New Ceramic Art

Finally mounted and hung in the new Terrace Room

Eye on Italy Podcast

I recently recorded a podcast as a guest on Eye on Italy - the website focusing on all things Italian - with moderators Sara Rosso and Michelle Fabio. We talked about football (soccer), the Piemontese wine country and a few other things. It was great fun!

Here's the link.

Grazie mille, Michelle and Sara!

Morning Mood

Sultry summer morning, still cool enough for the birds to be chirping wildly. Before I even turned the pool pump on, still in my robe, I grabbed a couple of photos to capture the mood - to look at in the dead of winter...

The Terrace at Baur B&B

Come sit on the terrace...

A place to wile away the afternoon, with a glass of lemonade, and a good book.

Our Terrace Room at Baur B&B is decorated and awaits you.

Inappropriate Tears

I really never thought that my life would take such an individual turn. I suppose I knew I was dreadfully unhappy doing what others did. From the time I graduated from college, I commuted on trains, I drove long distances, sat in offices, had meetings and did work, the content of which I no longer remember. I produced documents. I sold things. I wrote text and did marketing plans and proposals. I organized conferences. It was not a bad way to earn a living. I threw myself into my work with abandon. I bought clothes and shoes and handbags with credit cards. I looked the part and I managed to fool everyone, including myself, into believing that I was made to do that kind of work. My job defined my life. I rarely thought about anything else. When I took time off, I would get sick because I had allowed myself to get so run down. It felt like there was something else, something big, that was missing. But I did not allow myself the luxury of such thoughts often. They were simply too painful.

I have a sweet friend who told me that she has a problem in various jobs she has had. She cries inappropriately. We talked and tried to figure out what makes her cry and when. I could feel her sadness. I had the same problem when I worked in business. I cried at completely inappropriate moments - salary reviews, conflicts on how to handle a customer, when I heard someone had spoken badly about me, when my boss would challenge me to be better, think more clearly. I welled up constantly. The veneer of my eyeliner would give way to masses of black. I should have known I was in the wrong place, doing the wrong thing. But I had to make a living, and I didn't feel there were any choices.

Then, one day, we moved to Europe and I could just stop doing all of that. I thought it would make me happy, that leaving the burn out and the sales numbers and the fear of getting fired behind. What shocked me is that I completely lost my ability to define myself. I had been so busy, so manically, frighteningly busy for so long, that when that was taken away, it seemed like there was not so much left. It took a long time, years, for me to realize that the true discovery of who I really was had only just begun.

Part of me still fought, though, still wanted to go back and be the power woman I thought I was before. I was sad and angry that I could not excel at business after moving to Europe, although had I really stopped to think about it, it had never made me terribly happy in the first place. One part of me thought that excelling meant working like a dog and getting a big fat paycheck at the end of the week. The other part of me, the part that had started growing and blossoming in Germany, knew that was a completely backwards way to think. Here, I had been presented, through the grace of God and with the loving help of my wage-earning husband, with the opportunity to do anything I wanted. But I was overwhelmed by the task. I was surprised how weak I was, because I had always pictured myself as strong. But I was only strong in my comfort zone. Outside of it, I was a mess.

Given the chance, I did eventually choose creativity. I started to recognize that I had been granted opportunities very few would ever have. I learned languages. I came to understand the beauty of my own language. I started making things with my own hand, and came to appreciate seeing the hands of others in creations around me. The world became more interesting, more fragile from this new perspective. I was surrounded with love and beauty.

I started to consider myself a rather lucky girl.

Life's path is interesting, and I never could have predicted with twists and turns that would have led to this the point where we have been given the chance to lead a self determined life. There is so much about this life here in Italy which surprises me. I suppose the most significant thing is the amount of responsibility we have to take -- for everything we do. We are completely and totally responsible for every aspect of our own survival here. We have to create everything. It's just that simple, and that complicated.

My first reaction to grasping the enormity of what I had gotten myself into with this project came in the form of panic. I was simply not up to the task. I was certainly up to the fantasy of the task. I had been journaling about the possibility of doing something like this for years. But when the reality came, when we signed on the dotted line, my reality shifted, and I realized that all safety nets were gone. It was me facing myself, and I was simply not as ready to depend on myself as I thought I would be.

