Right now it is mostly based in hate since artichokes and I are not in good favor with one another.

For most of my life, I avoided the member of the thistle family whenever possible. Despite my Italian roots, I just could not give into trying the commonplace ingredient on antipasto platters. I cannot specify exactly what it is about them, but something kept me away.On the occasions when my family visited my aunt and uncle at their house about twenty minutes away, my father would always wonder aloud if my aunt had prepared a batch of artichokes to satisfy guests’ appetites. I do not know how they were prepared or with what ingredients, but I do remember those occasions when my father’s face lit up to the sight of the chokes in a platter. After casual exchanges and quick catch-ups, my dad would graciously take up my aunt’s offer for a choke.

The thistles were prepared whole, so my dad would sit at a table, napkins piled around him, ready to eat the ingredient signature to Italian springtime. One by one he would rip off the leaves surrounding the core and scrape off the fleshy meat with his inside before tossing the then flavorless leaf onto his plate. One-and-done and then onto the next one — sort of like the college hook-up scene.

Yet, while I witnessed my dad eat the leaves numerous times, I never accepted his invitations to try one. It did not appeal to me. Even the hearts of the artichokes, often mixed into salads or defaced of any nutritional value when baked with spinach and cheese, did nothing for me. I simply had no hearts for artichokes.

Then, something changed. I let my heart open to artichokes. My re-introduction to the thistle came last spring while studying abroad in Florence. Living with a host mother, I had a very difficult time refusing anything served at the dinner table. When one evening she served the hearts roasted with oil and cloves of garlic, I knew it was an opportunity for me to give the vegetables a chance. And so I did, and in fact I enjoyed them. It was not a head over heels in love feeling, but more like a we-could-be-friends kind of affection.

As the semester grew on, I began to eat artichokes more and more. Consuming the hearts began to consume me as I longed for the evenings when Flavia would scoop a spoonful of chokes onto my dinner plate. Washed down with a glass of wine, the vegetables became a comfort, a reminder that some things are worth giving a chance.

However, after my time abroad ceased, my relationship with artichokes became uneasy. Any time I approached them, I had expectations in my head of the aromatic, heavenly and satisfying bites of hearts served to me evenings before. Yet, with each new bite, something did not quite feel right.

What began as friendship that blossomed into full-blown affection suddenly turned sour. My expectations could not be fulfilled, and so every forkful of the chokes left me dissatisfied and empty and back again to ignoring and avoiding artichokes.

I recognize that the easy thing would be for me to lower my expectations and just give into those that are less than perfect, but why should I? What I had before seemed like perfection, and now anything I try fails to live up to the excitement of flavors of my past. Yet it is the experiences of before that still haunt me and keep me from going for another chance in the future. My heart just did feel not ready for thistles of disappointment as it still felt attached to a heart of the past.

However, what I am slowly realizing (as well as so many other things) is that a first experience does not make it the absolute best. Yes, there will be thistles less than satisfactory in the future, but I should not be shying myself from new tastes. By setting the bar so high, I am only setting myself up for later failure and displeasure. Rather, what I need to do is reflect on what I loved from the past and seek out similar ingredients and flavors in the future. I will not find an exact replication of the past, but I do have the possibility of falling in love with a new combination and character I never would have found had I not taken the leap.

As Thomas Aloysius Dorgan once said, ”Life is like eating artichokes, you have got to go through so much to get so little.” Life is filled with thistles, challenges, disappointment, frustration and rejection, but it is also filled with blossoming flowers with leaves of hope, promise and affection. With all things, no matter what is it,  you must work hard to get to the heart.

Consider, for example, the following:

I Hate My Husband Pie… You take bittersweet chocolate and don’t sweeten it. You make it into a pudding and drown it in caramel.

Earl Murders Me Because I’m Having An Affair Pie… You smash blackberries and raspberries into a chocolate crust.

I Can’t Have No Affair Because It’s Wrong And I Don’t Want Earl To Kill Me Pie… Vanilla custard with banana. Hold the banana. 

Pregnant Miserable Self Pitying Loser Pie… Lumpy oatmeal with fruitcake mashed in. Flambé of course.

