Look Mum, No Hands" This bicycle-themed coffee shop eptimizes "cool". They have vintage bikes in the interior, good coffee, microbrews, and barristas with awesome mustaches. This is just a fun place to hang out, read the paper, or do work on your laptop. If I lived in London, I would want to be a regular there. I might even develop a crush on one of the employees and after a few months finally arrive at the perfect moment to ask her out for a drink. It's that kind of a place.




5. Pimm's Cup, Saturday Afternoon Aaron arranged a celebration for both of our birthdays (we were both born at the end of August). He gathered a group of friends and co-workers to meet at a pub with a beautiful garden in the back. Starting the drinking at two in the afternoon can be rough, but the Brits have developed a solution: Pimm's Cup. They serve the refreshing ,herbal spirit called "Pimms" with seven-up, fresh strawberries, oranges, cucumbers, and mint. Truly, it's lovely beverage, and sharing a few pitchers of the stuff with friends is a lovely way to spend an afternoon.

Good Things I've Eaten: Entry #1

So, I'm going to try to keep a journal of all the good things I eat. Every once and while I post some of the entries up here in no particular order.

Pliny the Elder IPA August, 2010, Bar/Cheese Shop Napa
For me, this is the beer of beers. You can't ask anything more from a beer than what Pliny gives you. This beer is clean yet fully satisfying. It delivers strong, bitter, yet crisp hop flavors of grapefruit and pine. The bitter, astringent hops are balanced by a round, smooth mouthfeel that finishes clean. Satifsying, refreshing, mouthwatering, perfect with grilled meats or hard cheese, and even better all by itself. Russian River Brewing Company, thank you for giving the world Pliny the Elder.

Carne CrudaJune, 2010, Osteria in Neive, Piemonte
In Piemonte, they like their carne cruda, raw meat, and they do it right. On this day, we hiked from Alba into the hills and before lunch we had climbed two big hills, tasted seven Barbaresco's at a winery along the way, and covered about eight kilometers. Hot, sweaty, hungry, the cool, perfectly season, bright red, raw veal was the perfect thing to eat. The primal yet refined protein fix powered us through the four course lunch, two more bottles of wine, and the eight kilometer walk back into town.



Beet, Apple, Orange, Ginger Juice August, 2010, Burrough's Market, London
I couldn't pass this up at the farmer's market. Bright majenta in color, the juice tastes sweet, tangy, and slightly earthy from the beets (at least two whole beets go into one juice). The spicy ginger comes on at the end, giving the beverage a fresh, invigorating kick. I wasn't hungover this morning, but this juice would probably be very good for a hangover.

Luca's Mom's Pickled Treviso July, 2010, Bra, Italy
Treviso is the bitter, elongated, purple colored cousin to Radicchio. A special variety of Treviso is especially sought after for pickling. Luca's Mom transforms the bitter, stalky vegetable into something wonderfully sweet, tangy, pleasantly bitter, tender, and slightly chewy. We pulled the stuff out of its jar with a fork and ate it with bread that we had toasted and spread with soft cheese. After eating almost all of it, we ceremoniously divided the last piece of the Treviso like stranded mountaineers splitting up their last chocolate bar. This stuff really is that good.

Back to School!

After more than six weeks of travel, time off, aimless wondering and a few aimless summer afternoons at the pool here in Bra, it feels good to be back at school and to have a (semi) permanent home again. I am looking forward to being (semi) productive and structured again once classes come into full swing.

This time of year always lights a fire under my belly. As the new school year starts I always feel focused, motivated, and determined to make the coming year the best ever. After I graduated from college and started working, this reflex never went away. Once summer moves into autumn, a new energy comes to me. I get excited. I feel creative. I feel like starting new projects, reorganizing my time, reinventing parts of my self.

Coming back to Italy, you can't help but feel this same energy. After the whole town (and the whole country) shuts down in August, once everyone comes back in September, it's like everyone starts over and has a new school year ahead of them. And there is much to look forward to. The harvest is coming. The forested hills just outside of town are surely bursting with young white truffles. The weather has changed. It's not hot anymore and we can finally drink all this wonderful red wine they make all around us. The pear trees sag with fruit and seem to beg to be harvested. Before we know it, the mountains will be covered in snow.

But, as Carlo Petrini told us on the first day, "Slow....slow", one thing at a time. Beer class today and tomorrow, a trip to France all next week. Terra Madre and Salone del Gusto festivals around the corner. While the back to school reflexes tell me to push, to dig, to maximize, get more, do more, truly, looking ahead, it is enough to stay calm and try to be loose and ready for all the experiences in store. Take things as they come. Let the year unfold. One thing at a time. Slow.

Life Cheese

There are certain experiences that one by one make the trip worthwhile. These are the things I came here to do: taste wines made from a single grape variety grown on a single hillside, walk through local farms with an expert on organic agriculture, eat homemade pastries for breakfast and go hiking up a mountain, finally learn how to properly salt the water for pasta. These experiences and lessons are priceless; I came here to get them.

