Vin Santo, Enrico and 'La Cippolata'

You never forget your first time

........... drinking Vin Santo. When I first tasted the sweet wine, my mouth felt like it was being romanced by a worldly, elegant, and very fascinating suitor. I was living in Siena in 1995 when I first was introduced to this unearthly delicacy. My twenty-four year old american palette was hardly sophisticated, and I was just beginning to develop a taste for the universally famous wines of The Tuscany. I had decided to study in Siena at the University for Foreigners as part of my Italian Studies degree. I was enchanted by the prospects of studying what's said to be the truest form of the Italian language in the dreamlike medieval hillside city. Siena is famous for its Duomo, The Palio horse race, the breathtaking Piazza del Campo, its medieval iconography; the works of such great artists as Duccio, Simone Martini, and Pietro and Ambrogio Lorenzetti. It was a special place, where every other breath you took was a reminder of how lucky you were to be walking its romantic cobblestone streets. I was instantly interested in the history of everything 'Senese' and of 'La Toscana'. The stories about the origins of Vin Santo vary widely. It was consumed in church masses from at least the middle ages onward, thus making it a 'holy' wine. And legend has it that monks in Siena around the time of The Great Plague used it to heal the sick, which would also give it its 'of the saints' rep. If you are a fan of Vin Santo, we can agree on the fact that its taste is a 'holy moly' thing of beauty.

I was quite taken with the Vin Santo all by itself, when a large plate of 'cantuccini' was brought out and placed next to the wine. Cantuccini are almond biscotti and are the "Robin" sidekick in the dynamic dessert duo of "Vin Santo e Cantuccini". 'Cantuccini' is the diminutive form of the word 'cantuccio' which in Tuscan dialect means "the corner", as is the shape of the cookie. I for one found it an out-of-body experience dunking a semi-soft almond biscuit into a delicate caramel flavored wine, and had to close my eyes as they melded together in a symphony for my tastebuds. I also found myself monitoring my consumption of the duo, not wanting to appear to be pigging out in front of my new foreign language student friends. Ummm, Vin Santo, another great reason to be in Siena for the next six months.... The dessert is famous on any Tuscan menu, and around a table of Sienese, symbolizes their show of friendship and hospitality. Wouldn't you know it- those six months turned into four incredible years that I ended up living in and around Siena.

In the fall of '96 I was staying in a great apartment in the center of Siena while doing an apprenticeship in the artisan craft of gilding. One night while at a small bar in town I met Enrico. He was a Milan native, and also doing an apprenticeship in goldsmithing. A fifteen year friendship was born. There were many afternoons that his Maestro, the dear and departed Valerio Passerini, would take us out for lunch in the small, one- trattoria towns of Orgia, Buonconvento, and Monte San Savino. We'd split homestyle dishes of 'Cinghiale in Umido', wild boar stew, 'Ribollita', vegetable, bean and bread soup, or 'Salumi Tipici e Pecorino Fresco', local salami and fresh pecorino cheese. For dessert, a piece of 'Torta della Nonna', like pound cake, filled with vanilla custard and covered with pine nuts, and ..... for good measure, 'perche' ci sta sempre bene', because it always goes well, Vin Santo. Wherever there were unforgettable encounters with dear friends during my years in Siena, there was Vin Santo.

I just got back from a three week trip to Siena where I reunited with many special old friends, and of course with Enrico, still making beautiful jewelry out in The Ville di Corsano, and now a maestro in his own right. I reminded him of an amazing sauce that he had made for a group of us on a few occasions. He called it La Cippollata, 'la cipolla' being onion. We'd finely slice up a whole bag of seven or eight large onions, let them caramelize in good olive oil, and then add canned tomato. We'd slow cook the sauce for a couple of hours, to be served over spaghetti, or 'pici', thick tubular pasta, and as a final ingredient add in Vin Santo. It gave the sweet and pungent sauce a unique flavor dimension that was unforgettable. The night before I left, we had a 'Buon viaggio Danielle' blast where all my sienese friends were brought together. Beatrice, Enrico, Paolo, e Cinzia, cari amici del cuore......We talked for hours about old times, dreams realized, and new dreams to be chased, and the Vin Santo was only an arms reach away.