I had a partner, however, who was. He was brave. Positive. Strong. And he had broad shoulders. He patiently answered my question, asked a million times, in a million different ways.

Is it going to be ok?

Yes, he would say, of course it is.

What I chose, this life that I lead, is not an easy one in many, many ways. I am challenged on every front - creatively, spiritually and emotionally. I have had to confront my demons. I am seeing myself for who I really am. Sometimes I am pleased with what I see, actually pleased and sort of amazed at the journey so far. It's a terribly interesting life, fulfilling in ways I never would have conceived of before. Finally, after despairing and hoping and praying and meditating, I am uncovering the potential which lies beneath the inappropriate tears.

As if tears could ever really be inappropriate.

the keys to perfect osso bucco...

high quality white wine.

a saute of carrots, onions and celery, caramelized in olive oil and butter

perfectly cut and flour dredged veal shanks

gremolata, that magical menage of parsley, garlic and lemon zest.

plus...

a tin of Marzano tomatoes (only the best will do)

a dollop of tomato paste

and time.... lots of time.

Cooking Class with Howie and Sue!

On Saturday, we had a lovely cooking class here at the B&B.

Our guests, Howie and Sue, are experienced cooks. Howie actually gives cooking classes to seniors in Berkshire, MA where he and Sue live. We had a lovely afternoon in our kitchen, cutting and chopping and mixing and talking.

On the menu were cannollini with Carne e Erbete Stuffing. This recipe has been in my family for generations. My mother and grandparents used it for most family Christmases. It can be used for a variety of purposes: my family would make ravioli with it, preferably con brodo. It can be adapted by substituting sausage and chestnuts for the meat, and serves as a fantastic turkey stuffing at Thanksgiving.

We gave the filling a Piemontese flair by using organic Piemontese Veal and Pork neck meat, and Piemontese Erbete as the green. You can use any type of green, from rucola to spinach to swiss chard to bok choy.

Our second course was Torta di Verze, or Savoy Cabbage Torta, for which the recipe can be found here.

Carne e Erbete Stuffing

Ingredients:

¼ cup olive oil

¼ cup butter

1 large red onion, very finely chopped

2 cloves garlic, minced

2 tablespoons finely chopped parsley

1 teaspoon tomato paste

1 cup quality white wine

¾ pound boneless chicken, veal, pork, or beef

1 pound washed spinach or local greens, blanched and squeezed dry

½ to 1 cup of bread crumbs

2 eggs

1 cup grated Reggiano Parmesan

1-2 bay leaf

¼ teaspoon nutmeg

salt and pepper

Melt butter and oil together in a large pan. Gently cook the onion, garlic, parsley, bay leaf, nutmeg, and a bit of salt and pepper.

Add the tomato paste and continue to simmer until golden.

Then add the wine.

Cook off the wine, and add your boned meats. Simmer until meats are cooked through, adding a little wine if needed. When the meati is cooked through, take out of pan, let cool for a few minutes, and chop finely. Add back to sauce, and add the spinach and the bread crumbs. Mix well and let brown a bit.

Remove from heat and add 2 eggs and the cheese. If stuffing is too soft add more crumbs.

Let cool.

#Nateday Wrap - up

Well, it was a huge success. A total of 136 bloggers posted about Nate Berkus and his new show yesterday, prompting this Tweet from Nate himself :

@Nate_Berkus: Thanks to who particied in #nateday! I have never been so flattered, am printing all blogs today so I can keep forever!

You're welcome, Nate.

That's right. Our blog posts are going in his private scrapbook.

Thanks to Julieann, the Moggits and all the bloggers for making this a fabulous Twitter event!

For me, one of the best parts of the whole thing was discovering multitudes of new, wonderful design blogs. Here's the list!

Nate Berkus, Twitter, the Moggit Girls and Me

I am not a designer. I just play one, on a hill in Italy. That would make me a design hillbilly.

