When In Rome

Recently, I was writing an article about travel and more specifically, the fact that when it comes to travel karma, I’ve been blessed, or at the very least, very, very lucky.   I was waxing on and on about how despite having traveled the world over I have never had a missed connection, a lost piece of luggage or even a mechanical come between me and a good trip.

Funny the tricks that memory plays on your mind, because, there was that one time in Rome…

Now, this story doesn’t really fall under the category of missed connection or lost luggage, but it does most definitely fall under the category of being very lucky.

I had been on a Mediterranean cruise aboard a beautiful yacht, sailing from Monte Carlo to Rome.  At the  time I was living in Atlanta, and despite my opinion to the contrary, the company I worked for just couldn’t seem to live without me for the full 10 days that my itinerary called for.  Instead I was “allowed” to take this trip on the condition that after 6 days I would return to Atlanta.

So fine, yeah, I was indispensable. 

As arranged, I disembarked the ship 3 ports of call earlier than the itinerary called for.  This happened to be in Catania, on the island of Sicily and I’m here to tell you, disembarking the ship, I wasn’t sure I was going to make it as far as the airport, let alone back to Atlanta.  After submitting to a thorough screening, because who the hell gets of a luxury yacht in Sicily when the itinerary says it’s going on to Naples and then Rome?  Yes, that would be me and without a lick of Italian to aid me, I had to explain why to the customs officers who were rifling my luggage as though I was exporting vast quantities of illegal substances.  Which, just for the record, I WASN’T.

Eventually, limping through my Lonely Planet Italian, I was able to make myself understood and was allowed to taxi to the airport for my flight to Rome.  Nothing in Italy ever leaves on time and my flight was no exception.  We sat for what seemed like hours on the tarmac waiting for our turn to take off.  I don’t know what the delay was, but suffice it to say, when we eventually landed in Rome, my fellow travelers were more than ready to get off the plane and they didn’t care who the manhandled to get to the jet-way fastest.

I had only been to Rome once before and that had been on the connecting flight to Nice where we were embarking on our cruise.  I had an early morning flight to New York the next day and so had made plans to spend the night at the Sheraton Roma Hotel, which offered its guests a complimentary shuttle service from the airport.  On my previous visit to the Rome Airport I staked out the location of the shuttle and made mental note that when I came back to Rome I would get the hotel shuttle “here.”

The only problem with my little plan, however, was the fact that the airport has more than one terminal and although I was indeed at Rome's Fiumicino Airport, I had not arrived at the same terminal as I had previously.  Which of course meant that the shuttle that was supposed to be “here” was in fact “there” and I had no idea where “there” was.

Did I mention I had also exchanged every last one of my Lire with one of my fellow travelers before disembarking the yacht?  Did I mention this story takes place in the days before ATMs?  Hard to imagine, I know, but yes, long ago, in a land far away, in the middle of the night, I was stuck at an airport without any local currency and no way to make my way to my hotel for the night.

After wandering around the airport, hopelessly lost, a kind man who had been watching me meander aimlessly took pity on me and with a combination of Italian and English enquired if I perhaps needed some assistance, or at the very least, some directions?  Thank God, because despite the fact that I have an extensive vocabulary and a working tongue in my head, I did not have the confidence to walk up to a perfect stranger and ask for help.   Although, once approached by this handsome, older man who I’m sure only wanted to help out a young woman traveling by herself in the middle of the night, I found my tongue and was able to yes, ask for directions to the shuttle to the hotel.   He gladly offered directions and was even kind enough to escort me to the location where I could pick up the shuttle.  Which was in a dark parking lot, with no signage and only one dimly lit streetlight.

He bid me farewell, assuring me that the bus would be along shortly.  So there I stood.  Alone.  In the dark.  By myself.  Under a dimly lit streetlight.  With no one by my side.  Exhausted.  And more than just a little bit nervous.

I waited.  And waited.  And waited some more.  My watch told me I had been there for almost an hour and I was beginning to doubt that my kind stranger knew what the hell he was talking about, but then I remembered, “This is Italy.  Nothing is ever on time and what makes me think the shuttle bus that should be along shortly would be on time?”  Silly me.  So I continued to wait.