But then, there are also experiences that one by one, make one's life worthwhile. These are rare, few and far between for most people, especially as they get older. Last week I had one though, and I didn't see it coming. We visited a small producer of goat cheese, and I slept the entire bus ride and woke up in the foothills of the mountains. The man in charge of the cheese operation said our bus couldn't take us where he wanted to go.

So they took us in a tractor, a big tractor that pulled the same trailer they used to transport goats and hay. They took us up the mountain, way up the mountain, and we could feel the air quickly change and see the valley stretch out behind us. The road stopped past the tree line at a cabin and a barn where they keep their goats and cows during the spring and summer.

We saw the goats. We saw their cows. We saw their dogs. We breathed the air, took in the view. Then they fed us: cheese, bread, and big jugs of rustic red wine. It was everything we needed.

We Were All Food Poisoned!

Although my trip to Italy, so far, has been fantastic, blog posts about how beautiful everything is, how great the food tastes, and how wonderful the people will get boring very quickly. So, I'm writing about something a little less pleasant.

Throughout the year, we have about seven weeks worth of trips to various regions; they call these trips "stages" (pronounced stahj, its French), and they are intended to be food and culture safaris: the time to eat, drink, experience a new region of Europe, and learn by doing.

Our first trip took place almost two weeks ago, and they took us to Puglia, the heel of the boot that is Italy. The place was beautiful: we walked through ancient groves of olive trees, swam in cool water while gazing out towards a hazy sea, and we drank Prosecco in a hilltop town, sitting in an outdoor cafe with a view of the rolling, golden valley, feeling the warm breeze rush over us. I'll never forget these moments, but I'll also remember the trip as a death-march of cold cuts.

Every meal was a big occasion: multiple courses of meats, cheeses, pasta, more meat. Often, lunch looked the same: cured meat, cheese, bread, wine, and lardo (cured pork fat). One night, we ate seafood: fish salad, raw fish, fish with homemade pasta, fried fish, and then fruit and dessert. The next night: appetizers of fried dough, focaccia with greens, frittata, cured meats, two kinds of homemade pasta, stewed horse, boiled octopus, and then fruit and dessert. And the whole time, the wine kept coming.

Halfway through the trip, we all felt like our systems couldn't keep up with this much food and wine. We ate prunes and yogurt for breakfast. Some sought out fresh fruit; I bought myself some tomatoes. It didn't seem to be working. We all felt slow, lethargic; I imagined myself to be getting gout.



Something had to give. The center could not hold. On the last day we broke down. Two of the girls got sick early in the morning: they looked pale, droopy, and very unhappy. In two hours they fell into vomiting, and we altered course. Our trip leader, Alessandra, took us to a beachtown, set us free to wander for the afternoon, and got these poor girls a hotel room.

I fell victim next. Thinking I was just a little hungover, I decided to go for a swim, which usually helps me feel better. I swam for a while and then sprawled out on the beach to sunbathe. It must have been funny to the friends I was with, because it looked like I was having a great time, and all of a sudden, on the walk back into town, I bent over the railing of the staircase and barfed my guts out into the creek below. After my second puke, Alessandra took me to the hotel room with the other girls, and I took my place with the fallen.

Over the course of the next two days, at least a quarter of us became acutely ill; and almost everyone got queasy stomaches, headaches, and a general malaise. The weekend we got back, everyone hibernated in their rooms. Some fasted, others caught up on fruits and vegetables. For a day and a half, all I could keep down was white rice and gatorade.

But now we're all better, and the next stage starts on Monday. Studying food is intense.

Wine Doesn't Smell Like Wine

Not long ago, I did some tasting with some good friends. We were discussing the smells and the tastes in the wines, nothing too serious or over the top. One of my friends, a free-thinker, stopped us, and suggested that the wine just smells like wine. No one had an answer for him, until now.
Just last week we had a two day sensory analysis unit here at Cheese School. Our professor had prepared twenty six "standard" aromas that we all had to identify. These standards were compounds mixed into a base wine, or simply the smelly thing itself, like chunks of butter, caramel, or bubble gum. It didn't take long for us to figure out what all this stuff was: asparagus juice, black pepper, nutmeg, olive, honey, lemon, raspberry, etc...
Trying to guess smells can dislodge lots of memories. You have to close your eyes, picture what the smell reminds you of, and then unpack the memory to isolate what it is you smelled and are now remembering. It's a fun way to make your brain work. After smelling a standard for "artificial fruit flavor", I couldn't guess what the smell was supposed to be, but got stuck on images of drinking juice boxes and eating popsicles as a kid. After smelling soy sauce mixed with base wine, I could distinctly remember drinking red wine that smelled just like this, but I had never identified the aroma. I drove myself crazy trying to name the smell and never figured out that it was soy.