Nostalgia 1980

June 2010

by Danielle Boiardi

I remember a paperback book by Wayne Dyer being in our living room around 1980. I wondered what it had to say, but was busy pleading with my Dad to buy me a pair of Nike sneakers that everyone had. Dr. Dyer and my Dad both had moustaches, only Dadʼs was darker. I worried about lots of things like why wont Mom buy “manwich” and the jars of peanut butter and jelly that were swirled together. I worried about our family. Iʼve been listening to Wayne Dyer in my car relentessly over the past few weeks and I get why his book made its way into our house way back then. Our house was the official house of “self-defeating behaviors”. Mom and Dad got divorced in 1980 but they decided to buy a house together anyway to keep the kids together and our lives more simple. Huh? Confusing concept, I know...Dad was to have the top floor and the basement which had the second kitchen. So he cut a hole in the second floor staircase to make a pass-thru. My sister and I shared a bedroom which was also on the top floor and we would use the funky staircase to maneuver our way up and down our odd labyrinth household. We were a couple of smarties, and realized even then how absurd this whole set-up was, but that stupid and dangerous thing gave us a place to play, hide, and eventually we got really fast at jumping around its 90 degree turn. Our room was yellow, with handmade curtains and bedspreads made by our dear, talented seamstress Nana. Dadʼs room was next to ours, with wood paneling and dormer spaced closets. One held his bags and vitamin stash which we would get into to raid the vitamin E capsules and squoosh them on the floor, which I now realize was both for stress relief and fun. There was that great poster of Farrah Fawcett in that closet too, in her swimsuit, head back, hair flowing. It gave me a strange comfort to see her picture in there, all blonde and glowing. Now she is gone. The other closet had Dadʼs remarkable collection of Playboy and Penthouse magazines dating back to the fifties. There was a small bathroom up there where Mom was found gasping for air one afternoon around 1982. She had suffered a collapsed lung and luckily dad came home early that day. Virginia Slims slogan back then was “Youʼve come a long way baby”, Mom even had the t-shirt. They just forgot to say that if your lung collapses from smoking that toxic shit youʼll need help to pry yourself off the floor. Mom and Dad were both too scared to live alone and move on. Dad had an easier time of it though. He would go out every friday night wearing his Dingo boots to a bar called the Cheshire Cat. I donʼt remember my Mom dating , and we kept busy watching Mash, Happy Days and Threeʼs Company. Neither of my parents were very emotionally secure, and still are not. There was a John Denver album always hanging around that I loved hearing, “Ay Calypso the places youʼve been to , the things that youʼve shown us, the stories youtell.... I wished that any one of us felt that carefree. I thought John Denver wouldʼve lived a long life, but sadly not.

Wayne Dyerʼs message back then was all about changing self-defeating behaviors,which neither of my parents read, or if they did, it fell on deaf ears. There was constant discord and arguing in that house. Strangely enough, we had very lavish Christmases, and no shortage of order by mail chocolate logs. I stayed home lots from school,probably because it was the only time I could get peace and quiet.

The 914 Broadway house was a circus, but I would die to smell that upstairs woodpaneling, sit on the closet floor and smell Dadʼs old musty albums and magazines thatare now long gone. I couldʼve read that Erroneous Zones book myself and maybe gotten something out of it had I known I might need his message today. Now, thirty years later, I am listening to him in my car remind me that we must live in the now, and not blame our parents for shit that went wrong in our lives. Itʼs a huge idea to live a life without excuses. The present is the only time that matters, and I have just as much power now as I did all those years ago. I would, however, like to remember how I felt back then, when I was 9. So despite all the sadness and chaos of that time, Iʼm filled with nostalgia for 1980....

Oh no. A chin hair. The quest for an explanation.

August 2010

Oh no. A chin hair. The quest for an explanation.