While the combination of ingredients in the pies may appeal to sweettooths (well, perhaps not the one with fruitcake), the equally creative names of her creations might put a damper on enjoying a slice.

With the exception of her Falling in Love Chocolate Mousse Pie, the most common ingredient in Jenna’s pies is misery. Born from frustration and less than positive emotions, the deserts represent Jenna’s dissatisfaction with her life.

If I were to have had the time, or the energy, to bake up some pies last semester, it is easy for me to identify what would have been the common ingredient among them: rejection.

Here are just a sampling of some of my pies from the semester:

We Need to Talk Pie…. Blood red cherries that leave a sour taste in your mouth.

It’s Not You, It’s Me Pie… Lemon custard with enough zest to pack a punch. 

I Have a Girlfriend Pie… Mexican chocolate mousse with cayenne pepper that kicks you in the face.

Try Again Next Semester Pie… Sweet potato topped with toasted marshmallows to hide the unseasonable potatoes. 

I Regret to Inform You Pie… Chocolate + pecans + Bourbon = Enough said.  

Fortunately for me, there was no actually pies to accompany my rejections of second semester, or else I would have had a whole other problem: no clothes to wear.

But yet, while it appeared my time at Georgetown since January became dominated by less than uplifting emails, text messages and conversations, all was not negative.

Perhaps because of my ambitious character and my unwillingness to see a weekday not scheduled from 7 am to 11 pm, each rejection just led me to another application, another door and another opportunity that I could have not have found had I not been rejected by something or someone before. While some of the doors did remain unclosed, I did not shy away from at least knocking on them for the chance of looking inside.

Admittedly, I did have a moment late in the semester where the accumulation of rejections led to the creation of The Sick and Tired Pie, caramel prepared with lots of heavy cream and heavy sprinkles of salt from freshly cried tears. During conversations with my parents, many of which unfortunately were one-sided as I listened on the telephone line thousands of miles away trying to keep from breaking down into tears, it slowly became clear to me that life is full of rejection.

It is an unavoidable reality. It is not like polio, a disease now avoided with a few seconds of pain from a needle. There is no vaccine for rejection; there is no one who is immune to its pain. Sometimes its sting lasts a few hours, sometimes a few days, sometimes even longer. However, its pain is not something that should dictate how one lives life.

By the conclusion of the spring, when I received perhaps my biggest, most significant rejection of past semester, (signified by The I Regret to Inform You Pie), something I had worked towards since my arrival at Georgetown, I surprised myself by having no tears. To this day I have not cried because of such rejection. It was not without disappointment and some frustration, but I came to see it as somewhat of a sign, forcing me to reexamine what I might want to do in the future.

After receiving the news that afternoon, I shared it with my family and some of my closest friends. I talked about it. I vented about it. Then, I baked. Not a pie with mounds of whipped cream served à la mode with vanilla ice cream. No, I baked a cake. A carrot cake with juicy pineapple and mounds of shredded carrots and a cream cheese frosting with Amaretto. It was just what the doctor ordered.

Whether we consciously think about this or not, we all have those instances when we yearn for something to continue just as it is, to prolong the future and live in the exact present for eternity.

For me, oftentimes I have these thoughts not while I am doing something blog-worthy or laughing until my stomach hurts or eating something that I wish could be served bottomless like the bread basket at the Cheesecake Factory. Rather, these moments seem to occur most often when I am sitting in the backseat of one of my parents’ cars driving back from some family excursion or day trip.

As my dad fumbles through the stations trying to find music that he can recognize and (attempt to) sing to, my mom shakes her head in frustration just wanting him to pick something.

When I look to my right, I see either one of two things: 1. My sister asleep with her face awkwardly positioned against the window, inevitably setting her up for jokes when she wakes with awkward markings on her face; or, 2. My sister texting away on her call phone at an impressive words-per-minute rate.

While this is going on, I sit trying to fall asleep. In the end, however, my mind cannot shut down, so instead I stare out the window at the all-too familiar Rhode Island scenery and street signs signaling that I am home.

It is in this instant that I wish I never have to unbuckle my seatbelt and exit the backseat. The innocence and monotony of the car ride is not exactly the ultimate memory (except for the occasional Journey singalongs), but it is such moments in the car with my family that I love. In the car, we are all together, we are safe, we feel protected from everything outside our doors. The present is bliss.

