The Heart's Stone

I have this stone that I found on the beach in Nice at the very end of last year. It's shaped like a funny pickle, or depending how you look at it - a Henry Moore miniature. It's commonplace and grand at the same time. It seems to be my heart's stone. Each day that I glance at it, it's seemingly different. Yes, sure it retains its same basic shape, but the lines on its smooth skin change depending on the hour or on the warmth of my palm. It's my heart's stone. It's the pure essence of dichotomy, because it's at once something unchanging, unyielding, and yet open to everything. It's open to the world, to the marks of man, and open to its own personal wisdom of how it once belonged to something much bigger than itself. It's my heart's stone. And it is this stone that I cup in my hand that brings me the strength to keep searching in favor of my dream, in favor of my heart. Things are often unknowable to modern man, unknowable to me; but I find the truth of hundreds of years, of wars, of the past, and the fate of the natural world in this rock. It's my heart's stone. It is smooth, save for one deep small crevice where it was detached from its mother stone. The crack reminds me that all things came from somewhere, and we all are headed somewhere, even when things are dark, and there is absolutely no presence of the moon. My heart's stone sits on my bedside table, and it is there to bid me good night, and good morning each night and day. It's my heart's stone. I have this stone that I found on the beach in Nice at the very end of last year. It's shaped like a funny pickle, or depending how you look at it - a Henry Moore miniature. It's amazing that it was put in my gaze, and now is temporarily in my possession. It seems to react to its new environment, by showing me the way of the world through its ever changing white lines. Its capricious. It's my heart's stone. It is forever stagnant. It is forever active. The lines of its trials and tribulations, of its triumphs, of its magnitude are there for all to see. And for now, it's the closest thing I have to enlighten me about the mysteries of the universe. It's my heart's stone. It gives me the will to proceed with my plans. It gives my heart the light it needs to realize the dreams I hold dear. It's my heart's stone.

Zucchero

There's nothing more comforting to me than someone asking "how are you?" Especially when it comes in Italian: "Come stai?" Lately, I've needed to be asked this. In Italian. By a man. It wasn't a close friend who asked me recently. "Come stai?" It was Zucchero, the eponymous Italian pop singer. And he wasn't directing his heartfelt question at me, but no matter, I'll take it. It's no small wonder that his name means "sugar" in Italian, as his music goes down easy. Very easy. And nothing has touched me more in these last days, as the warm way his sugary manly voice sings "come stai," in his pop ballad "Senza Una Donna" or "Without a Woman." I've had that song on repeat, or more precisely, I've hit the back-up button, so I could hear him say "come-stai?" Crazy? Yes, a little. But I'm a woman in transition, and I need all the cuddly warmth I can get my hands on. My heart and soul are already in Italy, just have to get the practicalities to follow. The need to be there is not borne out of a scraping need to be with any one person, but just an itching need to be in the country; to be living and working in that enveloping bloom of a place that has arrested my heart and my head. It seems my life depends on it. Dramatic? Yes! But I've never been a wall-flower, or a pansy, I want what I want. And I want this, and I see very clearly that there is no choice, but to have it. And to have it soon. Until then, Zucchero, will ask me how I am, to which I'll reply, "cosi-cosi," or so-so, or even "bene bene," or good good. But what I really want to say is "buonissima," roughly translated as luxurious, or terrifically wonderful. And I can only say that when I'm there, in Italy.

Movin' Out

What's there to say? I'm movin' out. I'm moving out of the small, charming apartment that marked the beginning of my "adulthood" - of living alone, and independent from parents, boyfriends, and pets. It was just me. Me and the skylight, me and the cat urine that would sometimes seep into my apartment from the reclusive, crazy downstairs that keeps twenty-five cats as prisoners in her small studio. I don't really know how many poor cats are shacked up in there, but it smells like the detritus of two thousand five hundred unhappy felines. But the apartment afforded me a look into myself, what I want to do, what am I doing, and what am I going to do? The apartment also bore witness to my ruts, my fits of joy, of sadness, of anger, of disillusionment, and of excitement. If the walls had ears, they would say, "Gee Clover, you've lived a hundred lives in this apartment." And now I am leaving. Where am I going, my friends want to know. I am temporarily moving into my parent's home before I relocate to Europe. My girlfriend just asked me if I'm freaking out? No, I replied. I have a goal in mind. If I didn't have a goal, I would be indeed, freaking out. But there's the rest of my good life waiting for me; and I want it to start right away, right now in fact. I am looking forward to it. So there's the boxes, the packing, the temporary feeling of regression as I reintegrate myself into my old childhood room, but those feelings and reactions will be fast and sweeping, and perhaps a little reassuring before everything in my life changes rather drastically. I will miss the overwhelming, all-encompassing light in my apartment from the skylight that stupidly sits above my bed. Don't think I ever got a good night of sleep in this apartment, as a cause of the light from the sun and moon. Recently, there was some sort of pigeon massacre on the other side of the glass. And now there is a sad, grisly postmortem display of feathers, and disembodied pigeon legs hanging. This has framed my view of the sky these past few days. Terrible. You probably think at this point that I live in an animal house, I don't, I didn't. There were just some problems with the place, it was, shall we say, less than ideal. And now it's an end of an era for me. I don't quite feel it yet. But I haven't started to pack yet, and maybe once I do, and see the remnants of the life I lived in this here apartment, I will feel differently. But I don't think so. I'm "Movin' Out." Thanks for the song Billy Joel. I'll listen to it while I'll box up my old life.