Design used to be my profession, but that was long, long ago. Yes, I have the best blogs to try to keep me current, but listen, I'm not cutting edge. I'm not proud of this, but not ashamed of it either. When you are 51 years old, and your hormones are dropping like a stone in the Grand Canyon and in front of you are mountains of sheets to wash and bread to bake, your hard drive will only accept so much new information about chevrons and checkerboards and the new possibilities of the color turquoise.

Seriously.

Still, I can't quite believe I missed this:

Ok, laugh at me. Shoot me. Sue me. Whatev'.

Most of you with a normal life will recognize this as Nate Berkus, designer to the stars, FOO, and maybe a contender for the best smile in interior design history. I had not a clue about him until yesterday, when in a hot flash moment between ironing and masking taping dog hair off the back seat of the car, I checked my Tweet Deck and saw that my friend Julieann tweeted about the Moggit Girls and some kind of blogging day using the hashtag #nateday.

I felt I should look into this. I trust Juliann's excellent taste and she's one of the designers I really rely on to help me keep my backwater bearings in all this Italian countrytude.

But Nate? Moggits?

First the Moggit Girls. Oh, just go visit their blog. You all probably know about them, too. Those two have it going on. They almost made me spit out red wine on my computer cracking up. I like designers with a sense of humor, I really do.

So, the Moggit Girls apparently had Twitter contact - DIRECT Twitter contact - from Nate Berkus and came up with the idea that Monday, June 13th, will be the day when bloggers far and wide, blog about who else.

What a fabulous idea, I thought. Except I had no clue who he was.

Now, this is where I become exceedingly grateful that I do not live in Vesime. Vesime is a town about 30 minutes from here, where my girlfriend Olivia lives. She can't even get a land line. She's had the application in with Telecom Italia for three years. She lives only with a cell phone. And she has to hold her cell phone at odd angles and stand on her tippy toes to get it to work. So she has no DSL.

You think I'm behind? Let me tell you. You don't know behind until you have to climb a tree and rip your jeans to get your credit card machine to work.

I am so happy I live where I live, because I DO have a landline, and I DO have DSL (even wi fi. I tell you, I'm smokin', baby) and this puts me at an advantage. When I find out that I have missed an entire movement, an entire ERA in a field I used to work in, I can simply Google my heart's content away and find out oodles of information about, for example,

Well, fancy that. Nate's famous.

I decided, for safety sake, to throw out a post on Facebook about Nate. Sort of a fishing expedition to make sure this guy was the real deal. Hillbilly life makes you suspicious of strangers.

When my sister commented that she loves him, I got nervous. Back in the day, I informed HER about trend. That's how it was supposed to work. Now she's a couple of car lengths out in front. Hmmm. Philly 1, Hillbilly 0.

Then my best friend Nancy commented. Nancy lives in the same town we both grew up in. Nancy knows Nate. That means knowledge of Nate has made it to Milford, Pennsyvania. Uh - oh.

But then when my friend Annika from Sweden went on about Nate and Oprah, I knew I was in deep designer doo doo. She's on the same continent as me. THE SAME CONTINENT. She obviously gets Sky up there in the Great Nordic North. With Sky comes Oprah. And clearly, Nate. I don't have Sky. What a difference a cable provider can make.

So here I am, fully exposed, humbled, yet willing to learn. And that's a good thing. Right? RIGHT?

Nate will be having his own show on the Harpo Network starting on September 13th. So we, the blogging world, including those of us who live under a rock, are honoring him by doing simultaneous posts today. You can find a complete list of the #nateday bloggers here.

Now, I would not have bothered if, in my research, I had found that I hate his designs. I happen to think his designs are good. Liveable. Warm. Inviting. And, needless to say, you all are going to enjoy his new show more than I am, since I won't be getting it at all.

I could, and would, live in this room:

So all in all, a stellar day with tons of new info. The Moggits. Nate Day on Twitter. Sis. Nancy. Annika. Now that I am feeling a little more up to date, I think I'll go put on some mascara and turquoise eye shadow.

Sniff.

When you tell your butcher you'd like a little osso bucco

..and you happen to live in Italy, he takes you very seriously....

Recipe to follow...

Life Goes On

Life continues in our valley. I thank all of you who have commented, thought about us and prayed over the last days.