After finishing my junior year at Georgetown more than two weeks, my mind keeps drifting to this image of the backseat, buckled and secure. Although I still have one more year left, already three years of college have gone by, and a part of me cannot help but believe that the next year will go by just as quickly. And then what?

I have this notion that my college graduation will be like me exiting the backseat of my parents’ car, absent of the security and protection of the seatbelt and the cars’ airbags; I simply don’t know exactly where I will be after I slam the door to claim my college diploma.

For a long time, I thought law school was the answer. No question, no pause, no concerns; law school was where I would be after Georgetown. But now, after the two most emotionally and personally difficult semesters at college, I have doubts about where the car will park itself after my senior year.

While I might try to convince myself that these doubts are new, I must admit that they have been growing for sometime. Committing myself to another three years of school without an extended break between graduation and enrollment is not an all-too appealing option. Add on the cost of more higher education on top of my current student loan debt, and I set myself up for a lifetime of endless work trying to pay off my tuition bills.

But is that what I really want? Even if I convince myself that school is what I want to keep pursuing, must it be law school? What about graduate school for English or Government? What about racking up even more debt by getting my Ph.D?

Or how about no more school at all, and I just find begin my career right away? Yet again, the question arises as to what field I want to work in as a twenty-something graduate.

Each decision is just like the coming to an intersection and picking which way to turn. For some people, the direction to take is clear in their minds. That is how I felt as a freshman three years ago. Today, however, I’m left pondering at the gas pedal as I attempt to figure out where to turn next.

I keep being told that no matter what direction I choose, ultimately it is for the best because I will have chosen it for myself. I cannot rely on someone else for directions about my future. I am slowly coming to realize that I create my own map, albeit one that will likely include lots of twists and turns and complicated routes to whatever maybe my final destination.

But even if I don’t know where I will be when I exit the car, I know that the journey is worth appreciating. Although they cannot create my path for me, the people I will meet will be influential and essential to steering me towards whatever makes me the happiest.

There will be potholes, traffic delays and unforeseen speed bumps, but they can’t be anticipated, and they cannot be avoided.

Life’s road is not a straight line. The journey is challenging, emotionally draining and long, but it is also rewarding, fulfilling and, sometimes, seem as if it is not long enough.

As I prepare for my final summer as an undergraduate, thoughts of the pending future are regularly on my mind. I can’t stop people from asking me what I will be doing after I graduate, but that does not mean I must have an answer for them. Soon enough, the car will park itself, somewhere, to begin life’s next chapter.

But for now, I want to enjoy the present and let the images I see from the window narrate my thoughts.

For this month’s project, I was fortunate to be paired with Allison Flaherty of Life’s A Bowl. A 20-something and recent college graduate living in nearby Virginia who loves flower and working out, Allison writes a wonderful lifestyle blog with images of delicious, healthy food and inspiring quotes. Browsing through her posts for the first time earlier this month, I recognized how much she and I had in common, and I knew she would be a great April penpal.

After I contacted Allison about my food preferences (anything fruity, especially mangos and figs; nothing with peanuts), I anxiously looked forward to the day when I would get an email from the RHO telling me that my food package had been received. Relieved to be out of my Statistics class (who wouldn’t), I could not help but smile and hurry to the mail office when I saw the email in my inbox. Scurrying as quickly back to my apartment, I opened up the package to find an assortment of goodies.

