Maybe we should have stayed in Rome.
We came back from a sunny, food-filled mini-break (Bridget Jones style + toddler) to find the pipes half frozen. No kitchen, no laundry. Washing dishes in a bucket. Valentine's Day dinner off paper plates. (Fortunately, the toilets are in tact.)
Ice-cream was clearly in order. I went to retrieve some from my much-loved chest freezer in the cellar, only to find that instead of the light switch, I'd switched off the power. A year's worth of Mr. C's plums, my garden tomatoes, soups, stocks, not to mention a hefty supply of individual pots of dulce de leche and turron ice-cream, down the drain. (Well, not down the drain, which is frozen...)
At least the mail arrived. Dozen roses, you ask? Box of chocolates? 'fraid not: 2 kiddie loos and a check that is 9 years overdue. You see, we finally received the completed act of sale for our first apartment - purchased in 2003. (For lack of a high roof to throw myself off of, I have not asked if that means we didn't really own the apartment all this time.) They sent along a lovely letter (dated Jan. 18, 2012) saying now that our business was concluded, they were happy to enclose a check for our slightly overestimated lawyer's fees.
But it's 2012, I said to G.
Yes.
But it's 2012.
It's just one of those weeks. FWA. France (or is it February?) wins again.
I'm just going to keep flipping through my pictures of Rome. A. is a constant reminder that traveling really is all about the journey. He went window shopping for De Cecco pasta (only the best), and took us for a ride on the tram. We ended up, thanks to G.'s fabulous eyesight, at a random local market outside the city center.
I walked among the grannies in fur coats (it seems every woman over 60 in Rome has one, waiting in the closet for that day - once every 27 years - when it's cold enough to wear it). I watched men in knit caps peel artichokes. Bought ribbons of bitter radicchio.
Next time I want to rent an apartment, so I can cook for us. Veal sweetbreads and humble greens (like chicory) that you hardly ever see for sale in France.
We decided to buy supplies for a picnic. I stopped at the prosciutto and cheese seller with the longest line. A. and G. joined me just as I got to the counter, 10 ruby ovals of meat, trimmed of their fat by hand, fresh ricotta in slices. It's an odd transition, but I guess I've reached the age when a cute kid takes the place of flirting in European commericial transactions. A. got a free mouthful of parma ham, and I somehow looked like less of an idiot pointing mutely at the gorgonzola dolce.
Taking the tram back into the center, we perched on the steps of a church (one every 33 ft. in Rome) and made the best sandwich of my life.
The Perfect Italian Sandwich:
Focaccia bread
Gorgonzola dolce (or other soft creamy blue cheese)
Radicchio lettuce (or other bitter greens, like arugula)
Parma Ham
Spilt a piece of focaccia down the middle. Spread a good layer of gorgonzola. Top with two slices of parma ham and a few leaves of raddichio. You can eat the sandwich open faced, as I did, or add the other half of the focaccia on top. Pretend you are in the Piazza Navona. (If you have a grill pan handy - I'm sure this would make an excellent panini.)