Over the last three months, our thoughts and days have been filled with Franco's illness. While we were trying to get our project done and our new room finished, our thoughts were across the street, with our friends. They allowed us to be there as often as we wanted, and we spent a good deal of time with Franco, right up to his last day. I am eternally thankful that we had that time with him. We watched as his family took amazingly good care of him, but it was always coupled with a deep sense inside of them that they could not do more. They could not make him better.

I have learned a great deal through this experience. I have never been so close to a terminal illness before. I suffered from the distance when my father was ill, only being able to visit occasionally. I was present when my father passed away, but I know the labor that went into keeping him going prior to that, which was shouldered primarily by my mother and my sister. In spending time with Franco during his last few months, I felt able to give forward some of what I could not give to my dad. This is a great comfort to me, and the fact that the Parodi family accepted and understood this was wonderful.

It hurt like hell to watch Franco suffer. The release of his suffering, and the love that he brought to us and to so many others lets us breathe easier. Of course we will miss him, every single day. But with the gifts he gave to us, the things he taught us, we also have the ability to honor his memory by going on.

In case you are wondering what these pictures are...

The first was taken after this fabulous team of four moved my kiln for the third time. Beppe, Franco, Aldo, and Micha are enjoying a post -back-breaking- work-aperativo.

The second was taken a few years ago during the spring. It's not Franco. Franco is actually driving the tractor. Aldo, his buddy is on that pallet. They came up here to trim our fruit trees. Aldo came riding up ON THE PALLET. It scared the bejezuz out of me, to be honest, but we figured they knew what they were doing. We drank an aperitivo together afterwards, I remember well.

Oh, the good old days.

We are lucky to have the memories.

Franco Parodi December 15, 1944 - June 8, 2010

Our beloved Franco passed away at 5.00 pm this afternoon.

He suffered too much and we are very grateful that he is at peace.

We are inconsolably sad and feel lost.

He was such a good friend, the best kind of friend. The kind that gives everything and asks nothing.

We love you, Franco.

Olive Oil Soap

At the beginning of this season, I realized that I had just about run out of those little pre-packaged hotel soaps. My pack of them had lasted five years. To be honest, I was never happy with them. They looked, well, like pre-packaged hotel soaps. I have other bath items, like shampoo and shower gel, which are spa products that I love (although I hate all the packaging - too much plastic). But the soaps were nothing special. So I decided to take a different tack.

I bought bulk olive oil soap, made in Marsailles of 72% olive oil. I am breaking the blocks down into small pieces and wrapping them in unbleached paper and raffia. A solution that fits our concept. A beautiful product, and a lovely, pure touch.

Small Inspiration

from liquid sky arts

thanks to lucinda for the link

If These Old Walls Could Talk

Living in an old house brings its own set of joys and challenges. It's easy to get cranky when thick mortar and stone won't warm up like drywall and fiberglass insulation. But it's amazing to see how stones, exposed through sand blasting, bring a touch of authentic age to a house, like the first few strands of grey on one's 40th birthday. There is a positive and negative energy to an old home, and one must accept both if one is to truly enjoy living in one.

We know some of the history of our house. We know, for example, that Pierre Luigi Parodi was born here in 1937, in the bedroom of what is now our suite. He is the oldest of the Parodi brothers, Sergio being the middle, and Franco, our best friend here being the youngest. I often think of that time, when water came from the well and the fields were tilled by ox. The Parodi family owned the house until the early 40s, farming Moscato grapes here.

Besides Pierre Luigi, I often wonder what other children were born here, and who died in the house as well. How many joyous celebrations were held, how many fights over bad harvests and lost money, how much love was made and love was lost. The house is over 400 years old. I am sure, very sure, there have been epics written here, small epics about the extraordinary nature of every day lives. While the Revolutionary war was being fought in the Thirteen Colonies, bread was being baked in the bread oven in our house. While Napoleon was retreating from Russia, women on my hill were tending their vegetable garden.

It is a strange feeling of continuum that this house keeps going. I touch the walls, wondering what secrets they hold, wishing I could know more. At the same time I know that my life, right now, is one of the secrets they will hold for someone else.