Sigilicious

Butchered Italian Word of the Day

2011-04-10T01:40:00.001-04:00

Word of the day:

Cafone. In butchered Italian: "gavone," pronounced, "gavoan."
Meaning- someone who has no manners, someone who can't get enough. For example- at the deli counter there are sometimes free samples. Someone starts making lunch out of them. That's a gavone.

Pasta Fazool

2010-09-25T22:11:00.006-04:00

A recipe for the autumn.
Mangia bene!

Pasta E Fagioli

(Makes approximately 6 Servings)
1/2 cup olive oil
4 garlic cloves chopped
2 chopped carrots
1/2 onion, chopped
3 cups of crushed tomatoes (I prefer Tuttarossa for canned, if no fresh is available)
1 and a half tablespoon fresh chopped Parsley
2 cups small uncooked ditalini pasta
2 cups cannellini beans (rinsed)
1 cup of water

Salt, Pepper, Oregano & grated Pecorino Romano cheese (to taste)

Boil water
Heat olive oil.
Sautée carrots and onions until onions are transparent.
Add garlic, oregano and parsley, then tomatoes and a cup of water.
Add salt and pepper to taste
Boil then add beans and cook on medium for 40 minutes

Bring to rolling boil. Cook pasta until it's al dente and drain.
Add the pasta and the cannelini beans to tomatoes already cooking and simmer for about 7 minutes.

Why God Made Bakers

2010-09-22T00:31:00.003-04:00

Saturday was my daughter's big Sweet 15 party (quinceañera). She was doing a subtle Little Mermaid theme because it's our favorite Disney movie/Broadway show and the first movie I ever took her to see in the theater. Also her (and my) first Broadway show.
She wanted a particular cake- a two (or three) tiered, elaborately decorated, Mermaid cake (did I mention her obsession with the Little Mermaid?)- and wanted me to bake it. Shah! I can cook anything. I can bake lots of delicious, fattening stuff. But I have no patience to stand still and decorate baked goods-much less this monstrosity. Plus, I never have time. I teach and run two small businesses. Oh yeah, and I have two children.

But for my kid, I tried. Bought all the stuff. Made the cakes. Had the fondant ready. "My nonna will be so proud of me," I thought as I prepared the bottom tier.
Then the thought of all those people looking at my amateur cake started worrying me. "A homemade cake?" they'd think. "she couldn't afford to hire a baker?" "Did her 9 year old ice this?" they'd whisper. My kid deserved to have a beautiful cake!

So I made an executive decision, much to the chagrin of my birthday girl. I called the professionals- the ones who bake in a giant pro kitchen and have been trained in this area. And I threw in the towel, er cake pan.

Surrounded by 4 cakes I decided to decorate one to remind me not to get hornswaggled into this again. My mom reminded me that day "Honey, if we thought you could bake, we wouldn't have sent you to college." So this will remind me. Much like the flamenco red walls of my office that I painted remind me never to paint again.
Here is my work of art: French Vanilla with butter cream frosting:

You're jealous of my skills, I know.

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Stand tall America

2010-09-11T13:48:00.001-04:00

Today it is too painful to recount all the details of my personal story as an observer of the events of 9/11/01. Watching the events unfold live on tv while I held my baby daughter who I had just brought to this country with the promise of a better life Rushing to my older daughter's school that was being evacuated in chaos. Trying to locate family members at work in Philly as it evacuated, and not knowing where my cousin at work in NYC was until that night. I can't detail the pain I felt as plane after plane crashed, killing fellow Americans. And today I can't describe the shock and profound sadness I felt when the news announced that one of my classmates had perished on the 104th floor of the WTC. It's not that I don't want to remember. I can. And I do. It's that I can never forget. And I hope nobody else can, either.

God Bless America. Please remember and pray for our troops.

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Happy Birthday to My Diva

2010-08-31T05:41:00.003-04:00

Today my daughter, or as I call her because of her theatrical and vocal performances, The Diva, turned 15. As she has been doing since she was 9, she set her alarm for 5:50 am, the time she was born, and came in to thank me for giving her life. Although I am always groggy at that time, I melt. My heart floods with love and I don't doubt that a mother's love is the greatest of all.

In my mid-twenties all I could think about was becoming a mother. I couldn't wait to have a baby and after celebrating our first year of marriage, her dad and I realized that after being together for years, the only adventure left to experience was parenthood.

The day my daughter was born was nothing short of mind-blowing and awe-inspiring. I just could not believe I had created this perfect child and moreover, that God had chosen me to become a mother. From the moment she was born she became my world. She still is, along with my younger daughter.

Adolescence, and childhood in general, is bumpy for some and kids don't come with manuals. You rely on others who have raised kids already to advise you. Nothing truly prepares you for the bumps in the road of parenthood. But one thing I would never do is wish I had not become a mom. It is my reason for getting up in the morning, and what I thank God for every night, even if the Diva and I have been arguing or she has driven me crazy that day. She is smart, creative, artistic, silly, funny, loving, affectionate, sensitive, analytical and loyal. She feels things deeply. She is much like me.

I have always felt that my life was not complete until the day I became a mother and God has allowed me to do it twice. I can think of no greater gift than that of parenthood. And on this day every year, I spend it reflecting on the day I was given this gift. And I spend it lavishing an infinite supply of hugs and kisses on my diva. Moms never run out of love for their kids, which is good, because the Diva has to share her stash with her little sister. She's already in mini-diva training.

Happy birthday to my diva. I wouldn't trade you for anything in the "whole wide world and universe." I love you!

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Sighted at the (real) Jersey Shore

2010-08-16T00:23:00.002-04:00

The Jersey shore (south Jersey thank you very much), specifically the Wildwoods (called simply "The Woods" until I showed up-barum bum) has countless things to do and see, especially on the boardwalk. I have spent all but one vacation season here starting from my days in utero.

As a teen I loved the boardwalk. As the mother of a beautiful teenage daughter, not so much. It's teeming with people, you have to dodge the dreaded tram car and know how to handle the pushy vendors in the shirt shops. Boys ogle the girls and vice versa. (this is where I become part Mr. T, part Sofia Petrullo).