• Trader Joe’s Mango Butter: One would think that my love for mangos would spread to anything with mango in the title. Surprisingly, however , mango butter is not the case. Last summer, I spotted it on the shelf at Trader Joe’s and of course I just had to try it, and so I came home and liberally spread it on a toasted bagel. Perhaps it was because I used too much, but I found the butter to be overwhelming sweet, even for me. After that, I gave the open jar to my roommate. Since then I have not eaten the butter again, but when I saw the ingredient in my package I knew this was a second chance opportunity. As of now, the jar remains unopened, but a friend of mine has suggested I bake with it. Any suggestions?
• Dried Mango: I love mangos. I love dried fruit, and so by the transitive property, I love dried mango. Not wasting a second, I tore into the bag immediately after posing all my goodies for a picture. The mangos were gone in less than a week, having been added to dried pineapple and assorted nuts for a tropical trail mix.
• Slices of Prune and Walnut: Although I am currently living in an on campus apartment, the kitchen and dining room has much to be desired. Fortunately, this coming fall I will be living in a house in Georgetown with my own room and a gorgeous kitchen (at least for my financially strapped standards). I am looking forward to the opportunity to cook elaborate, procrastinating meals and host dinner parties for friends. These prune and walnut crackers would be perfect accompaniment for a wine and cheese party (after I am 21, of course). Until then, I’ll just have to keep sampling them with different cheeses to see which one tastes best.
• Dark Chocolate Crisps: The only way I can think to describe these is by calling them chocolate Pringles. They are not potato chips, but these dark crisps are shaped just like the stackable snacks we loved to find in our elementary school lunch boxes. Admittedly, when I first opened the box, I was tempted to see if I could make the duck beak-like the one made in the Pringles commercials. That thought re-emerges in my mind each time I reach for a crisp, but they have been the perfect way to satisfy my chocolate craving.
• A Chocolate Bar with Speculoos: This product made me the most excited. For those who don’t know, Speculoos is a shortcrust cookie popular in Belgium and Northern France. In these countries, the cookies are also ground into a paste to create a spread similar to peanut butter and Nutella. I first encountered it while in Brussels last January, and I have since asked my roommate currently studying abroad in the city to bring me back a jar (or two) for our senior year reunion. Overseas, most eat it slathered on a piece of morning toast, thereby transforming the average slice into something like dessert. Simply put, what could possibly be better than ground up cookies in a jar? Putting it between layers of dark chocolate, that’s what! Somehow I have managed self control and not yet tried the bar, but I anticipate that with finals starting, that bar is no longer safe.

I  must thank Allison for the delicious goodies and her kind words written in the card sent with the package. Chocolate and fruit and Speculoos; what more could a girl ask for?

If you are interested in becoming involved in the Foodie Penpals Program, here’s some details:

• On the 5th of every month, you will receive your penpal pairing via email. It will be your responsibility to contact your penpal and get their mailing address and any other information you might need like allergies or dietary restrictions.
• You will have until the 15th of the month to put your box of goodies in the mail. On the last day of the month, you will post about the goodies you received from your penpal!
• The boxes are to be filled with fun foodie things, local food items or even homemade treats! The spending limit is $15. The box must also include something written. This can be anything from a note explaining what’s in the box, to a fun recipe…use your imagination!
• You are responsible for figuring out the best way to ship your items depending on their size and how fragile they are. (Don’t forget about flat rate boxes!)
• Foodie Penpals is open to blog readers as well as bloggers. If you’re a reader and you get paired with a blogger, you are to write a short guest post for your penpal to post on their blog about what you received. If two readers are paired together, neither needs to worry about writing a post for that month.
• Foodie Penplas is open to US & Canadian residents. Please note, Canadian Residents will be paired with other Canadians only. We’ve determined things might get too slow and backed up if we’re trying to send foods through customs across the border from US to Canada and vice versa. So, I’m going to keep two separate lists and match US w/ US and Canada w/ Canada!
• If you’re interested in participating for May, please CLICK HERE to fill out the participation form and read the terms and conditions.

You must submit your information by May 1st as pairings will be emailed on May 5th!

It is not so much that I have nothing to write about it; in fact I have plenty of stories about late night Gossip Girl-watching sessions to visits to U-Street to free Sprinkles Cupcakes (actually all stories from just one night!). Unfortunately, however, since coming back from spring break I have been swamped with more time sensitive and, arguably, more important priorities (i.e. homework) that has kept me from posting. And while I did promise once again to make a conscious effort to blog, things like my thesis proposal, papers about Kant and newspaper production have kept me a little preoccupied.

Recognizing a need for some motivation and commitment to lure me back into the blogosphere, I stumbled upon the Foodie Penpals program. The brainchild of Lindsay Livingston at The Lean Green Bean, the project aims to connect food bloggers and readers beyond the World Wide Web through the exchange of food-filled care packages.

