Fatemeh - My Persian Friend

Narenjestan-e Qavam, a traditional house, now a museum, in Shiraz,Iran

While living in Verona I made another special friend.  Let’s call her Fatemeh.   We met at the park where her boys tore around the playground with my boys.  Fatemeh was born in Iran.   Her Italian husband was an engineer and worked in the Middle East for an Italian construction firm.  He met Fatemeh when she was 16, married her and moved her to Verona.  I think he was twenty years her senior, chubby and balding. 

When I met Fatemeh, she had five boys aged 6 to 16.  She was heavy-set and somewhat unkempt.  But I think she must have been a beautiful young girl. Although she wasn’t that much older than me, she seemed a mature woman.  Her husband continued to work in the Middle East and was gone for months at a time.  Fatemeh was in charge of the family domain.  This included a large house in Verona surrounded by gardens as well as a farm and vineyard out in the countryside.  She spent her life running back and forth, taking care of difficulties and disasters all with equanimity.

An exquisite carpet.

Her house was decorated with heavy Italian furniture with Persian accents:  Persian carpets, intricate wall hangings, lace and bronze.  Fatemeh invited me over in the afternoon for coffee.  The boys ran ragged around the house.  It always felt as though a volcano was about to erupt but Fatemeh smiled placidly and prepared the coffee.  It was what we would call Turkish coffee.  It was served with little square sweets.  After we had finished our coffee there was a dark sludge of grounds at the bottom of the cup.  Fatemeh was an imaginative fortune teller.  She spent considerable time studying these grounds and giving me her expert advice for the coming days.

One year Fatemeh invited us to a New Year's party.  There were lots of people and lots of delicious food...Italian and Iranian.  I remember there was cotechino with lentils for good luck in the new year and platters of a Baklava-type dessert dripping with honey. A special wine from the family’s vineyard watered the meal. The music varied from canzone napolitana: think O Sole Mio and frenetic Iranian music.  The children ran around, busy and happy until they fell asleep on a chair or the floor.

At the entrance to Fatemeh’s house were two large Persimmon trees.  I remember visiting on a foggy day.  The world was grey and opaque.  The bright orange fruit glowed on the tree.  As I entered I could hear the muffled plop as a heavy, ripe persimmon hit the leaf-strewn ground.  I'm told persimmons symbolize transitions. And aren’t transitions the very of essence of our lives? 

A Bar Shooting and a Mafia Wedding

At some point I learned that a young man who had shot another man in a bar fight was hiding out in the Gelati Sanson plant.  Sanson sold most of his gelato in bars, cafes and restaurants.  He either leased or provided ice cream freezers to his customers.  In this way he was assured that the restauranteurs would purchase their ice cream from Sanson rather than from a competitor.

Apparently, the young shooter needed to get out of town for awhile.  So Sanson agreed to hide him.  I understood that the fight had to do with a mafia feud. Because the gunman was ensconced at the plant for a year, the administrative staff got to know him quite well.

Several months after he went back home, we received an invitation to the young man’s wedding.  He was to be married in a small village near Naples in the early summer.  From the scuttlebutt at the plant, it was thought that this would be the joining of two mafia families. Vincent and I decided to go.  It would be an unforgettable experience.

We drove down to Naples.  It’s about a 7 hour drive.  We stayed in an historic hotel with high ceilings and large french windows with  a view of the bay.  This hotel had in-house parking which we had been told was essential.  Apparently cars left out on the street at night would be found stripped of tires, windshield wipers, radios and who-knows-what in the morning.

A view of the Bay of Naples.

The morning of the wedding we joined a cavalcade of cars that headed out of town, into the countryside.  After an hour’s drive we came to a farm in a valley.  All the cars pulled up and we went into the farmhouse kitchen.  It was dark and rustic with low ceilings and a wood stove.  The bride’s father offered coffee and grappa.  Then the bride came in.  She was quietly pretty with long blond hair and a nervous air.

