Onion fingers, continued: Guatemalan food, Italian style

Seems like I’ve been having a lot of moments of truth lately. Today was the black beans moment of truth. I asked my mom for instructions on Sunday night, planning to make them on Tuesday, but life happens and it got put off until today. Last night, after introducing Cristina to ‘Legally Blonde,’ I set the beans to soak (ammollire). This afternoon, after lunch and lots of hemming and hawing and having forgotten any and all of the details of my instructions, I made some executive decisions and got to cooking. Of course, given that it was all gut and executive decision, I spent the entire afternoon of stove-accompanying fearing that it would all be for naught.

After a couple of hours of intermittent stirring and a quick break for a Skype job interview, it was time for stage two of the bean prep. Leti made the rice for me, and apparently Italians cook rice very differently. They boil the water first, then add the rice, then drain it when it is done. It certainly turns out very fluffy. Afterward, to keep it from sticking to itself, she added some olive oil. It was time to eat and the beans had turned out well. What, in my opinion was completely inedible, through no fault of my own, was the guacamole. The avocados, which were insanely soft on the outside, were just off of yellow and the most insipid thing you’ve never tasted. I felt like I had more condiment than avocado, and it still tasted like nothing. Funny how the one thing I expected to be in the bag was the one thing that didn’t really work out.

Now here’s the deal. When I was little I read a fictional story about these famously delicious latkes, and I won’t retell it now, but I was always confused about what the moral was supposed to be. It seemed like the intended moral was that things are often better in your memory than they are in real life. The other moral I got, though, was that when people use someone else’s recipe, they usually change it to suit their own cooking style, so their food ends up tasting nothing like the original. Well, the latter is kind of what happened, except with the dining experience. It was decidedly Italian. I’ve never put parmesan cheese on my rice and beans at home, though parmesan and black refried beans do work well together in the absence of our quesos. I’ve certainly never had f(r)izzy red wine with my rice and beans.

Partway through stage two of cooking I discovered that Leti had invited her sister and niece over for dinner to partake in the experience. Wow. Glad I didn’t know that earlier. I did not need the additional pressure. Either way, it turned out that they were unable to come. I would have liked to meet them, but perhaps not when my fragile cooking ego was on the table. Again, I was studying everyone for signs of their real opinion about the food, despite the praise I received. Everyone got seconds, though, and by the end there was no rice left; all good signs. And just as importantly, I was pleased with it. Because aside from whether it was edible, I was the only one who would be able to tell whether it really turned out right. At first, I was jokingly accused of being responsible for the impending dissolution of the marriage, to be caused by expected prolific gas emissions that would turn the bedroom into a gas chamber. However, by the end of the meal, everyone was marveling at the lack of gassiness caused by the beans. Are black beans special for not having that quality?, they asked. According to them, if you eat just three normal beans, you puff up like a balloon.

Afterward, the lone black platano was calling to me, and I suggested that I make it for dessert. Paolo said he could eat no more, but Cristina supported my plan, and I got to cooking for the nth time. Everyone, including Paolo, even Jody, dug in.


Later that evening, I was treated to some family videos, and saw a little Davide, a young Cristina, and Scott, the previous dog. Even later, to my surprise, Paolo decided to do some filming. I am now part of the Agnetti family history.

Onion fingers

Did you know: The discerning Parmesan palate can tell the difference between hand-grated and machine-grated Parmigiano-Reggiano.

For a city full of people who rarely make it to a nearby city, much less a neighboring country, a remarkable number of them profess to ‘♥ NY.’ Today, a cynic bore a different message on his chest. ‘NY doesn’t ♥ U.’ Well proclaimed, sir.

The weekend saw:
Going for gelato with Cristina and Jody. Definitely the best gelato I've had so far in Parma. Jody got some too. Seriously, this dog lives the good life. 
Liberation Day on the 25th with an outdoor concert and another exciting Panthers victory, this time against the Bologna Warriors. I sought the perfect pre-game busride music and, in the absence of 'Are you ready for some football?', I opted for CCR and the Black Keys. I needed some hearty American sounds. 