But if you're an eater, it's heaven. Funnel cakes, curly fries, Kohrs brothers soft serve ice cream, pizza, gyros, steak "samiches," and loads of other equally fatty foods are available. I always eat before I go so I don't succumb! There are tons of rides- roller coasters, flumes, bumper cars, and other vomit-inducing machines. Plus, there is no shortage of games on which to throw away your money as you desperately try to shoot water into a clown's mouth to win the 235th stuffed animal for your child. After all, you paid $3 to shoot that water gun!

And I can't forget the arcades where your kid can win tickets and amass them to convert into...tootsie rolls. I do love skee ball, however, and beat my personal best of 340 (wow, I know!) before my elbow snapped and my tendinitis reared its ugly head. (So it's not tennis elbow for me, more like Skee Ball elbow?)

I did get my yearly visit to the drum along machine in the arcade. It's a yearly reminder of the fact that I will never fulfill my dream of drumming in an 80's hair band and that I have no musical talent whatsoever (which doesn't preclude being in an 80's hair band). So I get it out of my system every summer.

The boardwalk overlooks the longest beach I believe, in the free world. You can see the corpses of people who never made it to the water, too tired from the walk to continue, they just gave up. Where else do you need a "beach taxi" to get to the water? Wildwood! (ok, so I'm exaggerating about the corpses but they do have a beach taxi.)

You can also find loads of funny and inappropriate tshirts and clothes along the doorways. Here are some I saw tonight:

And these are the tame ones.

So my penance is over. My little one has a giant stuffed animal, my teen got a pooka shell necklace, I played the drums and we all have tootsie rolls.

All things considered, I can't wait to go back to Florida!

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Who's in YOUR freezer?

2010-07-18T08:31:00.001-04:00

I've blogged already about the Sicilian curse/supestition/hex whatever it's called, of "freezing" someone bringing negativity into your life and how, in spite of my Catholic upbringing and 12 years of parochial schooling, I believe in it.

A recap. If someone in your life is causing you grief or anguish, or is so jealous of you that he or she has gone to lengths to turn others against you, or antagonizes you, vilifies you or picks fights with you and you are certain that you want nothing to do with him or her ever again, you do the following:
Get a photo of the person,
Place it face down in the freezer.
Forget about it.

The belief is that you will freeze the person out of your life. My belief is that the people's love lives will be frigid and unfulfilling, or they will feel a chilly breeze all the time, or their skin gets really dry. But that's just my wishful thinking. :-)

I have a few people in my freezer who have caused me great anguish; I don't just stick people in there willy nilly. And while most of them are still peripherally in my life out of necessity, we no longer butt heads. The others have delighted me by disappearing from my life all together. They're probably too busy shivering to bother me.

I've also heard that only a person of Sicilian heritage can perform this "curse," if you will.

So, if you've crossed a Sigi lately and you're sitting at home on a Saturday night in your pj's because your dating pipe line has frozen up, or you find your teeth chattering for no reason, or you find yourself craving warm, oven-made foods to make you feel good...maybe you're under a pork loin in someone's freezer.

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Happy Birthday America!

2010-07-04T09:35:00.001-04:00

As I shot photos of beautiful fireworks last night, I started thinking... I don't know how many Americans realize how lucky we are to live in this country. Having lived in two other countries myself, I was truly grateful to move home each time. We have so much here- from freedoms to opportunities, and often we don't miss it until we don't have it.
My grandparents didn't come here from Italy fleeing political persecution, they just wanted a better life for their families. That's what all immigrants want.

So today, think about why you CHOOSE to live in this great country and remember to celebrate what you have.

Happy independence day, America!

Photos by Claudia Fanelli

A Tasty Birthday for Dad

2010-06-13T21:13:00.005-04:00

This weekend my family and I celebrated my awesome dad's 77th birthday. (Due to technical issues I did not post on his actual birthday this year.) I am so grateful to have him for another birthday. He's been dodging bullets for the past several years (as has been my mom).

Yesterday everyone came to my house for the party. My sister made a special point of bringing his very favorite cake- Italian cream. Actually, this cake is the only cake we ever had for birthdays growing up. A close friend of the family was a baker and every year my dad brought home an Italian cream cake- rum flavored and covered in tiny peanut bits.

I never cared for it all that much.

But don't get me wrong. I ate it. Duh! It was CAKE, after all. My favorite memory was the year my dad had "Uncle Joe" put Beatles figurines on the top for me. I wish I had saved them. But to tell you the truth, as an adult I'm not much of a cake person. I like carrot cake and ice cream cake a lot but that's the only kind I really go crazy over. I don't care much for cupcakes either. I just don't feel like wasting the calories on something I don't really like. It's too hard to work it off.
Anyway, so yesterday my sister brought this beautiful cake from an Italian bakery outside of Philly called Testa's:

It was a work of art. But only briefly until she sliced it up and everyone snarfed it. But then the kids realized I had cupcakes. An assortment of chocolate and vanilla iced in bright colors and something new just for my dad- lemon meringue cupcakes! Once I found this recipe I knew I had to make it- my dad loves lemon meringue! They're just basic vanilla cupcakes with lemon meringue on top, but instead of filling the cupcakes, I put the lemon dollop on top. I don't bake much, I prefer to cook, but for a special occasion I'll break out the beaters. They turned out so pretty, I had to take a picture:

Needless to say, my dad was pleased as punch, and so was I, because my sister took the leftover cake and there were no cupcakes left so no temptation for me!

To Those Who Served

2010-05-31T23:58:00.001-04:00

I spent the weekend in New York and it's Fleet Week so our service men and women were all over the Time Square area. It was an emotional time because I wanted to thank them all for serving our great country as so many others did and gave their lives doing it. But I thanked those who walked by me and took some of their photos. They are true heroes and nothing angers me more than people disrespecting those who put their lives on the line so that we may have ours.
God bless America and our military.

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Bocce time!