Defective

I'm not nearly as obnoxious about my birthday as I used to be. In fact, this past January 29th marked a special kind of birthday-bashfulness on my part. Friends and family were not used to it; they thought something was wrong. I was out-of-character reasonable. I reminded friends a mere two or three times that it was my birthday month, my birthday week, my birth day. Nothing's wrong, except that I want to get back to Italy. My mind is fixed on this goal. Nothing can deter me; even my birthday. Funny thing is that New York also was rather blase about it. My birthday that is. No surprise there. It hates me, remember? Anyway, plans fell through, lunch at an expensive restaurant was unforgettably disappointing, and the pear tart (I don't like cake) that my mom ordered in commemoration of my birth did not make an appearance. The bakery forgot to make it. It seems that the gradual forward-motion in my life is not allowable in this city; and that's why I choose to continue the rest of my life in Italy. But what really got my inner goat, and at the same time tickled my funny bone is what I saw in the depths of the subway. Not a rat. But something much more literal which has stayed with me nearly two weeks later. The story is small, but it speaks large. In an effort to refill her MetroCard, my mom tried four of those darling MetroCard vending machines, whose sole purpose is to refill. None of them worked. The MTA attendant who happened to be standing there jotting some never-ending note on her pad, observed my mother's frustration, but did nothing to alleviate it. My mom asked her repeatedly if she could help us. We didn't even get a nod of recognition. But I noticed that the MTA worker had some sort of name tag on her lapel, and instead of a name, it just read "Defective." My mom whispered to me and asked me if it said "Detective?" No, I said, just "Defective." "Defective" like the help we were not getting, "Defective" in the way you can spend a fortune in NY and still receive mediocre, or even bad food, "Defective" in the way people just ram into each other on any given sidewalk, and don't say sorry, "Defective" as in imperfect in form and function, faulty. This city is faulty. And it's also funny because it pokes fun at itself, like the woman proudly and defiantly wearing the word "Defective" as her namesake. She finally looked up, as if she heard me call her name. "What can I do for you?" she just barely inquired, one eye stuck on her God-forsaken pad. My mom explained she just wanted to refill. "Defective" replied, if you can call it a reply. "What aspect of your refilling is not working." My mom glanced at me, and said namely the refilling. Darling "D" then repeated her question. Gee, "aspect" was the word of the evening alongside "D" for "Defective." Nothing was resolved, and my mom left refill-less. My birthday turned out to be somewhat defective, but I could care less. I just want to defect.