Then everyone piled back in their cars and we drove up into a village on a hill.   We parked on the piazza in front of the church. Many of the men went into a bar across the street and the rest of us went into the church. 

A mountain village in the south of Italy

After the wedding the cavalcade went down the hill and drove to the Palace of Caserta for a picture session.  Are you familiar with Caserta?  It rivals Versailles in grandeur.  It was constructed for the Bourbon kings of Naples.  Wikipedia says that in terms of volume it is the largest palace in the world.  Here are a few pictures.  Isn’t it grand?

After the wedding pictures, we all headed to an enormous restaurant where the reception took place. The meal began at 1 or 2 pm and went on into the early evening.  There were 7 or 8 courses with time in-between to enjoy music and dancing.  Of all this food, I particularly remember a sweet and sour fish dish that was sublime and la mozzarella de bufala, buffalo mozzarella, that was served simply in all its glory.  It was delicious and a surprise among all the elaborate dishes.

The bride and groom were seated on a dais.  I had many hours to observe them.  They barely talked. The groom was drinking and laughing but the bride looked miserable.  Several times I saw her wipe away tears. Was this an arranged marriage to settle a mafia feud?  Did they live happily ever after? 

At some point, Vincent went out to the car for something.   When he came back, he was upset.  All four tires of our car had been stolen.  The news was communicated to our host, the father of the bride.  He came over and apologized profusely.  He assured Vincent that our tires would be back by the end of the reception.  And they were! Probably some low-life thief was lying dead in a gutter for the embarrassment he caused our host.

Aggravation and Tiramisù

Okay, not to be negative but here are a few things that bugged me when we lived in Verona.

Number One:   I needed to go to the post office to pay the gas and electric bill.  The first time I had all three kids with me.  People didn’t wait in nice neat lines.  They bunched.  Christopher squirmed in my arms and managed to get down.  The other two kids wandered off and I lost my place.  After I gathered up my cherubs, no one was going to let me back in.  I was on the periphery of the bunch.  I never took the kids again.  And I learned to be more forceful, inserting myself into the tight knot of people.

Number Two:  I was a regular customer at the fruttivendolo, the greengrocer down the street.  In Italy as in France, the customer is not supposed to touch the produce. She/he is served by the greengrocer.  I went there every other day buying fruit and vegetables.  I was a good customer but if I didn’t watch, the fruttivendolo would try and slip a rotten orange or some bruised fennel into the sack. It was a game.  I would say, “Oh,Oh, looks like that one is bruised.”  He would respond, “Oh, sorry Signora.” and looked very apologetic.   We went through the same farce every time!

Number Three:  At that time in Italy, a wife had to have her husband’s permission to execute a banking transaction. One day I went to the bank to withdraw money.  I was asked if I had a letter from my husband! Give me a break!  They had to call Vincent to see if I had his permission.  As a wife, I had no authority.  I wonder if this has changed?  It’s been 40 years.  Are women fully emancipated yet?

Oh dear all this has depressed me.  I need something to cheer me up.  Maybe a piece of Tiramisù.  After all Tiramisù means to pull me up.  Here’s a recipe that’s bound to give you a lift.

Tiramisù 

Ingredients:

6 pasteurized eggs, separated

2/3 cup sugar plus 3 Tablespoons

2 cups mascarpone, room temperature 

2 cups strong espresso coffee, cooled.

1/2 cup brandy or rum or Marsala or ???