2010-05-03T10:19:00.000-04:00

Growing up in suburban Philadelphia, I spent a lot of tine at my grandfather's house. We moved from Philly to a house two doors down from his and that's where the family parties always were held. As one of 12 kids, he always invited all his siblings for a yearly barbecue.

At those barbecues there were three givens. Only grilled food would be edible, as his second wife could not cook (nor was she Italian but the two are not mutually exclusive), his lawn would be meticulously manicured, that thick type of grass you could step on and lose your foot in, and there were games. Notably, horseshoes and bocce. No Italian-American outdoor gathering would be complete without a game of bocce. Just ask my dad, who broke his foot when a bocce ball fell on it! Those things are heavy!

When I got my own house with a lawn, I bought a bocce set. Last night in the 80 degree weather my set made it's 2010 debut. My daughters love it and are very competitive. It's a lot of fun and I'm happy they are taking part in the tradition. As long as they don't drop it on my foot!

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Aw, CRAP

2010-04-23T16:13:00.001-04:00

Word of the Day- SCOOCH!

2010-04-13T22:25:00.003-04:00

Growing up, if there was one word in Italian (or butchered Italian) that I heard over and over, it was the word "scooch." It means "pest," or "pain in the neck" and I believe it comes from the Italian verb "scocciatore," which means to bother.

As you can see, the poor word has been bastardized like so many other Italian words, by Italian-Americans. But when you're not a first or even second generation Italian, and you pick up words from your grandparents or even their parents, it's kind of like whisper down the lane. You know how what the original version gets all twisted up by the time it reaches the last person? It's kind of like that.

It can be used in verb or noun form.

"Claudia, don't scooch me while I'm cooking!"
"Hey, don't be a scooch- I'm trying to concentrate and you keep talking."

Enjoy your butchered word of the day.

Sweet, Sweet Easter

2010-04-07T21:17:00.001-04:00

Easter is always at my house with between 14 and 18 people each year. I spend most of the day before cooking. I make the traditional ham, and this year made pecan crusted sweet potato casserole and baked spinach with cream cheese topped with bread crumbs and rubbed sage. There was also pineapple bread pudding that I did not make. That was for the American tradition. Then I brought out 48 hand-stuffed shells in my home made marinara sauce and sweet sausage and my universally famous (yes, universally) meatballs. And of course a salad.
We always have some sort of pasta with a ham or turkey, we just do, whatever the holiday. So, after about two hours of cooking and then last minute preparations on Sunday, dinner was ready. Animated conversation ensued and we watched my new niece feed herself at not quite one year old. Her presence made Easter even sweeter!

Then, then, the dessert. Oh! The dessert! Peanut butter pies. Chocolate creme pie, Easter pie. Raspberry cheesecake, Italian cookies and the piece de resistance- the cannoli! Chocolate, vanilla and ricotta cheese, covered in chocolate chips- the dessert counter was a sight to behold. Cannoli is not an every day dessert in my family- it's for holidays. So everyone lines up for one. Me? I had a half of a ricotta stuffed cannoli and called it a night. It was worth the wait- the last time I had one was in New York City in October at Rocco's bakery in the village (which I highly recommend). Everyone left stuffed and happy and I have a year to recuperate before I start the cooking marathon again!

-- Post From My iPhone

Bring on Spring!

2010-03-26T17:30:00.001-04:00

I hate extremes. Neither summer nor winter are for me- 95 degrees in the summer and 15 in the winter are much too far on the ends of the spectrum for my tastes. I love the colors, smells and cool temperatures of autumn but the anticipation of longer days, more sun, the big thaw and the blooms of the trees and flowers actually incite me to mark off the days til Spring on my calendar.

The first day of spring in PA was glorious-70 degrees and sunny! So was the second day. I celebrated this long-awaited event by going to the wildlife conservancy near my house to see if there were any signs of life yet. All I saw was this:

a beautiful crocus among the brown leaves. That was it. I was happy, because after 70" of snow in the region this winter, this was a welcome sight. The next day I went to Peace Valley Park in Doylestown for the first time. It was full of life- bikers, hikers, birders, birds, waterfowl and kids. I "perched" in the bird blind and caught my favorite bird enjoying the day:

a Northern Cardinal! This one sight made up for the whole crappy winter- I have been trying to catch a shot of a cardinal for four years! They are so beautiful, I could look at them all day. But instead, I called it a day and thanked God for my very favorite season.

(Both photos edited in Photo Shop Elements 7.0)

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Memories of Nonna

2010-02-14T09:15:00.001-05:00

My little Sicilian grandmother died in 1998 at the age of 95, devastating our family. Though she was tiny, she was mighty, and left me with many great memories.
Last week I was sick with one of the worst colds I've ever had. I missed 3 days of work and could barely get out of bed on Wednesday. Nighttime was especially bad, trying to use any comfort measure I could to keep my symptoms at bay. A vapor bath, hot tea, Zicam, Dayquil, Nyquil, breathing strips, and of course, Vicks Vapor Rub.
When I was a kid and I was sick, my grandmother would always rub Vicks on my chest then pin a piece of flannel to my pajamas so the Vicks wouldn't absorb or smear. I forever associate Vicks not just with mentholating action and relief, but with being cared for and loved.
Every time I use Vicks or even smell it, I think of my little Nonna, Santa, (her name just happens to mean "saint" in Italian) and I smile. It took a long time for me to smile and not get choked up when I think of her but it's true, time heals all wounds.

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My favorite site in Philly

2010-01-27T00:07:00.001-05:00

This is Boathouse Row in Fairmount Park, on the Schuykill River next to the Philadelphia Museum of Art. These are not residences, they house shells for crew for the Schuykill Navy. At night they turn on the Christmas lights and they look like gingerbread houses. Ever since I was a little kid I loved driving past this place, which is a national historical landmark. I finally got around to taking pictures of it this summer and again last weekend. Next I want to see a regatta there and take photos of that.

Historical tidbit- this part of the area is called Kelly Drive, named after the brother of Philly's own Princess Grace of Monaco. John Kelly, former Philly councilman, was an oarsman and an Olympian.