That’s when it happened.  Suddenly out of the pitch black came swirling blue lights and the unmistakable wail of police sirens.  Four Polizia cars careened out of the darkness to come to a full stop right at my feet.  An outfit of Army officers, armed with machine guns burst out of the cars and started screaming at me…but they were screaming in Italian and I had no idea what they were yelling.  I doubt it was “is this where the shuttle comes?”  It most definitely wasn’t “welcome to Roma”. 

No, it was more like “get the hell out of the way….NOW!”  Except, as I said, I didn’t know Italian and they didn’t stop long enough to think that perhaps I wasn’t from the neighborhood, so I stood there, my eyes locked on their machine guns.  Machine Guns!  I had never seen a shot gun, let alone a semi-automatic machine gun!  It wasn’t until one of them was pointed at my face that suddenly I understood perfectly clearly they wanted me to move out of the way.

I obliged.

As I stood shaking in my sandals, barely able to control my bladder I watched as another group of machine-gun toting officers hustled out of the airport, surrounding an older man whom they loaded into one of the Polizia cars and tore off into the night, sirens screaming, lights flashing.

And then?  Nothing.  You’ve never heard silence more deafening than after you’ve been on the business end of a machine gun, in the dark, in a foreign country where you don’t speak the language. 

I just stood there.  Stunned.  And then it came.  Like a knight in shining armour, except that it was a motorcoach in shining chrome…my shuttle bus had arrived…very lucky indeed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Blister by Any Other Name Would Still be Herpes

Note to self:

Re:  The correct application of sunscreen

Please be advised that the next time you decide to spend 12 hours in the sun ensure that in addition to slathering your face and other body parts with sunscreen  you ALSO find an SPF protectant for your lips.  You will save yourself the resulting tumor that's now moving across your mouth.

Oh to be so sun sensitive!  I spent an entire day last weekend in the sun and while the rest of me was adequately protected, sadly I neglected to do the same for my lips and am I paying for it now.  I have three, yes THREE, full blown cold sores, two on my upper and one on my lower lip.

As soon as I got home I knew they were coming.  There's no mistaking that pre-cold-sore burn and sure enough, come Monday the blisters started rising.  In my vain attempt to ward off a full outbreak I broke out my Witch Hazel which is said to have healing elements to reduce or eliminate the full blown effects of a cold sore.    I was too late.  They had already set up shop complete with their own coffee makers and  internet accounts on my face.  

Rather than face the world with this seeping, oozing, blistering growth that is my mouth, I chose to hide out in the house the last couple of days.  First to save any shred of dignity I have and secondly to conserve gas.  But on Friday?  Friday I just had to go to town.

You miss a lot when you don't go to town on a regular basis.  Like for instance, the little house that sits beside the Oyster Bed Bridge store?  Yeah, they jacked it up and moved it two fields over and one field back.  Now there's just a hole where the foundation of the house sat.  Also?  The sweet little Cape Cod house that just sold last year is up for sale again!  In less than 6 months after it was sold the last time!  And another thing?  It's strawberry season here on the island and our neighbors down the road who have their own berry patch had the sandwich board up and were selling this year's crop.  Which - by the way - is delicious and so much better then last year.

So off to town I went.  I had errands to run in three different locations and while I know I'm overly self-conscious of this facial growth at the moment, I know with full certainty that not one of those customer service agents could look me in the eye.  No, they were transfixed on my lips.  With the oozing, seeping blisters that are so big, they flash their GPS coordinates in neon lights.  Oh sure, I tried to camouflage the wounds, but really, Chanel Roux Sienna Lip Pencil & Mac Nude Lip Glass can only hide so much.  Neither could hide the big red scab that is the area above my upper lip.  I'm so pretty, oh so pretty!

Thank God cold sores only last 10 days, which means I only have 5 more to go before I can leave the house again.   

In Case of Emergency...

I have a friend who years ago confided to me that she only reads cookbooks or cooking magazines.  I remember thinking at the time, well isn't that kind of sad?  I mean to intentionally cut off all other types of literature and trashy books  to solely focus on one genre...how limiting.

She missed out on the delights of biographies, travelogues, business building books, self-help books and let's don't forget all those Harlequin Romances!  Okay, even I don't read those books...but...you get my point.  To only read cookbooks or cooking related magazines...BORING.

Or so I thought.