The other day while looking in my rear-view window, I noticed a terrifying sight. It was not a fast approaching tornado ready to swallow up my car, nor was it Jason Voorhees from Halloween ready to slash me. It was a chin hair. Even worse, it was long and it was white. Horrible images flashed through my mind. First, I thought of crazy mediterranean gypsy women, the likes of whom might sacrifice a chicken for good luck. Next I thought of The Stygian Witches from the original Clash of the Titans movie who had scared me to death when I saw it for the first time in 1981. I had been seeing a stray grey hair or two pop up on my head for a few years already, but this was a different story. I then realized that the real scare of the discovery was that I was reaching middle age. There are lots of things a person can do to fight social or legal injustice, but what about aging injustice? I take care of myself. I eat my fruits and veggies. I'm fit. I've even cleansed with the lemonade drink. Why the *#@! was this happening? Although I'm half Italian, in other words, "mediterranean", I've never had issues with dark or unwanted hair growth. I never really felt I had to do any facial waxing, and always thought of waxing in general as a barbaric ritual. I really had to wrap my mind around this one, and come to a place of acceptance. I had my twentieth high school reunion not long ago, and I get that I'm not twenty-something anymore. Frankly, I'm much wiser and happier being in my thirties. But still, I felt I needed to do some research to see why more facial hair sprouts as we age. Apparently, this is usually part of normal skin changes associated with aging, and certainly can be a hereditary trait. Hmmmm, Nana is Sicilian..... On a more serious note, having lots of excess hair growth can be a sign of hormonal imbalance called hirsutism. It can also be a sign of menopause. If you have irregular periods, hair growth can be one side effect, as androgens, (male type hormones) increase. One hair or two doesn't mean that you're necessarily having a medical issue, but it does make you wonder why Mother Nature has such a messed up sense of humor. So when I got home that day, I prioritized to get the tweezer and pluck that thing to kingdom come. By the way, it is a wives tale that plucking hairs will make them grow back coarser. Afterwards, however, I was hit with a strange touch of guilt. It was the same feeling that had come over me after plucking a few greys from my hair in the past. Was I committing an offense to my rightful, hard earned maturity by banishing the grey from my head? Perhaps. But I decided that the chin hair fell into another more dastardly category. I wouldn't obsess about the aging process, but simply resign myself to the idea of having to pluck a hair or two from the chin geography every now and then. Big deal. I'm trying to keep my eye on the bigger picture these days, reinventing my career, volunteering at my local theatre renovation, and have nearly finished my first novel. I decided I have no time to sweat the small stuff, or an occasional chin hair. The pen is mightier than the sword, and I wont leave home anymore without my tweezer.

Coochy Coochy Coup

An Expose• on Bikini Waxing and the Plight of the Uninsured Glamorous Woman

by Danielle Boiardi

Recently, I was feeling like I needed a little glamour before leaving for a vacation to visit friends. So I called my friend “Amelia” to have her book me for a bikini wax at thespa where she works. I had never had a bikini wax before, and frankly was alwaysturned off of the whole idea of waxing after seeing a friend of mine wax her father•s back on the living room floor of our apartment. I guess I thought a bikini wax would make mefeel pampered, taken care of, and yes, a little Hollywood. Despite the relaxing, poshatmosphere of this chic upscale town spa, the waxing experience was anything butpampering and glamorous. Truthfully, it was awkward, excruciating, and a rather ridiculous ritual. Believe it or not, women have been manicuring their southern statessince around 1500 AD. “The American” leaves you with a basic trim of the bikini line, “The French” leaves you with just a landing strip- for brave girls with sight- challengedboyfriends, and “The Brazilian”, or “Playboy” wax takes it all off as the name suggests.As I didn•t give any direction to my friend, who recently became an estetician, I endedup with a landing strip plus a bit. I will also tell you that my poor coochy underwent avery painful experience both during the waxing, and for four days after. I did feel more “trim” in my bathing suit, but I also felt really irritated, self- conscious, and stupid. I wastold that the first time wax will be the most painful, and then they hurt less if doneregularly. If you haven•t ever had one, you can check out some crazy videos on Youtubethat sneak -peak the vibe of this trend.

The experience and my discomfort after seeking out what I thought would make mefeel glamorous, got me thinking that deep down, I don•t feel very “taken care of” thesedays. We pay an absurd amount of attention to the details of appearance. Waxing has been popular in Brazil and Europe for ages and is now more mainstream than ever herein the U.S. But It•s somehow more acceptable to me to live in a country that•s hyper-focused on beauty and appearance when you feel that society firstly places value onyour inner health. France and Brazil both have national health care, while we still do not.It seems it could finally be on the horizon, but for an ever increasing number of us, it can•t happen soon enough. I work for myself, and finally bought into a private plan afterbeing uninsured for over six years. The small business I contracted with didn•t provide insurance despite the fact that myself and my co-workers worked full time hours. I stayed working there at least partly because it afforded me the money to pay for my own health insurance, but because I couldn•t afford to live in New york City, I bunked three or four nights weekly with my 97 year- old Nana in her one bedroom apartment in New Jersey- yes, this was a totally crazy way to live week toweek, but it at least allowed me to hold a decent paying job. I eventually realized thatmy job was presenting actual health problems and greater risks overall to my physical and mental health, than leaving, and not having the income to afford to be part of the now elite class of the insured.