The Glow

Sometimes moms are right. I'd like to think my mom is more right than wrong when it comes to a lot of things. She is especially right when it comes to The Glow. I've been hearing about the effects of The Glow for sometime now; ever since I was little. And for all intents and purposes The Glow always does its job as glows tend to do. The details are the following. Each and every time I go away on a trip, it has to be overseas for some unknown reason, and I come back to NY, I have a post-coital glow about me. It's not that I have been making love to an entire foreign country, but in a sense the foreign country has been making love to me. The stranger status serves me well on foreign soil, and I am made welcome, primed, and handed back to my homeland in better condition than when I left. The Glow is ephemeral though, and just like love, you never know when and where it will take its last bow. But there is a never-ending supply of Glows to be had, which makes me happy when my Glow is up. Anyway, let me tell you about my latest Glow; the Glow I got from my three month stay in Italy where I worked and loved and ate and drank. I think that this Glow is the longest-lasting, and the most potent. This Glow has given me more than any other Glow in the past. It has bequeathed on me an airy, light demeanor, full of happiness, and mystery. It's like I ordered to Glow to go, with exact specifications, and maybe I was just ready for it. But here goes. New York, you know the one that has hated me for some time, has treated me differently since I've returned from Italy. There is no simple understanding of this phenomenon. I think it's a matter of mathematics, having no common division except unity, or something about magnetic force or planetary conjunction. Anyway, I'll cut the mumbo-jumbo. It's about unity. Unity of thought, of dreams, of experience, of love, of happiness. I seem to sparkle even when I'm taking my dog out in the slush, even though I haven't taken a shower, and my nose is shiny, and I even might smell. Men stare, women stare. What's it all about? Inner peace? Men talk to me, women talk to me. People return my calls. Wow-wee. Thank you Glow! But when is the honeymoon over? When will the Glow fade? Is it gradual? Or is it wham-bam, Glow gone? Which would be easier? I don't know, both options are for the birds! But hark! I am returning to Italy soon. For a long time. Maybe for a lifetime. I'll get a whole new Glow on. And when I return to NY one day, for a visit, people might just freeze up, because they know that I know that my Glow is contagious. As all happiness and good feelings are. Clo thanks you for the Glow. So, my advice is to go away if you can, preferably to Europe, and come back, and you will experience a whole new reaction. And don't be afraid to lose the Glow, because everything after all is temporary.

Porta Palazzo

Oh, the Porta Palazzo! It's kind of nice just to say it. Porta Palazzo, Porta Palazzo, Porta Palazzo. I like the way it just rolls off my tongue, sexy-like, and liberated from the clench of the jaw; like the way most Italian words just enter the world uninhibited and gorgeous. For those who are not in the know, Porta Palazzo is a giant food market situated, almost plopped, in the middle of the suave city of Turin. I have been hearing about it for some time, and so I decided to discover it all by my lonesome. It was a beautiful Saturday morning in late November, and I was bright and excited to experience the market to end all markets. Vegetables, fruits, fish, cheese, olives, awaited my arrival. But the beautiful Saturday morning morphed into heavy rain and below zero temperatures, but I was determined. I had a cappucino at my favorite cafe, and a toast. A toast here at least, is a pressed sandwich, sort of like a panino, with ham and cheese oozing out. I felt pretty good after that duo, and sort of waltzed out into the rain, towards the train station. Trains were delayed, as they always are in Italy, it was an hour and a half before the next one, and so I called my friend for a chat, and maybe yet another coffee. She was game, but she wanted something more substantial. I said I would accompany her, but only have a water. Who am I kidding? We went to one of Bra's most venerable eateries, virtually unchanged in decades. The owner is a funny but grumpy middle-aged man, and he sort of just gets by muttering half-truths out and into the heads of customers. My friend had her heart set on egg noodles with truffle shavings. It's still high truffle season here. I tried to be resolute and only stick with water, because I was full, damn that toast, but I could feel my will crumbling. I heard myself say, "I'll have one too." My friend cackled at my lack of discipline. She said, well, Clover, you're only in Italy for a few months, why not indulge, and so I did. If there's a heaven, and I don't think there is, this was it. I mean, I could have made love to that dish. I could have spent a life with that dish. I could have worn that dish around. Anyway, after the orgasmic offerings, I got on the train, stuffed and happy. I emerged a little plumper in Turin, and searched for the market in the rain. And then I arrived. And it was too much. Overwhelming, endless rows of vegetables and fruits, greens, olives, smoked fish, cheese, I was paralyzed, and my umbrella broke. So now here I was a rapidly becoming plump tourist with a broken umbrella and eyes full of wonderment. I only bought three things at the market that day, and one of the purchases proved to be, perhaps the most inconvenient, and stupid. A woman from Sicily was selling her wares, and because she was wrapping up her day at the coliseum, she was selling two kilos of clementines for one euro. What a deal! I'll take them. I had no foresight about what it would be like to carry 2 kilos of clementines in the rain, in the crowds, in the sheer pandemonium of a Saturday evening in Turin. Note to self and reader: two kilos is heavy. It's something like six or seven pounds. And then for added comic effect, the clementines found a way out of the thin plastic bag, and they began to plop themselves here and there and everywhere around Porta Palazzo, leaving a trail for a pack of Arabs that started to follow me. This is not fiction, I swear. In the last ten years or so, Porta Palazzo has become more and more infiltrated by other cultures, and now the market houses a majority of Arab vegetable and fruit purveyors. Anyway, they must have sensed a sister among them, apparently they could smell that I had some middle-eastern in me, and began to follow me. We're not talking a dribble of men, but hoards, throngs, almost as if I was a bitch in heat, and a pack of dogs were on my trail. The thing is that I could not lose them, because the clementine trail afforded them a supreme advantage. I started to walk briskly, and entered the indoor part of the market, that is really comprised of meat and cheese. I hid behind a giant carcass, and managed to buy some walnut gorgonzola, and then some olives. If pushed, I could perhaps use the gorgonzola to smother the offenders, and the olives to stone them. The meat and animal parts started to depress me, so I exited quickly, pulled my pathetic, broken umbrella almost over my face, and ran towards the center. At this point, my clementine bag was light - I think only one remained. I ran to the train in the rain without getting slain but in significant pain, as I stubbed my toe at the ticket booth. Finally I managed to get on the train, and sat down all sweaty. I looked at my sad purchases, one runny gorgonzola oozing out of the wax paper, one sad heap of olives, and one clementine. It was then and there that I ended the clementine's reign over me. I ate it. It was satisfying. Oh my darling, oh my darling clementine.