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Yo! Cross This Off My Bucket List

2010-01-20T03:43:00.001-05:00

When people think of Philly they think of the birthplace of Independence, the historical buildings,

the World Champion Phillies (1980, 2008), ill-tempered sports fans (guilty, but we just want ONE Superbowl ring!), soft pretzels, Will Smith, and of course, the movie Rocky. If there were any doubt about the latter, a stop at the Philadelphia Museum of Art will prove it. There, according to one of the events coordinators, tour buses pull up to the curb, dozens of people get out, run up the steps toward the museum, jump up and down in victory as Sylvester Stallone did in the movie Rocky, and run back to the waiting bus, and leave. On my visit this weekend I saw this with my own eyes. I counted eight people within a few minutes, rushing up the steps to reenact this iconic scene. One of those not entirely sane or physically fit people was me.

Understand that the Rocky series (Rocky 3 at the top of the list) are among my favorite movies of all time, from when I was a kid. And since then I have always wanted to run those steps. Not only did I never run up them, I never even walked them. For some inexplicable reason, yours truly, a former art student, never stepped foot inside the museum. I've been in others around the world and the USA but not the one in my own hometown. Not the one made famous in my favorite movies, by one of my favorite actors. I had never seen the iconic Rocky statue from Rocky 3 that Stallone had donated to the city. I was a fraudulent Philadelphian.

Finally this summer, I visited the museum. It was 90 degrees and while I stared at the steps, envisioning rushing up them, I also envisioned passing out from heat stroke at the top and being carted off to the ER. As I was with an out of town friend that day, I didn't think a trip to the hospital would be a good addition to the itinerary. So I took photos of the statue and the Greek-styled museum
and skipped the steps.

But this past Saturday, camera gear in hand and children in tow, over thirty years from Stallone's run, I did it. At age 41. And while I work out 5 times a week, I didn't expect to make it up the steps with my busted knees intact. While my daughter filmed and added commentary, I braved the winter chill and ran those damn steps. Man, there were so many! I took the second half two at a time to finish quicker, though not quite as earnestly as Rocky had. I got to the top what seemed like 4 hours later and looked down at my kids jumping up and down, happy that I had done something that I had talked about doing since I was 10 years old. Then I tasted the lactic acid build up in my mouth and felt my heart pounding in my throat. Wow, I'm going to have a heart attack because I waited until I was middle-aged to do this, I thought. I slumped against the wall and waited until my heart made its way back to its proper location. Ten minutes later I walked back down then up again after filming my daughter do the run, but with ease. Teenagers!

So now I can say that I've been to the museum, run up the steps and seen the statue. I don't know how much of a real Philadelphian that makes me, especially when the guy at the bottom of the steps was selling fake Philly soft pretzels along with Rocky t-shirts, but it made me a real Rocky fan and I got to cross off an item on my bucket list.

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Get Your Red Undies Ready!

2009-12-31T21:42:00.015-05:00

(Fireworks display under Brooklyn Bridge, October, 2009)

As an Italian-American, I can't say I have followed the Italian traditions for New Years, perhaps out of laziness or because my kids don't like sausage and I don't like lentils very much. (Ok, it's not the taste as much as the after effects, but I digress) So we don't eat anything special in my family on New Year's Eve. But in Italy, New Year's Eve is celebrated with a meal consisting of a special type of spiced sausage called cotechino, it is said to symbolize fat wallets in the coming year, and lentils, which, because of their shape, symbolize coins, and as such, prosperity for the coming year.

Italians frequently drink spumante as their wine of choice on Capodanno (New Year's Eve), and their underwear of choice is traditionally red- it's supposed to bring luck in the new year. So, after a meal of sausage and lentils, washed down with some spumante, you take in the traditional fireworks display wearing your red underwear. If you have the time, you can toss some old items you don't need anymore out of your window to get rid of the old and ring in the new.

So, to everyone, Felice Anno Nuovo! And if you want to try the cotechino and lenticche recipe, here's one, courtesy of florencevillas.com

1 1/2 cups green lentils
2 tablespoons olive oil
1/4 pound prociutto, pancetta, or bacon, diced
1 medium onion, diced
1 carrot, diced
1 small fennel bulb, diced
1 shallot, minced
2 or 3 cloves garlic, minced
1 pound sweet Italian sausage with fennel
1 medium can of chopped tomatoes
1 small dried chili pepper, or red pepper flakes to taste
1 bay leaf
salt and pepper to taste
Most lentils sold these days do not need to be soaked ahead, but it is best to follow any package directions that come with the lentils you buy. Put lentils in a pot of boiling, salted water; when the water boils again, cover and simmer for about 30 minutes or according to package directions. Drain..

Saute the bacon, onion, carrot, fennel, shallot and garlic in the olive oil in a large skillet. When vegetable are soft, remove and brown the sausage in the same skillet. Set sausage aside on paper towels.

Remove all fat from the skillet and return the bacon and vegetables to the pan; add the tomatoes, hot pepper, and bay leaf, and simmer for 20 minutes. Add the sausage and heat through, simmering for 5 minutes or more.

Season with salt and pepper and serve on a large platter accompanied by mashed potatos.

Serves 4 to 6 people

PIXIE MAGIC

2009-12-13T23:00:00.006-05:00

One day in 1964, my mom left work on her lunch break and went to Market Street in Philly bought a collection of pixie knee hugger dolls for Christmas decorations. They were made in Japan and were decked out in sparkly outfits and hats. She still lived at home with my grandparents then and she began hanging them from the chandelier at Christmastime. When she and my dad got married, she took the pixies with her and hung them from the chandelier in her new home. They have been dancing from the chandelier for over 40 years.

My mom, who is the consumate Christmas decorator and should really be doing the window dressing at Barney's, begins decorating the day after Thanksgiving. She sends my dad up to the attic and the procession of boxes begins. She carefully unpacks everything and places them in their pre-arranged spots. As kids, she would direct me and my sister as to where to place each decoration. But it was watching my mom hang up those pixies that I most looked forward to every year. They were my favorite Christmas decorations and I used to watch them sway and turn as they dangled. When Christmas dinner got boring, I would stare at the pixies and blow up towards the chandelier when nobody was watching so I could make them dance. I don't know if as a kid I thought they were magical or just mesmerizing, all glittery and sparkly, but to me, they represented the holidays at home.