As a financially strapped college student, the thought of getting a package from the RHO filled solely with food items definitely heightened the appeal of the program. Since one of the requirements of participation is writing up a post summarizing what came in the mail, the program also provided me with an inexcusable incentive to sit down at my computer and type up a few hundred words.

This month was my first time participating in the program, and I was fortunate enough to receive my package  from Kayla of the blog Sprouty Buns.  Having told her about my vegetarian lifestyle, my strong dislike for anything peanut and my obsession with yogurt-covered everything, she sent me a bunch of fantastic goodies that fit my tastes and my lifestyle.

In my package:

• Roasted edamame: I’m not the biggest fan of plain edamame, but these were unbelievable! Roasted and dusted with wasabi powder, these are a great protein-packed alternative to my standby bag of salted almonds. But while delicious, these cannot be swallowed by the handful unless you have a bottle of water (or two) nearby to wash down the heat of the wasabi.
• Yogi Granola Crisps: In my initial message to Kayla, I never mentioned that I was a self-proclaimed yogi, so I loved that there was something in my box that matched my personality. These crisps are extra crunchy,  sweet and packed with whole grain goodness, putting my plain rice cakes to shame.
• Fruit leathers: When I was younger, my favorite part of lunch was the snacks accompanying my boring grape jelly sandwich. Dunkaroos and assorted mini bags of chips were commonplace, but I most looked forward to the days when I could find and unwrap a fruit roll-up. Unlike the high fructose laden products of lunches past, Kayla sent me some no sugar-added fruit, all natural fruit leathers. With flavors like cherry, mango and grape, these transported me back to the fourth grade lunch table, but without the extra sugar and uneven pig tails.
• Yogurt pretzels: When I saw the package of yogurt-covered pretzels I couldn’t help but break into it right away. The combination of sweet and salty quickly made me forget about the pop Statistics quiz I had been surprised with an hour earlier. Although I probably consumed more than a serving of pretzels in less than 5 minutes, I easily justified the indulgence as my calcium intake for the day (they are covered in “yogurt” after all).

A big thanks to Kayla for such a wonderful package. Her letter and carefully constructed package were a comforting and delicious introduction to the Foodie Penpals program. The mix of sweet, salty, spicy and fruity flavors has kept my taste buds dancing, and  I’m already wondering what I have to look forward to when I receive a new package next month through this foodie exchange.

If you are interested in becoming involved in the Foodie Penpals Program, here’s some details:

• On the 5th of every month, you will receive your penpal pairing via email. It will be your responsibility to contact your penpal and get their mailing address and any other information you might need like allergies or dietary restrictions.
• You will have until the 15th of the month to put your box of goodies in the mail. On the last day of the month, you will post about the goodies you received from your penpal!
• The boxes are to be filled with fun foodie things, local food items or even homemade treats! The spending limit is $15. The box must also include something written. This can be anything from a note explaining what’s in the box, to a fun recipe…use your imagination!
• You are responsible for figuring out the best way to ship your items depending on their size and how fragile they are. (Don’t forget about flat rate boxes!)
• Foodie Penpals is open to blog readers as well as bloggers. If you’re a reader and you get paired with a blogger, you are to write a short guest post for your penpal to post on their blog about what you received. If two readers are paired together, neither needs to worry about writing a post for that month.
• Foodie Penplas is open to US & Canadian residents. Please note, Canadian Residents will be paired with other Canadians only. We’ve determined things might get too slow and backed up if we’re trying to send foods through customs across the border from US to Canada and vice versa. So, I’m going to keep two separate lists and match US w/ US and Canada w/ Canada!
• If you’re interested in participating for April, please CLICK HERE to fill out the participation form and read the terms and conditions.

You must submit your information by April 4th as pairings will be emailed on April 5th!

Saint Joseph’s Day is to the Italians what Saint Patrick’s Day is to the Irish. Just two days after the Irish deck themselves in green and enjoy cold pints of Guinness, Italians celebrate the feast of Saint Joseph. Though the husband of Mary, Joseph is an important figure in the history of Christianity, thereby March 19th is now dedicated to his remembrance. Rather than wearing green, Italians typically celebrate by dressing in red.