A Unique Change of Pace

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I have been a privileged beholder of beauty for exactly two weeks now. My arrival to Bra from New York has been an eye-opener in warmth, great food, wine, and of course, the‘b’word - beauty. I’ve been familiarizing myself with all types of it, big and small, say a snow-capped mountain, or a little glossy chocolate wrapper that is as gorgeous as the little treasure found inside it. Its not like I’ve been starved of beauty, but I’m rather used to the
steel and grit kind, the hard beauty a la Max Ernst, instead of the soft touches of Cezanne.

I am having a little adventure, similar to the one I experienced two years ago, when I interviewed a magnificent set of British and Scottish food producers for Slow Food UK. And while I’ve only interviewed three so far in the Piedmont region, the experiences have been unique, and again beautiful, whetting my appetite in more ways than one, for what’s to come.
In other words, I am granted perspective on a perspective that’s new to me, all around gorgeousity. How will I readapt to NY? I don’t have to think about that for another couple of months.

So here goes. First stop was Signora Raffaella Firpo who produces the Capriglio Pepper (a member of the Piedmontese presidia), a small munchkin cousin of the regular gigantic bell pepper. The dainty Capriglio was threatened with possible extinction until Firpo took this precious vegetable under her wing where it grows just a hop, skip, and a jump from her lovely sanctuary Cascina Piola. Signora Firpo epitomizes the crux of what Slow Food is all about. More than twenty years ago, she left city life for Capriglio, and escaped with her husband and young children to rediscover and work with the land. She refurbished an old house, and created there an ode to the land, and an ode to the joys of farm to table. In addition to growing the peppers, Firpo has melons, squash, lettuces, and a little store where she sells the preserves of her vegetables. The process of preserving is a considerable family legacy, one that she has fortified with the very act of growing special things with her own very special hands.

Next on the list, is the Orbassano Red Celery producers at Cascina Gorgias and their great glowing root and stalks that were once a common item found in the market gardens near Turin from the 17th century on. But, sadly, the celery went out of fashion after World War II because of its demanding cultivation process and relatively low profitability. The lovely almond essence and iconic red base of this unique vegetable might have been lost on the Piedmontese, if it weren’t for a devoted few men in Orbassano. Cascina Gorgias is a 62 hectare oasis of pets, pond and green. It’s a wonderland of bunnies, chinchillas, horses, cockatiels, chickens, and alone peacock. And the celery is left undisturbed to do its duty. Cascina Gorgias also houses a restaurant, and a store should you feel inclined to buy some of the very ‘local’ products.

Last but not least, there are the mountains of Castelmagno, that almost led me off the precipice plummeting into a giant beauty vat. There was a possibility of plummeting literally a la Grace Kelly, if you were too ‘focussed’ on the magnificent view, as the guard rails on that steep windy road were few and far between. What’s there to say about those mountains, that air, that water that you drink up there - that is cool, crisp, and a true gift? If anything could possibly top it, it must be the centuries old Castelmagno cheese made up in those mountains that is sheer bliss, and Georgio Amedeo whose passion is the production of that cheese. ‘Art’ would be a better word to use than ‘production.’ Amedeo sees that Castelmagno is made the same way it was hundreds of years ago. What does the cheese taste like? Like pure cow essence, mountain air, dew, straw, grass, and perhaps even the divine touch of a Castelmagno ancestor or two, leading us the way to nirvana.

New York is a far cry from what I’ve experienced thus far. The skyline seems a little dusty in my mind’s eye at the moment. I have mountains on my mind.