One year, as an adult, I was discussing decorations with my mom. She had recently had surgery and didn't feel up to the usual lavish decorating marathon. I said "you're going to put the pixies up, aren't you?" "I don't think so, it's a lot of work." I said "You have to put them up! I'll come do it for you! It's not Christmas without them!" I was actually whining! Well, she put them up afterall, without my help. WHEW!

In 2006 I decided that in my new home where I finally had a chandelier, I wanted some of those pixies. I began to look online because I had never seen then in any stores. I couldn't find them anywhere online except eBay- and those were all used. There were no new ones to be found- they hadn't been made in years! Rats! So I did the only thing I could, because by then I was hell bent on getting those pixies- I started bidding on other people's throw aways! But guess what? Many other people had the same idea! The ones I wanted- the sparkly, blingy-outfitted ones, were rare- I could only find the ones dressed in felt. So the prices were high and I kept getting outbid. In 2006 I managed to win a few but not enough for my chandelier. The next year I went through the same thing- I won a few auctions and had to salvage a few good ones from each lot because some were filthy or just really battered. I won some more in 2008 after Christmas and by then I had about a dozen. I was already excited for Christmas 2009.

It's now 2009 and I finally have my complete collection of other people's used Christmas decorations. Today I decorated the house and the tree and the first thing I did was the chandelier. It took over an hour to get the clear string attached to their little hats if they didn't have their original string, then position them. They are larger than the ones my mom has, but this year I got to recreate a little childhood magic in my home for my children. I hope these don't disintegrate from age because when they are married, they will only have a pile of pixie dust!

Happy Birthday, Pec!

2009-11-28T08:20:00.001-05:00

Today is my friend Stephanie's birthday. She is an awesome friend to me. Besides being loyal and trustworthy, she makes me laugh and laughs at my jokes, she's a great Spanish teacher who I admire (and who teaches my daughter) and she is my only Italian (Sicilian!) friend out here in the boonies. Plus, she and her husband, Joe ovah deh, are faithful readers of my blog. Or were, until I took a little hiatus. :)

Although I'm a transplant from Philly and she's from New York, our backgrounds are similar. I mean, who else out here in the sticks knows what I mean when I say "Madon! That gabagool was good! Now I could go for a rigut ganool." Nobody, that's who!

So to my partner in crime, have a great day and "chen don!" (that's "cent'anni" for you propah speakahs.) I love you, Pec!

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Where's the Lasagna?

2009-11-26T10:05:00.003-05:00

Sigh. I don't like turkey much. I'll eat it but given my druthers I'd rather not. When I was young and we used to go to my late Aunt Rita's house and she always made the American food- turkey, potatoes, veggies, etc. But in a nod to our Italian-ness she always had a huge dish of lasagna, too. Now that's what I eyeballed when the table was heaped with "cibo.". Everyone else took some of everything. Not me. Just lasagna. And my Aunt Carole's ( rest her soul) cranberry nut mold. Madon! I was a happy camper.

Today turkey day is at my younger sister's house and it's all American. I'm bringing sweet potato casserole with pecan topping- my dad loves it. I'm working out extra this morning so I have no guilt later, needless to say.

At dinner I always ask everyone to name something they are grateful for besides health. As I said in my previous post, I'm grateful for my family and friends who have made my 40th year on earth very meaningful.

I'm also grateful for my wonderful career that I absolutely love. Eighteen years of teaching and only one tough one. Not bad. A student asked me last year if I knew when I'd stop teaching. I said "when they pry the chalk out of my cold, dead hands."

I wanted to make special mention today of my dearest friends. I'm grateful, in particular, for Michael, Stephanie, Julio and Sharon who have given me such happy moments and memories this year.

I wish I could be grateful for lasagna today but I think not having it will make me grateful tomorrow at weigh-in at the gym.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! Think about what you have to be grateful for today and don't forget it!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Happy Birthday Fuzzy

2009-02-03T22:57:00.006-05:00

Eight years ago on February 6th my youngest daughter was born. I wasn't there for her birth. I didn't get to hold her when she was born. In fact, the first time I saw her was in a photo when she was 2 weeks old. But none of that makes her any less my daughter.

My daughter, whose name at birth was coincidentally was both my grandmother's and grandfather's names, was born in Guatemala in 2001. She was given up for adoption at birth by her mother, a generous and selfless woman, and chosen by us from among three babies. She became our daughter on paper in July, but in our hearts on the day we were sent her photo.

She is an adorable, bubbly little girl who has a great memory and is a natural gymnast and soccer player. She's very petite and very determined and you can't put anything past her-- she is sharp! She's a tomboy but she is very sensitive and has a keen sense of right and wrong. She knows where she was born and how she came to be our daughter-- she has known since she could talk.

Today I not only wish my daughter a happy birthday, but I pray for her birth mother and thank her silently for choosing to give her baby a life that she herself could not give to her. She gave me a daughter and her daughter, a mother. There is no greater gift than that.

Happy Birthday Fuzz!
We love you!

The Maloik (Malocchio) or the "Evil Eye"

2009-01-16T22:19:00.020-05:00

While not Italian in origin, many Italians believe in il malocchio (often pronounced "maloik.") Part superstition, part tradition, it is the belief in the evil eye, placed on someone when someone else is jealous or envious of the other's good luck. The malocchio then manifests itself in some sort of misfortune onto the cursed person, usually some physical ailment.

It can also be done involuntarily, like when you see a beautiful baby and you compliment the parent. That could be construed as envy and the parent must then say something like "God bless her" right after it to ward off a possible malocchio, many believing that even though the compliment may have sounded sincere, its real motive was envy. That's why my cousin made me put a red ribbon over the threshold of my new home and told me to throw salt out of all the doors- to protect us from envious people. The person who gives the evil eye is not necessarily evil, but does indeed harbour jealousy.