After identifying the standards, we were asked to analyze real wines. Four whites on the first day and four reds on the next. Lo and behold, some of the wines smelled exactly like the standards we had identified. One white was a dead ringer for asparagus, another had distinctive bell pepper and green bean aromas. The reds were a little harder to pinpoint, but the descriptors we used showed consistent trends. One red had vanilla and caramel while others had fresh berry and spice or soy sauce and leather.
The lesson learned: the aromas in wine are a real thing. Volatile compounds exist in wine that create specific smells. Winemakers can use sensory analysis to adjust their winemaking techniques to avoid making wines that smell like green beans and olives. More importantly, smelling wine all day is a very, very good use of time.

ps. Thanks to Raymond for his pictures!

Cicliturismo!

Bit by bit, I am doing everything I came to Italy to do. Yesterday I bought a bike, and it's beautiful: an old, blue Colnago in absolutely perfect shape. It has a steel frame, yellow handlebars, and Campagnolo components. It is exactly the bike I imagined myself riding here.

I couldn't imagine how perfect Piemonte is for cycling. We are surrounded by rolling hills that are packed with vineyards and Hazelnut groves and studded with hilltop villages. On a bike, you could spend all day exploring, visiting dozens of towns and wine DOC's without riding more than 25 miles from the home base. I am determined to see it all.

Unhurried

We're all starting to settle into a rhythm here at school, slowing adjusting to a new way to eat, to sleep, and to focus. Class runs from nine in the morning until noon, and again from one until four in the afternoon. At school they feed us a great big lunch, with three courses (pasta, some main dish, salad, and sometimes dessert) and table service. After lunch I always have an espresso before going back to class, and by the time I get back from school around five I am ready for a nap.

The late afternoon and evening seems to roll on forever; dinner is always late, and the time just feels suspended and easy. We've mostly been eating salame, bread, and cheese in evenings because lunch is pretty hearty. Many Italians enjoy an aperitivo in the evening, a pre dinner drink and light snacks that can go on for hours. They can be seen all over, in groups sipping sparkling wine, pink cocktails made with bitter, herbal spirits, and lager beers, solidly rooted in conversation, looking as if the whole purpose of the day is to arrive at their table outside the cafe.

You can't help but fall into this slower, unhurried pace. Today my roommates and I woke up around eleven, chatted a bit and then went to the market to buy something to eat for lunch. We strolled around the town, ran into classmates, and once we had everything we needed and a menu in mind, we went back and cooked. We had crostini, pasta, salad, cheese, and fruit, lingering after each course, and the whole time I felt my old insticts reacting to how unhurried we were. Eating lunch was the whole point of the day; there was nothing to run off and accomplish. We all made it to Italy and were nibbling artisan cheese and cherries, nectarines, and apricots from the market. The point was to be there, doing that.

After each course, I could feel a layer of my old habits peeling away. By about 5:30, lunch was over, and that was all we had done so far that day. We tossed around ideas of walking into town for gelato later that evening, but no one needed to commit to anything; we had already gotten so much out of the day, and in a way, accomplished so much.

If we wanted gelato, it would be there.

Molto Fortunato!

Somehow, I knew I would have some adventure getting here to Bra. Everything was going too well: all my flights were on time, I slept almost the entire way to Rome, and I felt great upon arriving. After getting off the final plane to Torino I was lulled into a happy stupor: I felt like I had made it and I immediately had a victory espresso before getting on my first train.

Twenty minutes later, it all evaporated. I was riding a bus which was to take me to the central train station, but I never saw the stop I needed; it seemed I had ridden the bus too far. I asked an Italian man what to do, and he said to get off now and take the metro. I gathered 150 pounds of luggage, got off the bus, and made to cross the street. Then I realized, my small red backpack was still on the bus, with my wallet, passport, camera, iPod, and a snack sized bag of trail mix, which I was planning to eat on the train.

I had a small moment of panic, released a few f-bombs into the street, and then quickly calmed down. I had copies of my passport and back up debit cards in my other bags. I could always fly home and start over again if I needed to.

As it turns out, it didn't come to that. A young kid tried to call the bus company for me, but his phone was out of minutes, so he pointed me towards the police station, and I started walking. I wish I had left one of my heavy pieces of luggage on the bus. 15 minutes later I ended up at the training academy for the Italian highway patrol. Close enough. The secretary there, Fabio, was incredibly patient and eager to help. He called two different numbers and was able to talk to the dispatch for the bus line. Luckily, there were only two buses that made the loop I had been riding. He sent me back to the bus stop; both busses would pass by within an hour, and there would be good chance they have my bag.

After a few buses passed, I saw the "Dora Fly", the bus I had been on. I boarded the bus, and in my best Italian told the driver, "I'm the stupid kid who left his...." He stopped me and pointed to my bag, which was hanging on a hook right behind him.

I rode back to the station, an official checked my passport and filled out a report. I felt like hugging the bus driver, but that is not the custom here, so I thanked him and went on my way, feeling very lucky. Molto fortunato.

Packing Up Life

Here is my stuff.


I've done this six other times since finishing college: pack up everything you need and take off. This was the first time I've had to put it all in suitcases. Amazingly, after laying out everything I thought I would need for the year, it all fit perfectly into the luggage I had. I even brought my yoga mat, a 2mm wetsuit, tennis racket, and a 4.5 pound tub of Prolong Energy Drink (for cycling).




And it all fits.