In Italy, il Giorno di San Giuseppe is also Father’s Day, Festa del Papà, but the day has even more significance in the south. Sicily regards Saint Joseph as its Patron Saint because many credit him with saving the people from drought during medieval times. Once the rains arrived, the Sicilians celebrated their good fortune with great feasts. Unlike the heavy Irish fare of corned beef and cabbage, the traditional celebratory food for the Italian feast is based upon the peasant cuisine of the Sicily, including minestrone with fava beans, la frittata, and plenty of fish. But considering that Saint Joseph is also the patron saint of pastry chefs, the holiday is most known for its signature pastry: la zeppola.

As an Italian-American, I grew up eagerly waiting for Saint Joseph’s Day because I knew it was the one day a year when I could go to a local bakery and indulge in una zeppola. Le zeppole are typically made from a choux pastry, which combines eggs, water, flour and butter. They can be brought fried or baked and are usually filled with a rich pastry cream. While in Italy, I was on a mission to discover these pastries in their country of birth; however, I became disappointed to learn that my American idea of le zeppole is very different from the Italian conception. In much of Italy, zeppole typically refers to small deep-fried dough balls (think Dunkin Donut munchkins) sprinkled with powered sugar or honey.

Depending on la pasticceria, the doughnuts might be filled with the creamy custard that Italian Americans recognize in the states. Unfortunately, these offerings seem to be in the minority. In Napoli, li zeppoli are small fritters of fried dough, and while there is certainly nothing wrong with this, they are just not what I associate with Saint Joseph’s Day. I have, however, discovered that the pastry of my childhood is best associated with the recipes from Sicily. Perhaps if I visited the island, then I would find the dessert that I crave 364 days out of the year.

Despite living in Italy for four months, I never did  find una zeppola that matched the product I salivate over in the Italian bakeries in Rhode Island. Even more, I cannot find any nearby bakeries in D.C. that serve up this delicacy. When I asked my Italian professor during my freshman year where I might try to find them, she had no idea what I was talking about, but she emailed me a few recipes for the munchkin-like zeppole. While I appreciated her suggestions, these could just not compare.

Since living in D.C. and then studying in Italy for a semester, I have come to greatly value my family’s  traditions rooted in my Italian cultural heritage. Although D.C. certainly has its fair share of Italian restaurants, nothing seems to come close to those back home, never mind the great cooking of my Italian family members. So while  I may not enjoy una zeppola on this St. Joseph’s Day, I am still wearing red in honor of my Italian roots.

Fortunately, D.C. weather looks to follow its sister down south as temperatures are expected to climb into the 70s for most of the coming week.

With warmer temperatures and now more sunlight to enjoy in the day, things are looking up for the near future. A new season will soon be upon us and that is worth celebrating.

Spring is my favorite time at Georgetown. The return  of green to the trees and higher temperatures also signals the start of days lounging on Healy Lawn, eating ice cream and not simultaneously freezing, the Cherry Blossom festival, late nights walks to the monument and an overall more comfortable, positive atmosphere.

Despite the fact that my workload does not get any lighter in the warmer months (in fact it piles up even more with the approach of finals), there is something to be said about sitting outside for hours in the sunlight reading Aristotle or writing a paper about the role of women in Shakespeare’s plays. Unlike in the winter when I banish myself in my apartment, wrap myself in blankets and wear nothing but sweatpants all weekend long, spring welcomes not only April showers and May flowers, but a chance to get out and do all the things I have avoided because of the cold.

On my short list of things to do in the near future:

• Cheering on my Hoyas during March Madness
• Shopping, and eating, at Eastern Market
• Gallivanting to U Street for Busboys and Poets
• Finally seeing the Cherry Blossoms in full bloom
• Possibly adventuring to New York City
• Cooking with the season’s fresh produce: asparagus risotto, anyone?
• Celebrating Georgetown Day
• Sitting on a bench and staring at images at the National Portrait Gallery

In addition to these things, I promise to continue blogging at least once a week, at least so people know that I am in fact alive. Unfortunately, I already know that this week will be a test. With a research proposal due in just 8 days and planning for Women’s History Week, I know that I have my work cut out for me. Yet considering that today I have gone to the gym, toured the farmer’s market, finished a paper, lingered around campus and managed to blog, all before six o’clock, I am hopeful that I can find the time to type up at least a couple of hundred word, pun-filled and witty posts.