One can also ward it off by wearing a horn (cornuto) around the neck
or making a gesture with your hand (mano cornuta-which you may know from heavy metal concerts). It is said that Italian men wear the cornuto to protect their genitalia from the malocchio, as the curse is said to harm sperm.

I can't say that I believe or disbelieve the malocchio and I only have one indirect experience with it...

When my mom was in her twenties, she got a great job with the government. Soon after, she began getting terrible headaches that aspirin would not relieve. She suffered with them intermittently for a few weeks when it dawned on my litte Sigi grandmother what the problem was.

"Someone gave you the maloik. (malocchio).""You're crazy. Who would do that?" my mom responded, not telling her she was crazy for believing in "stregheria" or Italian witchcraft, but, rather, for thinking someone would put the curse on her. (The irony that my grandmother was a devout Catholic whose church forbids belief in witchcraft is not lost on me.)
"Who knows? You have that nice job now- someone is jealous and put it on you."
"Nobody is jealous of me."
"I want you to go see the strega down the street." The local strega, or Italian witch, was known to be capable of removing the horrible malocchio that afflicted unassuming Italians in the South Philadelphia neighborhood where they lived.
"I'm not going to the strega. Forget about it. The headaches will go away."
My grandmother never mentioned the malocchio again to my mother.

About a week after the strega conversation, my mom could not find her watch when she was getting ready for work. She asked my grandmother if she had seen it but she had not. My mom, a very organized and detail-oriented individual (you say anal, I say detail-oriented) who never misplaces anything, was disturbed by the missing watch. She looked everywhere for it and finally resigned herself to the fact that it must have slipped off to or from work. The stress only contributed to her constant headaches. (Knowing my mom like I do, I don't for a minute believe that she accepted that her watch was gone, and she probably continued to search for it for at least 24 hours more.)

A few days later my mom woke up and found her watch on her bureau. She put it on and asked my grandmother how it got there. My grandmother told her she didn't know. When she got home from work she grilled my grandmother about the watch.

"Are you sure you didn't borrow it and not put it back?"
"Bah, why do I need a watch? I don't go anywhere!"
"Did Daddy find it and put it in my room?"
"I don't think so. So... how are your headaches?"
"Funny, I didn't get one today."
My sigi grandmother smiled but did not say anything.
"Why are you smiling?"
"I took your watch to the strega since you wouldn't go yourself. She took off the malocchio."
"Mom!" she yelled
"It worked, didn't it?" My mom didn't know what to say to that. It was more troubling to her that someone had put the malocchio on her then the fact that there was a Sicilian witch living on their street who claimed to be able to both curse and remove curses.

How did the strega allegedly remove the malocchio. Probably by inserting the tip of a needle into the eye of another needle while saying: “Occhi e contro e perticelli agli occhi, crepa la invida e schiattono gli occhi." That means “Eyes against eyes and the holes of the eyes, envy cracks and eyes burst.” She then dropped the needles on top of three drops of olive oil in water and sprinkled three pinches of salt into the water. The strega would then jab scissors into the water through the oil three times and cut the air above the bowl three times and POOF! The spell was FINITO!

...or the aspirin finally kicked in.

Broken-hearted

2008-12-31T22:02:00.013-05:00

Today my heart breaks. My aunt and godmother, Carole, died suddenly, a victim of apparent complications caused by Lyme disease. My aunt was only 68 years old and was a vivacious, vibrant, beautiful woman who loved to cook, travel and she loved her 11 grandchildren. She was a great source of support and comfort to me during a difficult time in my life and I loved talking to her and making her laugh, because she found me very entertaining. I liked that.

Today my beloved aunt gave up the fight. She died in her sleep this morning. It was unexpected, as just yesterday she seemed ok, that is, no worse than usual. If my heart is broken because my aunt is gone, it aches for my cousins and uncle as well- they have lost their mother, their children a grandmother, my uncle his love. My uncle once told me he had only a precious few years with my aunt, and it hardly seems fair that it took them so long to find each other, only to be separated so soon. Perhaps I feel saddest for my cousin John, whose baby daughter will never know her grandmother as we all knew her before she became sick.

I am conflicted as to why this wonderful woman was made to suffer for so long when other people who should have to suffer, do not. I try not to dwell on this as it will surely drive me insane if I do.

I am comforted by only two things- that my dear Mom Mom Santa was in heaven welcoming my aunt this morning, and that now freed from the broken body that imprisoned her, she is once again a vibrant, vivacious woman who will dance the Mummer's Strut on New Year's Day.

Rest in peace Aunt Carole. I love you.

Below is the link to the post I wrote on her 68th birthday.

Happy Birthday Aunt

The Dreaded Christmas Eve Tradition

2008-12-23T23:09:00.001-05:00

The following is my Christmas Eve post from last year. Nothing has changed except that now we go to my inlaws' house and for some reason, instead of serving fish, they serve cold cuts for dinner. Odd, but not much of a problem for me.

There are fewer rituals that my family performs that I dread more than Christmas Eve dinner. It should be re-named "Torture Claudia Night." No, it's not the Christmas carols that my husband and kids and I sing to far away family and friends in operatic voices over the phone- I like that part. It's not the anticipation of seeing the kids wake up and see what "Santa" brought them the next day. It's not even the exhaustion I feel every December 24th at about 1:00 in the morning, having wrapped all the gifts when the kids finally have fallen asleep. Nope. It's CHRISTMAS EVE DINNER.

What could be so dreadful about a Christmas Eve dinner? Well, my medagon friends, a typical Italian dinner on December 24th involves a long-standing and for me, unappealling traditional meal- SEAFOOD. It's the one night a year when I, myself, wear the title of "Medagon," given to me by my parents.