30-32  crispy Italian ladyfinger cookies (Bonomi - Savoyard)

Modus Operandi:

1. Beat the egg whites until soft peaks form, slowly add 1/3 c. sugar.  Continue to beat until stiff peaks form.  Set aside.
2. Beat the egg yolks with 1/3 c. sugar until light.
3. Add the mascarpone to the egg yolks 1/2 cup at a time, beating until smooth.
4. Carefully fold the eggs whites into the yolks until they are fully incorporated. 
5. Mix the coffee, the liquor of your choice and 3 T. sugar in a bowl
6. Spread a third of the egg mixture in the bottom of a 9 x 13 pan.
7. Dip the Ladyfingers into the coffee/liquor until soaked but not soggy.
8. Neatly layer the cookies over the egg cream. 
9. Cover with 1/3 of the egg cream. Add another layer of cookies.  Cover with the rest of the egg cream.
10. Sift unsweetened cocoa powder on the top. 
11. Cover with plastic wrap and chill in the refrigerator for at least 4 hours.

You're bound to feel cheery after a slice of this decadent piece of heaven.

Deirdre - My Irish Friend

The Beautiful Coast of Ireland

While we lived in Verona we lived an Italian life.  The children were going to Italian schools and our social life involved Italian friends.  I had one English-speaking friend. Let’s call her Deirdre. She was a sparkling dark-haired woman with chestnut eyes flecked with gold. We met at an American-British luncheon.  At that time there was an American military base near Verona including a school.  So there must have been many American families living in the town or on the base.  But I didn’t frequent them.

I remember Deirdre and I came out of the luncheon laughing together and exchanged phone numbers. A week or so later Deirdre invited me for tea.  She had two daughters who were older than my children.  Tall and gangly, they had long brown braids and dark eyes.  Deirdre was a strict mother, probably mimicking her Irish upbringing. The girls took my kids out to play on the balcony or downstairs to the open green areas between the apartment buildings.  We would sit in her kitchen, talk, drink strong tea and laugh and laugh.  Little by little the story of her life emerged.

Poetic picture of Ireland.

Deirdre was raised in a poor town in Ireland, one of a gaggle of kids. She was the eldest girl with one older brother.  From an early age she was responsible for her younger brothers and sisters.  The family had little money.  She once told me that her mother sent her to the store for 2 eggs.  When Deirdre came home with the eggs, her mom felt their heft, weighing them in her hands.  Then she said, “Take these back to the shop.  These aren’t fresh.  I want 2 fresh eggs.”  There wasn’t enough money for inferior eggs.

A village in Cork.

At 14, Deirdre went to work in a laundry.  She gave most of her earnings to her Mother and kept a small amount that she saved.  When she was 16 she ran away from home with another girl.  With her savings she bought a ferry ticket to Britain.  Their plan was to go to London and find her Uncle Joe.  Deirdre laughed at her naiveté.  She really had no clue how big London would be.  She thought she could find Uncle Joe by just walking down the street.

Deirdre landed a job in a hotel cleaning rooms. Life was exciting but she was ill-prepared for the  liberated London life.  Innocent and credulous she fell in and out of trouble. Once she drank too much and found herself in the street, her purse  gone. She was wooed by the handsome  assistant-manager of the hotel and found herself pregnant. Let’s call her lover Antonio.  He was in his 30s and Deirdre was barely 18.  Miraculously Antonio agreed to marry her although he continued to have a roving eye. He landed a job with a large European hotel chain and moved Deirdre to Verona with their baby. His family lived there; but he was often gone.  Antonio was moving up the corporate ladder and had posts in various hotels around Italy.  She knew that he had one affair after another but she stayed in Verona, comfortable in the bosom of his family.

Verona - Piazza Delle Erbe

One day I arrived and Deirdre was crying in the arms of her bachelor brother-in-law.  Antonio was in the hospital with a virulent form of bone cancer.  It seemed that it had progressed rapidly and he was dying.  Once I went with her to visit him.  He was moaning in pain.  Deirdre claimed that the hospital wouldn’t administer enough pain medication.  His family brought him bottles of Scotch to keep him drunk.

After Antonio died, Deirdre married her brother-in-law, a kind and gentle man.  She seemed happy with him; but some of her exuberance was gone.   Eventually they had a baby boy.  I hope that she lived happily ever after.  We didn't keep in touch after I moved away;  Deirdre wasn't one to write.  She was someone who lived in the moment.