I haven•t had health insurance for five months since having to cancel my plan. I willmention that I practically needed a part time secretary to get them to pay on my claimsanyway. Working for myself, I make too much to get subsidized health insurance and yet too little to afford a decent plan where I live. My friend “Amelia”, the estetician, doesn•t have insurance either. She used to work three jobs to support herself and still made little enough to get medicaid. But after she worked hard to get schooling to have anew career, she started making just slightly more money so that the state of New York dropped her Medicaid. Only now, she still doesn•t make near enough to pay for a privateplan on her own. She ironically called me the week after my plebian wax, worried thatshe had a serious bladder infection but didn•t have the money to go see a doctor, and likely pay a month•s salary for exams. Besides doing waxing, “Amelia” gives verypersonal, doting facials and skin care advise to women who, for the most part don•t have our money struggles ( Attention: conservatives/ national health care enemies-We both have college educations and work full time jobs and still can•t afford to be insured!) and in a moment when she realized she needed serious medical care, it was out of herreach. I could hear desperation in her voice and imagine she felt like a degradedsecond class citizen. So many of us can•t even find the luxury time to feel pissed off about what•s going on in this country because we•re so busy just trying to get by.

Yes, we are a pretty nation. Pretty messed up. There is no priority for health, dignity or basic rights of people in this country. Those politicians and their fearful misinformed flock who work against the progress of pro-national health care reform should have their heads hot waxed.

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 11, 2010

Why Caponata?

Making a good caponata takes the same crazy mix of ingredients that you'd put into a well balanced life. It's all about the sweet and the savory working together in harmony. Nana taught me to make la caponata years ago when I was in my early teens. She has been eating this delicious eggplant relish her whole life and is still going strong at 98, her longevity yet another reason to add it to your recipe box. The foundational first ingredients of the caponata are onions and celery, two stalks or so, that are browned in olive oil. This is not a recipe that should be rushed, so slow down and take your time. While the onion mix is cooking down you should be well into chopping up the eggplant into small-medium size cubes. There is no exact amount of eggplant, but I use two to three decent size long and thin eggplant for every onion. Nana has convinced me that the thinner eggplant will cook up to be more tender, and not so bitter as the more rotund examples. Help the chopped eggplant slide down the cutting board into the pan. If you are having "one of those days", make a caponata. If the sun is shining outside but you're still feeling blue, make a caponata. You should let the eggplant get slightly soft and start to unite the mix you've got so far. Open a large can of crushed tomato and add it to the happy pot. Stir the mix so that the tomato well covers the eggplant mixture. Do this with love and patience, the flame should be low now, and you can take a little while to daydream,....thoughts of Italy, of Nana's New Jersey kitchens, of your first kiss, etc., while the eggplant cooks down further. If you haven't done so yet, put on some of your favorite music. Once the sauce has cooked "into" the eggplant mix, add one cup of red vinegar to the mix. Follow the vinegar with one cup of sugar. Give the new and improved, about to turn sassy mix a good stir through. You'll also need some green and black olives. You can use just one kind or the other, but the caponata wont be as colorful, and trust me, it's just as pretty a dish to look at as it is tasty to eat. Nana taught me to chop them in half, and even a little smaller is fine, but don't go too small. Think hearty. Now comes the wonderfully salty, joyful little capers. Add enough so that they're "easy to find" in the mix, but don't go overboard or the caponata could end up being more salty than sweet. We don't want that. One time, I was making a caponata and was doing a little too much talking with my roommate and instead of pouring a cup of sugar into the mix, I measured out a cup of salt from a storage jar, and needless to say, there was no saving it. It was salt city, and the batch was done in. So.... daydream yes, but be present in the kitchen. Once the capers are in you can add a bit of pepper to taste, you shouldn't need to add salt, as the olives and capers take care of that task. Let the mixture continue to cook a bit more on a low heat, and then "ci siamo", we've got a caponata. It's nice to eat hot, over pasta or even couscous, but my favorite way to eat it is chilled from the fridge. Great on a cracker, by itself, or paired with some nice fresh italian cheese. It's a great "go to" recipe when you need to check out for a bit from the stress of life, or if you want to make something special for yourself or for someone you really love. Mille grazie Nana.