I don't eat seafood. Non mi piace. It never has appealed to me, with the exception of flounder. So, the meal to which I was subjected for every year of my life until I was 33 and moved far away enough from my family to not go back on Christmas Eve, just Christmas Day, is an array of "Seven Fish(es)." This does not have to be actual fish- any seafood will do. The offending fare can include (but is not limited to) the following:
-flounder or another kind of fish (in my family it was breaded flounder, the only kind I would eat, to make me feel included and loved)
-crabmeat
-shrimp
-mussels
-clams
-lobster
-calamari (I think this appeared on the table once or twice at my grandparents house where we would spend Christmas Eve until 1986 when they moved to Florida)
-tuna (in the marinara sauce)
and the one dish that my mom opted out of making and left it to my dad and grandmother: bacala (as in dried codfish, not "Bobby."). It gets soaked a long time before preparation to remove the heavy salt taste and is served with a red sauce. You'd have to rip out my tastebuds to get it to taste good to me.

The seafood was always served with linguini (I prefer capellini, but I took what I could get) with the tuna sauce and I would get a "medagon special," a dish of linguini with melted butter and cheese. Nope, I wouldn't even eat the sauce if it had fish in it.

Now some people ask why the number seven? It's debatable- the number of days to create the universe, some say, others say the number is 13- one for each apostle plus Jesus (keep me out of THOSE houses) and my mom's version- any odd number under seven. So when I got married, I made that number become ONE. Well, I started off with 3(odd number) fish the first few years of marriage thinking my Italian/Sicilian husband would expect such a meal, but after the second year while he was eating a crab cake and I was eating linguini with marinara sauce, he said "I don't really like seafood all that much, you don't have to make it." ARGHHHHHH.

The next few years we started a new tradition of flying in the face of tradition and, allegedly, Canon Law (this proved untrue- I could find nothing that says you cannot eat meat on Christmas Eve) and going out to an Italian restaurant on Christmas Eve and ordering anything but fish. For me, that means veal. On the way home from dinner we'd sing to anyone who would answer the phone while we drove, and then swear to them that we were not drunk and neither were the children. The kids sang in celebration of Christmas. I sang in celebration of not having to eat fish.

So, go ahead, take away my Italian membership card, but before you do that, you should know that this Italian-American does not drink wine, either. Good God, a 7 fish dinner with only wine to drink- what a terrible thought. blechhhh

You Know You're Italian When...

2008-12-13T01:23:00.003-05:00

Are you unsure of your Italian-ness? Have you been living among medagons so long that you think you may have lost your identity? Well here is a "simple" check list to prove that you are Italian.

You know you are Italian if, during your childhood, at least 30 of these things ocurred:

1.You called pasta "macaroni."

2.You spent your entire childhood thinking what you ate for lunch was pronounced "sangwich."

3.Your family dog understood Italian.

4.Every Sunday afternoon of your childhood was spent visiting your grandparents and extended family.

5.You've experienced the phenomena of 150 people fitting into 50 square feet of yard during a family cookout.

6.You were surprised to discover the FDA recommends you eat three meals a day, not seven.

7.You thought the pig each year and having salami, capacollo, pancetta and prosciutto hanging out to dry from your shed ceiling was absolutely normal.

8.You ate pasta for dinner at least three times a week, and every Sunday.

9.You grew up thinking no fruit or vegetable had a fixed price and that the price of everything was negotiable through haggling.

10.You were as tall as your grandmother by the age of seven.

11.You thought everyone's last name ended in a vowel.

12.You thought nylons were supposed to be worn rolled to the ankles.

13.Your Mom's main hobby is cleaning.

14.You were surprised to find out that wine was actually sold in stores.

15.You thought that everyone made their own bottled tomato sauce.

16.You never knew what to expect when you opened the margarine, after all you thought washing out and reusing margarine containers was normal.

17.You never ate meat on Christmas Eve or any Friday for that matter.

18.You ate your salad after the main course.

19.You thought Catholic was the only religion in the world.

20.Your were beaten at least once with a wooden spoon or broom.

21.You thought every meal had to be eaten with a hunk of bread in your left hand.

22.Your grandmother never threw anything away, you thought seeing washed plastic bags hanging on the clothes line was normal.

23. You dreaded taking out your lunch at school, you would pray that you didn't have melanzane again.

24.You can understand Italian but you can't speak it.

25.You have at least one relative who came over on the boat.

26.All of your uncles fought in a World War.

27.You have at least six male relatives named Tony, Frank, Joe or Louie.

28.You have relatives who aren't really your relatives.

29.You have relatives you don't speak to.

30.You drank wine before you were a teenager.

31.You relate on some level, admit it, to the Godfather and the Sopranos.

32.You grew up in a house with a yard that didn't have one patch of dirt that didn't have a flower or a vegetable growing out of it.

33.Your grandparent's furniture was as comfortable as sitting on plastic. Wait!!!! You were sitting on plastic!

34.You thought that talking loud was normal.

35.You thought sugared almonds and the Tarantella were common at all weddings.

36.You thought everyone got pinched on the cheeks and money stuffed in their pockets by their relatives.

37.Your mother is overly protective of the males in the family no matter what their age.

38.There was a crucifix in every room of the house, including the cellar.

39.Boys didn't do house work because it was women's work.

40.You couldn't date a boy without getting approval from your father. (Oh, and he had to be Italian)

41. February 14th is VALENTIMES Day

42.Your Christmas tree was silver.

43.You have at least one irrational fear or phobia that can be attributed to your mother.

44.Every condition, ailment, misfortune, memory loss and was attributed to the fact that you didn't eat something.

MMMMMMM MEATBALLS!

2008-12-03T20:32:00.006-05:00

Meatballs. I love them- well, not just any meatballs, there are only a few people's whose I will eat. Part of that is the skeeve factor- I won't eat them in restaurants, houses where cats are allowed to roam the counters, or people who have questionable hygiene- nose pickers, ear pickers, people who rinse instead of use soap after using the bathroom. I'm not exactly a germophobe but since you make meatballs with your bare hands, you don't want to worry about the cleanliness of the chef. And I really hate picking hair out of my food. You get the idea.

I don't really have a preference as to the degree of softness of the meatballs, although my husband prefers them soft. Mine tend to be a little hard but I make them a little mushy for him.