I've spent untold hours over the years thumbing through cookbooks myself, but I didn't really consider it "reading" per se.   I discovered the joys of a lazy morning spent perusing dog-eared cookbooks or the latest edition of Canadian Living with its seasonal and Canadian-focused recipes, searching for inspiration for that night's dinner.   Then, I discovered on-line recipe search engines.   Then, I discovered that place where you can put in  your main ingredient and come out with an entire cookbook of recipes that you can make with that one featured component.

Thursday it was all about coconut.  I had been hankering for a sweet treat ever since the homones started raging earlier in the week.  I waged a hard-fought battle, but yesterday morning, I just had to give in.  I searched for the words "coconut recipes" and through the power of the internet found  a website dedicated to all things coconut.  Coconut shrimp.  Coconut cream pie.  Coconut chocolate bars.  Coconut frosting.  Coconut ice cream.   Coconut macaroons.

They had me at macaroon.  And hey, I just so happened to have all the ingredients in my kitchen.  It must have been fated.  I was destined to make macaroons.  And so I did.  They turned out p.e.r.f.e.c.t.   I have never made a macaroon so easily that tasted so damn good.  

Which of course presented the next problem.  If I'm diligently on the no crap for Kim campaign, somehow coconut macaroons don't fit into the daily meal plan.  

Unless, of course, you allow yourself ONE day a week to indulge in something besides vegetables, high fibre foods and lean meats.  I decided this week, Thursday would be that day.  And so I had one.  Okay, I had two.  Really, it was three.  But then the adult, responsible side of my brain regained control over the adolescent, want-to-eat-each-and-every-last-one-until-I-am-almost-sick-from-the-sweetness  of my alter-ego.   I put the rest in the freezer.  

And that's where they sit right now.  Oh sure, I squirreled away a couple for the one whom I adore to enjoy when he got home last night.  But the rest?  They are safely tucked away in the deep freeze, only to be released in case of an extreme emergency.   

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Update.  

This morning upon waking and discovering that the sun that was promised was not shining for the 15th day in a row,  thus today's weather constituted an "emergency"  I had one for breakfast.    It was left-over from the stash I squirreled away for the one whom I adore, but still.  Macaroons for breakfast.  Even I can't justify the health benefits of that.

Love Is..

“They say” the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach and until about 3 years ago, I seldom had the occasion to test this theory.  However, over the course of the last 36 months, I’ve had an abundance of opportunities to run this one up the flagpole to see if it flies.   Ladies & gentlemen, I am here to tell you, it flies like a flag caught in a westerly PEI wind.   

In fact, I now know this so well, that I am secure in the knowledge that the one whom I adore is going to keep me around for a while, if for no other reason than the dinner I served him last night.  He’s still talking about it.  According to he, “it was a flavour-fest”.

Once upon a time, back when I was less skilled in culinary arts,  back when I had zero appreciation for the skill, creativity and love that went into preparing a meal...I used to like to go out for dinner, but honestly, and I don’t mean to brag here,  I’m a pretty damn good cook and really? … really?  Why go out and pay $120 for dinner for two when we can stay home and eat something I’ve created (which will be delicious) for far less?  You don't need a recession to tell you that that just makes good sense!  

You don’t need to be Julia Child either.  I consider most everything I make to be simple fare.  And tasty.  And all of it home-made.  Last night’s menu:

Fresh PEI Mussels with fennel & lemon

Crispy Cabbage Salad

Greek Salad

Home-made Herbes de Provence Bread

Really, the bread took the longest and that’s only because you have to knead it for 15-minutes (by hand) and then let it rise twice.  But really, it’s the easiest recipe for bread I’ve ever encountered. For me making bread from scratch is almost as restorative as taking a yoga class.  The very fact that you’re required to work it by hand for as much as 15 minutes at a time, the act of making bread becomes a bit of a zen-like experience.  I work the dough between my fingers and imagine all the different ways I could make the loaf – a boule (shaped like a ball), braided (like a challah) or a simple easy-does-it loaf.  Last night I braided it and it looked pretty.  It tasted even better then it looked.

I don’t actually eat mussels and if that isn’t a testament to the one whom I adore, I don’t know what is.  Who else will make an entire main course for their husband and then eat the previous night’s leftover pork tenderloin?  Me - that’s who!  This way we're both happy - he gets his feed of mussels and I don't have to eat them.  We’re a full 45-days into fresh seafood season here on the island and up until yesterday I had served nary a mussel, lobster or scallop – so a seafood feast was long past due.