I’ve thought that Deirdre’s life would make a nice novel or TV mini-series.   

DIVERGENT DEATHS

Tom Barnett is Banner Bluff’s Chief of Police.  His stunning wife, Francesca is the editor of the local online newspaper.  Together they present a formidable team but their marriage is suffering from the unacknowledged specter of Tom’s deceased former wife.

A beloved sailing instructor is found bludgeoned to death down at the beach.  Two days later at the Botanic Gardens a world renowned bonsai specialist is found poisoned in the Japanese tea house; his body covered with red chrysanthemums.

As Tom and Francesca delve into these two gruesome murders, they discover that events and people are not what they seem. Tom is being pressured by the mayor and local citizens to solve the killings when Francesca makes an ill-fated decision to bring their marital differences to a head.  What follows is near catastrophe for them both. 

Hiking in the Dolomites

The Dolomites

One summer a group of friends invited us to go hiking in the Dolomites.  There were about 10 children and 10 adults.  Two couples owned chalets and vacationed there every year.  We had a furnished apartment with one bedroom, a living/dining/kitchen combo and a loft for the children.  Beside the building was an open area and a playground for kids. 

Everyday we loaded everyone up and headed for the mountains.  We picked a different destination each day.  In the morning we hiked up to a summit, ate lunch and came down by a different path.  I loved this vacation.  We were outside, breathing the clean mountain air, getting exercise,  communing with nature and with each other.  As we hiked we had discussions about everything from politics, philosophy to  parenting and recipes.

Vincent and the 3 bambini.  Up, up and away.

I remember one discussion about the large number of Italians who had left Italy to begin a new life in the US.  I think we were discussing the “American Dream”  “il sogno americano.”  But this fellow kept repeating to me L’America è qui!  L’America è qui!  America is here!  He was saying that you don’t need to leave Italy to make your dreams come true.  With hard work and a purpose you can achieve your dreams, right here, in Italy. That probably is true for northern Italians.  With a robust industrial economy and rich, fertile land, the North provides jobs and growth.  The area south of Rome is mountainous and arid.  It has one of the lowest standards of living in Europe.  This has been true for 100 years and explains why many southern Italians left to find their fortune in America or elsewhere.

Sometimes we took a téléférique.

A family portrait.

As we hiked, the children were amazing.  They never complained because there were other kids to play with.  They never seemed to get tired.  When we got back to our apartment at the end of the day, we were ready to collapse and they wanted to go downstairs and run around.

The boys are playing with some toy, not tired yet.

Most days the Italian picnic lunch was a frittata panini.  They made a frittata with zucchini, potatoes, cheese or what ever.  When it was cool it was cut into pieces and put inside a crispy roll. It tasted divine after a 3 hour hike.

A stop by a mountain glacier.

Cold mountain water!

Picnic lunch.  Bonnie, the dog, is relaxing.  I remember that she ran all day after mountain scents and creatures.

Each night one couple would host the adults for dinner.  I particularly remember an elaborate bollito misto.  Are you familiar with this dish?  A bollito misto is a mixed boil.  A large pot is filled with water. Carrots, celery, onions and herbs are added to flavor the water.  Then a selection of meats are added such as a beef brisket, a veal or beef tongue, a rolled and tied veal head and a hen.  Each of these items cooks at a different speed so you begin cooking the toughest cut first.  Traditionally, you also cook a cotechino sausage in a separate pot.

When the meats are cooked, they are sliced and displayed attractively on a platter.  They are usually served with salsa verde, a piquant tomato sauce and a pepper sauce.  The meat broth can be served as a first course with the addition of some pastine.

When my turn came to prepare dinner, I made chili: I fagioli alla messicana and corn bread.  This was met with raves!  I might have made some chocolate chip cookies too or apple pie.  I don’t remember.  But it was a successful evening.