POSTED BY DANIELLE BOIARDI AT 9:10 AM 0 COMMENTS

Saved by Siena "2"

He had come to America in the late 1880’s with his school teacher wife Aminta, and their first two boys, in search of the good life, as so many did during the end of the eighteen- eighties. After many years living on Bleecker Street in Manhattan, working as a tailor, he took ill, and made a heartfelt decision to go back to Piacenza to die. Standing in front of his gravestone, I felt a deep sense of personal completion and at the same time felt sorry that I could not know him, or my grandfather or great-uncles for that matter, and would never be able to hear about all the exciting and cinematic experiences they had lived through in their lifetimes from their lips. My Uncle Jack who was an engineer worked a lot in France and England, and he regularly traveled on the Queen Mary ship. He was married at one time to a screen actress , and according to Nana Jean, always dressed like a real dapper Don. He supposedly had a ticket for the Titanic, and due to his late arrival that day, missed the ships departure. He was somewhat luckier than his brother Mario who after working as an artist in New York, and even painting parts of the celestial frescoes on the ceiling of Grand Central Terminal, went to Italy to fight in World War One and tragically died in an avalanche. My grandfather John, was a supervisor in the GE Prentiss factory in Connecticut, which made lots of mechanical parts used in the war, including parachute harness closures and such. He unfortunately died young of an aortic aneurism in the early sixties. He felt the attack come on, and drove himself to the hospital , but by the time he got there the damage was too great and he died that day. Times were hard for most back then, and my Nana had more than her share of tragedy as a young woman. Her mother died tragically of a missed diagnosis burst appendix when she was only thirty four. Her last words to my Nana were “take care of your brothers, and don’t let the baby cry”. My Nana Jean, was the oldest child, only twelve at the time, and had to learn hard knocks style how to cook, clean, and care for all her three younger brothers. The boys were at first taken to an orphanage, by her father who didn’t know how to care for the boys, as would’ve been a popular decision in the nineteen twenties. But upon an early visit to the orphanage, Nana’s father found one of the boys with two left shoes on his feet, and decided he couldn’t bear to leave them all there. The two year old baby Marie would be taken in and cared for by my Nana’s Aunt, but the boys and her father became her responsibility. Nana learned to sew and make money as a seamstress when she was just thirteen years old. A french seamstress taught her how to hand sew fine undergarments of silk and lace, for wealthy clients who would commission such items. Nana went on to have a long career in the garment district in New York as a pattern maker and dress maker for Patty O’Neill, amongst other companies. She worked hard, paying high rents in order to raise my father in a wealthy neighborhood in the Bronx, and didn’t retire from the business until she was seventy-two. She was still hemming our pants until a few years ago, when at 95, her arthritis stopped her from being able to work her magic with a needle and thread. Maybe because there was so much sadness in my family history, so many lives half- lived, I would eventually feel such a calling to go to Italy, to learn how to live well, and to fulfill the lost dreams of my ancestors by way of my own adventures. From Nana, I learned how to bread chicken cutlets, make manicotti crepes by hand, and learned to love good food and the art of hosting an Italian feast. I also learned the importance of good work ethic, and to appreciate opera. As kids, we spent plenty of weekends at Nana’s apartments in the Italian American Jersey towns of Lodi, and Hasbrouck Heights. We’d walk to the local Italian deli to get veal cutlets, hard salami, and provolone. At the time, veal cutlets and mashed potatoes were the staples of my sister Jocelyn’s diet, but by age twelve, she became a vegetarian and animal rights activist and it was bye-bye veal. Nana’s house was comforting in all the best ways. Our parents were going through a divorce and much of our life at the time was filled with the confusion, chaos and sadness that often accompany a split up. Nana always smelled like good perfume.

POSTED BY DANIELLE BOIARDI AT 4:19 PM 0 COMMENTS