If you’re lucky enough to have fresh seafood near you and you’d like to try last night’s menu here are two recipes for you!

Mussels with Fennel & Lemon

3 tbsp olive oil

1 red onion, finely diced

4 cloves of garlic, finely chopped

2 tbsp fennel seeds

1/2 tsp red pepper flakes

1 cup white wine

1/2 cup freshly chopped parsley

2 lemon slices (1/4” thick)

2 lbs mussels

Clean and de-beard mussels, set aside.  Sautee onion in olive oil until soft.  Add garlic, fennel, red pepper flakes, 1/4 cup parsley, lemon slices & wine.  Bring to a boil and add mussels.  Cook until mussels open, approximately 6 minutes.  With slotted spoon remove cooked mussels, being careful to remove any that have not opened.  Garnish with remaining parsley.  Return broth back to stovetop, bringing to a boil.  Once broth has reduced to about a cup (approximately 3 mins), pour over mussels and serve.

Herbes de Provence Bread

1 package of instant yeast

1 tsp sugar

1 cup luke warm water (116 – 121 degrees F)

1/4 cup olive oil

2 tbsp herbes de Provence

1 tsp salt

2.5 cups flour (more if needed)

Mix yeast, sugar & luke-warm warm.  Let stand 10 minutes until yeast has become activated.  In large mixing boil combine olive oil, herbes de provence & salt.  Add the yeast/water mixture, stirring until well combined.  Add flour 1/2 cup at a time, mixing after each addition until you have a firm dough.  Move to floured surface and knead in remaining flour.  Continue to knead dough for 15 minutes.  Set aside and cover with either a tea-towel or cling wrap and set in warm place until dough has doubled – approximately 45 minutes.

Once dough has doubled, punch down and shape into a loaf or boule and let rise another 30-minutes.  Place in 400-degree oven and bake for 25 minutes.

Lo-Ride-RRR

Last weekend we went across the big divide to a cottage on the northern shore of Nova Scotia.  In order to get to Nova Scotia we had to take a ferry across the Northumberland Strait, a ride which is very pleasant, in that it's less than an hour from boarding to disembarking and along the way you have amazing vistas of the island's south-eastern shore and the rugged coast of Nova Scotia.

Saturday morning was very foggy in the Northumberland Strait, so there really wasn't much sightseeing to do as we plied the waters toward Pictou.  So the one whom I adore and I made our way to the passenger deck where we sat with all the other early risers making the first crossing of the day.

Some of our fellow passengers included a very cute young family - a mom, a dad and a little boy about 9 months old.  His parents did quite a job of entertaining him throughout the crossing, but nowhere near as much as they entertained me and he.  

You see, the mom was in an attempt to remain stylish post-baby, decked out in blue-jeans and a sleeveless blouse, both of which had an abundance of spandex which any overweight woman will tell you is her best friend.  For those that are slim and therefore less in tune with the joys of spandex, the crux of it is this:  spandex provides just a little "give" and "pull" in the right places, plus, added bonus, it provides a little more firm support in other areas.  So yeah, spandex, is all good.  Except when spandex is in clothes that are just a tad too small.  Then,  is when spandex shows its evil side.

And that's what was going on with this young mom.  She still had some baby weight to lose, most of it from the waist down.  Her jeans were perhaps just a size and a half too small, but full of spandex which has give! and pull! and support!  So, you could perhaps understand that she was completely unaware of the fact that every time she bent over to address her little boy, or to take his picture, or to give him a kiss, every time she did one of those things, she bared more than half her ass.  To us.  And the rest of the world, if they had been looking.

She wasn't wearing any underwear.  

I wish I had pictures to post along with this entry, but the one whom I adore forbade me from taking any.  The subject would have "crack'd" the lens.

New and Improved, with stain fiGHTING BLEACH!

It's become a bit of a game for me, I guess.  I've become obsessed.  When you're under-employed and you have lots of time on your hands the challenge, really, is to find different and interesting ways to fill up your day until the one whom you adore comes home again to entertain you with tales from the world of business.