Even if I can’t always manage those hundred words, then photo-filled posts will just have to do. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so imagine what sort of stories I can tell with posts dominated by images? As of now it seems I only take pictures of food (if you dine with me, ready your food for its close-up), so it just might be time for me to add some other mediums to the mix.

Spring is certainly in the air here in D.C.; let’s just wish things stay as bright and optimistic throughout the rest of my junior year.

Admittedly, I did try to post this earlier today while waiting at the airport for nearly three hours, but the poor Internet connection prohibited me from getting a signal strong enough to save a post.

Considering that it is currently 11:47 p.m., or 12:47 a.m. if you have already sprung the clocks forward, I thought I would keep this post short and sweet. I know I have been promising a recap of Seaworld, but there are too many fishy puns and Finding Nemo references to write, so that post will, again, have to be pushed back at least another day.

However, I will include some pictures from the day exploring the deep blue sea, as well as lots of other snapshots from my week in paradise.

Upon investigating, I learned that the “shoe” reference is a metaphorical description of the bread. Like a shoe being dragged in the mud, the bread soaks up the sauce and becomes saturated with flavor.

Admittedly, I’m one of those people who loves to soak her “shoes” in the “rain” of gravy. Oftentimes, I will ladle extra sauce on my plate just so that I will have extra to wipe clean with my hunk of crust Italian bread.

Considering that the Italians have a phrase for “bread-mopping,” I began to wonder if they had anything to say about “dough-snatching.” As much as using bread to clean a plate might be considered less than ladylike behavior, so too is sneaking bits and pieces of cookie dough for a cheating taste of that sweet, tender mixture. Yet all of us can admit to doing it…guilt-free.

When I was younger, I used to spend my Sundays with my dad visiting my great Italian grandmothers. The tenement apartment house of dad’s mom’s mother was always the first stop, and no matter what time of year and no matter what time we arrived, she always had something waiting for us to enjoy. Sometimes is was as simple as a bowl of ditalini in chicken broth or a slice of store-bought pound cake. But on those special days, we would walk into her kitchen to the sights and/or smells of her infamous egg biscuits.

Now, I write infamous not because they were foul-tasting or burnt to a crisp; rather, the infamy comes from the fact that nobody in my family knows how to recreate them exactly like grandma. I have two very different recipes in my possession, with varying proportions and ingredients, and my aunt has three. Never mind that the variations are so significant (the inclusion of orange juice in one is just one example), it is impossible to know the true recipe because my great grandma didn’t measure her ingredients. Even when baking, an art much like a science, she “eyeballed” everything. Despite the fact that her recipes have measurements, I never saw her measure anything, besides maybe with the occasional coffee cup.

When my aunt stumbled upon a recipe in Mary Ann Esposito’s cookbook Ciao Italia, she thought it resembled her mother’s recipe, so she decided that while I was with her, we could give it try. After following the directions almost exactly (we swapped corn oil for vegetable shortening), we labored, rolled, baked and frosted nearly four dozen cookies. But alas, while they were tasty and had a texture reminiscent of my grandma’s, they still fell short of expectations.

Before the cookies even went in the oven, I had high hopes for the Italian treats. Like my dad used to do when I was younger, I could not resist sampling the dough stuck to the inside of the mixing bowl.  I will always remember the sound my grandma made when she slapped my father on the hand for sticking his fingers into the bowl to snag pieces of unbaked dough. However, the lure was worth the risk.

It tasted like vanilla, like lemon, like a piece of my childhood.. Yet, even with a tasty dough, Esposito’s cookies weren’t my grandma’s.

Like mopping up the leftover sauce with a hunk of bread, eating the leftover cookie mix ensures that nothing goes to waste. Although my grandmother warned about the dangers of consuming raw eggs, I never became sick. So until I do, I’ll just have to “fare la scarpetta,” or whatever the Italians want to call it, with the leftover of cookie dough.