Dinner Monday was risotto… with strawberries. It was… pink. I don’t know how I feel about cooked strawberries, but if I avoided the chunks and seasoned it with the recommended black pepper instead of the usual Parmesan cheese, it was totally edible. After cleansing my palate with a copious amount of carrots and celery, it was apron time. A few days earlier I had gotten platanos (plantains) to make for the family (/myself if no one liked them, not that I would complain too much about that; more for me) and it was finally the moment of truth. Leti said it ‘had an effect on her’ to see me there, apron-clad, at her usual post before the stove. Washing, squeezing, peeling, slicing, and lots of frying later, it was actually the moment of truth. And… delicious. I was a little worried that no one else would like them, or perhaps worse, that they would feel obligated to pretend that they did like them, but it was pretty clear that the appreciation was sincere. Leti plans on making them in the future, perhaps as a novelty potluck item. I’m just glad to have been able to leave a bit of Guatemala in Parma, and a way for the family to keep me in mind and heart and stomach after I’m gone. Later, we added mangos to the fruity mix of the evening.
Up next is avocados and black beans.
I also got a new giant citrus, a honey pomelo, which lasted me several sittings. It was definitely more edible than the cedro.

I have now seen everyone’s bare feet except for Davide’s (but I think I would have to stay here at least another two months to see him as much as I have now seen everyone else. So statistically it would have happened by now.). No one has tried to apologize for their unseemly and unhygienic state. I am starting to wonder whether this was overhyped and I could have been blissfully barefoot all along.

I heard some serious revving today and turned around just in time to see a guy popping a wheelie. Purty cool.

A couple nights ago I had a dream of a not-unusual structure. Within some context or another, I am driving a car, and then the brakes don’t work. Sometimes, I can slow down but never fully stop, and sometimes they have no effect whatsoever. Despite red lights and other cars, I never crash, but I never stop. This time, I kid you not, I looked down at my speedometer and it said I was going 1000 miles (or perhaps kilometers!) (or whatever unit of distance) per hour. I remember thinking, wow, I didn’t think I was going that fast. Anyway, this one is easy to read. Time is going by too quickly, and I want it to slow down. Six days. Read that again. Less than a week. Until I leave Parma. Until I leave home. What?

I finally started doing what I meant to be doing all along. Tonight, I learned how to make pasta and tomato sauce, the Italian way. With some mysterious brown on the outside, purple on the inside, white on the inner inside, tear-shaped onions. It turned out well, and Leti actually let me do everything, instead of just showing me and having me watch. Everyone said they were good, and I guess I am not the most confident chef, because I wasn’t sure whether to believe them. But, Cri is a very particular eater, and she seemed earnest when she said it was good. Leti wanted more and gave me a thumbs up when she discovered that there was still some left in the pot. So, either they’re good actors; I’m gullible, or, as I choose to believe, it really was good. I mean, obviously I ate it too, but coming from people who claim to be able to taste the difference between hand-grated and machine-grated cheese, they would be more likely to take up issue with any of my cooking flaws. Paolo did say it tasted different, somehow, and I agreed and was ok with that. I have noticed that no two people can make the same dish really the same. It’s like the flavor of the person goes into the food.

Alina arrived on Monday! That afternoon we got her acclimated and oriented and had some gelato. Tuesday I was free all day so we had plenty of time to spend together. I practiced my tour guide routine, in Italian this time. We went to a panini place and I had a horse sandwich so she could close her eyes and hold her breath and have a taste.
I think at some point early on in the blog I mentioned that I had the desire to go an entire day without speaking English. Alina made my dream come true, or as close to true as I think I will get. We did use the occasional English word, but we definitely did not have any English conversations. We went to the movie theater and saw an Italian movie, but for some reason there was one random character who kept switching back and forth from Italian and English, though he was obviously not a native English speaker. Last week I watched a movie on TV solely because the blurb said it took place in Houston, and I hoped that I would be able to show my family some scenes of Houston. Instead, the ‘Texanest’ things in the movie were a cow phone that mooed, a mailbox painted like a jersey cow, a couple of Texas license plates, and maybe some Tecate. There were also lots of guns involved, but that was relevant to the plot, not Texas. They didn’t even bother to throw in a Houston skyline for good measure. Instead, I later found out, the whole thing was filmed in Los Angeles. I have no idea why they bothered to set it in ‘Houston,’ or felt that that was relevant enough to be included in the synopsis. So, imagine my surprise when, all of a sudden in the midst of this Italian movie yesterday, there appeared a pair of ‘Texan’ characters.
Today Alina did some touring on her own and came to watch my final presentation (I’m (mostly) done with classes and classwork!) and I was fortunate to have her and Leti’s smiling faces offering me silent support. We had lunch at home and took pictures on the infamous Six on the way to her departure.