For me, filling up my day has become an obsession with clean laundry the likes of which I could never have predicted.  When I was a kid one of my chores around the house was to do laundry.  Not such a big deal when you live in a high-rise apartment with a laundry room with no less than twenty washers and dryers.   Laundry gets done in ninety-minutes (or less if that mean old lady from the 7th floor is pacing behind you to get your dryer).  But now?  Now, when I have only one of each machine, well the act of doing laundry can fill up an entire day!  

Oh, sure, everyone does laundry every once in a while...once or twice a week, I'm sure.  But lately?  Me?  I'm washing, fluffing and folding every single day.   It's gotten to the point that I cannot walk past our changing room without glancing in the laundry basket to see if it is still indeed in a state of glistening white emptiness.  I quest for emptiness daily.  

The one whom I adore has a philosophy on laundry that goes something like this:  cram as much as you can into the machine and turn it on.  Colour, type of fabric, the need (or not) for the gentle-cycle seldom comes in to play when he's doing the laundry.  But when I do the laundry?  Oh, I have countless ways to sort...by colour...by fabric...by the need to bleach or not...delicates...dress shirts...towels...linens...I can take 10 different items in the laundry basket and create 8 different loads - I do not joke.

Even though I did 3 loads on Friday and we were out of town for half the weekend, on Monday, there were 5 new loads of laundry to be washed and dried.   Aha!  Something to do TODAY!   Game ON!   How many different sorts of laundry can I create?  

Part of the game for me is to see if I can wash & dry his no-iron dress shirts and get them on hangers before a wrinkle sets in.  This of course means emptying them out of the dryer the second the timer goes off.  Some days I can beat the clock...most days though, he has to do some some smoothing out before getting dressed, because despite my obsession with all things laundry, it does not include ironing.

Another game I've created for the game that is the doing of the laundry?  USR.  You know there's UFC (Ultimate Fighting Championship) and now there's USR, Ultimate Stain Removal.  First, you sort your laundry.  As you sort the clothes review each item to determine if it needs the extra attention of a squirt of SHOUT! or bleach or the very best!  the 20-mule team power of Borax.  It's an old-fashioned stain remover to be sure...not as sexy as SHOUT! or Tide-stick, but it gets the job done...just like it did in Grandma's day.  Of course it does!  It has the power of all those mules pulling the stains off your clothes.  Of course, none of those stain-removers would be necessary if I could ever eat a meal without spilling part of it on the shelf that has become my chest...but that's a blog for another day.

So, yes, this is what I now do.  I do laundry and then I blog about it. Now that OxiClean's Billy Mays is dead, maybe I can GET HIS JOB!

Where Is Eva Gabor Now?

If you’re a child of the 60’s or a fan of Nick at Nite, TV Land or the Deja View channels you may recall the TV show, Green Acres, with Eddie Albert and Eva Gabor.  It’s the story of two New Yorkers who traded “city life” in Manhattan with it’s 5^th Avenue, Broadway, Central Park and penthouse suite for a old farm and a new life in the country.  The series of events that ensues while these two transplants figure out life in the country is pure slapstick and silliness.  Little did I know watching this show 40-odd years ago that it would foreshadow what was to become of my life.

Oh, sure, I never had the penthouse suite, but I had all the other trappings – a high-profile (read high stress) career; a taste for fine cuisine and even finer wines; the desire and ability to travel to places far and wide.  Let’s don’t forget about the shoes…oh, the shoes!  I had countless pairs of cute, sassy, serious, swanky, hip, cool and not to mention stylish shoes!  I was living in one of the best cities in the world, Vancouver, and loving every second of my life there.  I had some of the best friends I would ever know and in a word, my life was perfect.  Okay, not so much perfect as say…perfectly fine.  Of course there were things I would change (who wouldn’t?), but more or less, my version of city life was well, perfectly urban.  Oh, how things have changed.

One might ask how does a high-paid, equally high-stressed, but exceptionally creative and talented career woman come to find herself marooned on an island, living in the country, under-employed and wondering what to do with herself?

Honestly, it's because I fell in love.  That's how I came to live on this little island in the Northumberland Straight.  It's how I came to be "self-employed" (or "under-employed" depending on when you're reading this).  It's how I came to be sitting on my front porch, in my rocking chair, basking in the sun, looking out over our version of Green Acres and wondering to myself where the hell is Eva Gabor now and what will I do with my life next?

You'll have to check back here to learn how the story before the story began.