Italian Egg Biscuits
Makes about 45 cookies
Adapted from Ciao Italia

4 large eggs
1 1/2 cups sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla
1 cup corn oil
1/2 cup milk
6 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons baking powder
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
2 tablespoons grated lemon zest

Frosting:
1 1/2 cups confectioner’s sugar, sifted
1/4 cup milk
2 teaspoons vanilla

In a bowl, beat the eggs until pale yellow. Add the sugar and vanilla and beat until thick and light-colored. Add the oil and milk, beating well to combine. Sift the flour and baking powder together and stir into the egg mixture. Stir in the lemon juice and zest, mixing well.

The dough will be soft; wrap it in wax paper and refrigerate for at least one hour.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Lightly grease three cookie sheets.

Place the dough on a well-floured surface. Break off egg-size pieces of dough and roll or coil into balls. Place the dough balls one-inch apart on the cookie sheets.

Bake for 20 minutes, or until lightly colored and firm to the touch.

Transfer cookies to wire racks to cool slightly before frosting.

For frosting, combine the sugar, milk and vanilla and stir until smooth.

While the cookies are still warm, dip the top of each cookie in the frosting. Place the cookies on racks to let the frosting dry before storing. Sprinkle with nonpareils, if desired.

Cookies will keep in an airtight container for up to one week or frozen for up to three months.

Most of my memories with my aunt come from visiting at her house by the beach in Rhode Island. Although she lives only 45 minutes away, 45 minutes of travel for Rhode Islanders is a long way. Because of this, I usually only saw my aunt and uncle a few of times a year. Once on Christmas Eve for the traditional Feast of the Seven Fishes and then maybe a couple of times in the summer when we wanted an escape to the beach. 

Unfortunately, over the years the visits have become fewer in number. Having been abroad last spring and then in D.C. for the summer, the only opportunity for me to see my aunt and uncle was at a family BBQ one Sunday last May before I returned to the District. There was no Christmas visit, either. This past year, they decided to stay put in Florida for the holidays, so there was no feast of the fishes to be celebrated.

With the lapse in visits, my family and I welcomed the invitation to visit our relatives at their home down south. Not only did it guarantee a family reunion, but it also guaranteed great food.

My aunt learned how to cook from her mother, another stereotypical Italian woman. Under her guidance, my aunt learned the “little of this, little of that” method of cooking. Yet unlike my great-grandmother who literally measured things out with the palm of her hand and used whatever cup was closest to her to measure ingredients (which explains the three varying written recipes for egg biscuits), my aunt is a little more precise with her cooking and baking. She uses recipes more for inspiration, and rather than following them to a T, she prefers to make adjustments according to her and her husband’s palate. For her, some of the tastiest items are also the most simple.

Take this morning’s breakfast, for example. After stopping at the grocery store yesterday evening, she picked up a pound of frozen dough so that she could make what she refers to as pizza fritta. Translated to mean fried pizza, it is literally just dough fried in oil and then sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar while still warm. Known as doughboys back home in Rhode Island, they are not exactly the lightest, most healthiest breakfast fare, but they sure are tasty.

Another one of her favorites is pasta fagioli. Among my family, we refer to it more commonly as pasta fazool, which refers to pasta and bean soup. The last time I visited my aunt in Florida I devoured this soup for two days straight. It didn’t matter that it was 75 degrees outside and I was eating soup; it was so hearty, yet light tasting, that I could have eaten it with temperatures in the 90s (but then probably washed down with an iced coffee).

Well, my aunt has a fantastic memory, so when I arrived last week she had bowls of the soup waiting for me to inhale. Unfortunately, I also have a good memory, so I vividly remember the list of ingredients being non-vegetarian friendly. Among the items in the recipe among onions, celery, carrots, brown sugar, tomato sauce, beans, ditalini pasta and chicken stock. After scarfing down a bowl without thinking, I asked my aunt to recount the ingredients and that’s when I realized my mistake. Even after listing chicken stock as ingredient, it didn’t occur to my aunt that there was a problem. Reminding me of my host mother in Italy, it occurred to me  vegetarianism is something that some traditional Italian cooks can’t quite wrap their heads around.

With only a few days left in paradise with my aunt and uncle, I am still waiting for the opportunity to cook or bake something in the kitchen. Until then, I will simplify have to suffice on whatever food is served to me.