It was wonderful to be embraced by these kind and generous  people.  We were made to feel right at home and part of their family.  Yet sometimes the togetherness was too much for me.  After being together morning, noon and night, I needed a break. I knew it would hurt their feelings, if we said we wanted to dine alone, just our family.  Maybe it’s my anglo-saxon upbringing?

A Hospital Emergency and Apricot Crostata

Christopher was like a cat with 9 lives.  As a child he had several accidents, concussions and a broken leg.  One day we were off to the park along the wide sidewalk.  Chris was barreling along on his bike, hit a bump and went sailing over the handle bars.  He landed on his head and lay there, dazed and bleeding.  I panicked and decided to take him to the hospital.  A friend took the other two children to her house.

At the hospital, I found my way to the ER.  We entered a white tiled room with wooden benches along the walls.  Several people were waiting to be seen by a doctor. Across the room was a no smoking sign.  Standing under it were two doctors or nurses or orderlies smoking cigarettes.  We waited awhile.  Chris’s eyes were dilated and I thought he had a concussion.  No one paid attention to us until he began to vomit.  Then the medical personal jumped into action and took us back into the ER.

After x-rays and an examination, it was decided that Christopher should be admitted to the hospital for observation.  The wards were jam-packed with people.   Chris was moved from the gurney to  a bed in the corridor since all the rooms were full.  A nurse told me I would need to stay there and watch him since the bed was high and he could fall on the cement floor.  There was no chair, so I perched on the foot of the bed.

A parade of people walked by.  It didn’t seem to me there were any special visiting hours.  Family members came to visit their loved ones and camped out with their panini, bottles of wine and crostata. It was noisy with laughter, screaming and crying.

Vincent arrived from work. We caught a nurse on the fly and asked to see the doctor.  After an hour there was no action.  We asked again with more vigor.  Another hour went by.  No one came to look at Chris.  He wasn't being observed by hospital staff.  The circus parade continued around us.  Finally, we grabbed another nurse and said we were taking our son home.  It was more likely that we could whisk him to the Doctor around the corner from our apartment than getting any medical care in that hospital.  We filled out a form and carried Chris down to the car. The next day he was fine.

Azienda Ospedaliera Universitaria Integrata Verona - a top notch modern hospital.

The Italian Health System has greatly improved since then.  It is ranked Second in the world after France by the World Health Organization.  The US is ranked 37th.  I doubt this was true in 1978.  The rich went to private clinics staffed by the best doctors and everyone else went to public hospitals that were not well run. 

The Italians are not big into desserts.  I feel they are more interested in the main part of the meal. A Crostata filled with jam is a treat to be enjoyed anytime.  It's somewhat like a tarte with a heartier crust.

Apricot Jam Crostata

Crostata alla Confettura di Albicocche

Ingredients for a 10 inch tarte pan

2 ½ cups - Flour

6 ½ T.  - Very soft butter

½ cup   - Sugar

Zest from 1 lemon

1 tsp.  - Baking powder

2 eggs 

Jar of Apricot Jam

On a marble slab or smooth wooden surface dump the flour.   Make a well.  Put the sugar, baking powder, butter, lemon zest and 2 eggs in the well.  Working from the middle of the well out, mix the ingredients with your fingers.  Work rapidly and deftly until you have a homogeneous dough. Bring the dough into a smooth ball.  Cover with plastic wrap.  Refrigerate for 1 hour.

Divide the dough into thirds.  Roll out 2 thirds into a 11 inch circle.  Slip the dough into the 10 inch tarte pan.  Make a 1/2 inch edge around pan.  Roll out the remaining dough. Cut into 3/4 inch strips with a pastry roller.

Spread the jam evenly over the dough.

Weave the strips over the jam in a lattice pattern.

Bake for 40 minutes.

Buon Appetito!