My meatballs are delicious. I say that completely immodestly because even my fussy children stand next to me while I am cooking them to eat them right out of the pan, blowing on them so they don't burn their mouths. Plus my mom said they are good and to me, that's the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval.

So here is my recipe for meatballs.

One pound of ground triple meat mix (also called meatloaf mix- veal, pork and beef)
two eggs
two cups of cubed bread (bakery section) OR stale Italian bread, coarsely ground in blender (not too fine)
1/2 to 3/4 cup of Locatelli cheese (if you don't have that, get a pecorino/romano blend, I'm serious, the secret is in the cheese) Do not, I repeat, DO NOT BUY THE CHEESE IN THE GREEN CAN- THIS IS NOT ACTUAL CHEESE! I highly recommend you try some Locatelli if you have not tasted it- you will never go back. You can order it here right from Philly. All you have to do is grate it.
2 cloves of fresh chopped garlic OR if you are desperate and cannot get fresh garlic, use about 6 teaspoons of garlic powder (NOT garlic salt)
2 tablespoons of dried parsley
1 teaspoon of dried basil
1/2 half to 3/4 cups of water to moisten bread
1/4 tsp. of salt
1/4 tsp of black pepper
olive oil for frying

Add the water to the cubed bread, slowly, and mix it together until the bread sticks into a ball. If you use too much water the bread won't form a ball. (If you are using bread crumbs instead of cubed bread, skip this step until later)
Mix the meat with the eggs. You have to use your hands, not utensils, it's just easier.
Add the garlic, parsley, cheese, basil, salt and pepper
Mix the meat well to blend everything.
Mix the wet bread mixture with the meat thoroughly.
**If you are using bread crumbs, mix them into the meat mixture and add the water to the mixture slowly. The meat should stick together. If it falls apart, you used too much water- add more bread)

Roll the meat into balls.
Heat the olive oil until fragrant. **If the oil is not hot when you place the meatballs in the pan, the bottom of the meatballs will stick to the pan and come apart. I learned this the hard way!

Place meatballs in frying pan, don't crowd them, they need their space, and cook until the meatball is brown and the outside is a little crispy. You'll need to repeat this step two or three times unless you want to use multiple frying pans.

Again, give "Lucatell" a try. If you can't find it in your grocery store (depends on where you live- I spent 6 years without it when I lived in Lancaster, PA!!) You can order a big wedge from DiBruno Brothers, located in Philly's Italian Market and have it shipped to you. You will not be sorry!

Postscript: Avid reader Joe Gabagool wrote me to say that under no circumstances should garlic powder be used in place of fresh garlic and that anyone who would use garlic powder has no business making meatballs. I disagree with this- if you're stuck, as I have been with ground meat in a bowl and oil heating when I realized the garlic was shriveled, garlic powder can substitute fine. And to prove it, when Joe Gabagool comes ovah for dinner in a few weeks, I'll make him try both kinds of meatballs. I'll even serve them in a cup.

Word of the Day- Moondondies

2008-11-28T22:06:00.007-05:00

Well, it's going down to 22 degrees tonight here in PA and on my way past a department store it ocurred to me that I had not bought the kids their "moondondies" for the season.

Moondondies are necessary for living here in the North. If you have to shovel snow, they are indespensable and I always make sure the kids have theirs on before they go out to play in the snow. Since we try not to rack up a $300 monthly heating bill, we keep the heat at 69 or 70 degrees at night, which for some people is still pretty high, but I can't sleep when my nose is cold. The master bedroom has a tray ceiling and the heat goes up there so it's chilly. That makes moondondies very important, if not very, very sexy.

Moondondies, if you have not figured it out yet, are long johns. I remember growing up when my parents would announce the impending cold snap just by saying "Better go put your moondondies on!" It was a while until I actually knew the correct word, and I'll admit, until tonight I was unaware of the correct spelling- mutandoni. (Moo-tahn-doan-ee)

So now my kids have their moondondies and I have unpacked mine from the attic (Cuddlduds work very nicely) so we are officially ready to freeze our coolies off. Bring it on!

I Got the Fever

2008-10-29T20:37:00.004-04:00

It's the second half of game 5 of the World Series, and the Phillies are up to bat. I gotta say, I got the fever- Phillies fever. I haven't had it since 1981, when they made the playoffs. (I don't want to talk about 1993.) In 1980-that's TWENTY-EIGHT years ago, I was a 7th grader who tried to stay awake for the last game against the Kansas City Royals and I fell asleep. When I heard the horns honking outside I woke up and turned on the tv and saw men jumping on each other. Two days later we were allowed to wear Philies gear over our uniforms at school and we had our own Phillies parade in the parking lot during school and I was Phillie-fied from head to toe. I even won the most spirited Phanatic award. I was so excited that my home team won- and I have been a baseball fan since 3rd grade, thanks to my grandfather, a former baseball player and Phanatic himself.

So this year I'm excited. Really excited. I have butterflies in my stomach. I told my students to wear red t-shirts tomorrow if the Phils win and we'd have a "celebration" on Friday, just to see a sea of Phillie phans in red. They feel sorry for me that it's been 28 years so they all agreed, even the Mets fans I teach feel bad for me. I actually think they just want to see me spray paint my hair red, as I promised.

Well Charlie, I'm ready. Thousands of us are ready. I wish I were there right now, it looks like an amazing time and I'd love to be a part of it. But I'll cheer from here, and I'll be hoarse tomorrow, but if they win, I'll consider it worth it.

GO PHILLIES!

Local Puppy Mill Busted- a Dog Mom's Sadness

2008-10-01T18:14:00.011-04:00

They say every dog has its day. Well, today hundreds of dogs in Lehigh County in Pennsylvania had their day- they were rescued by SPCA officials from a fate worse than death- living in deplorable conditions in a puppy mill.

Not just any puppy mill, news reports say that this could be the biggest puppy mill in Pennsylvania state history, and one report I saw on tv said there were over 800 animals on the property. Animals, as in, not only dogs- monkeys, horses, and who knows what else. I saw the monkeys and the horses myself, but I never saw the dogs. Let me explain.

I have been to this kennel many, many times. Why would I go to such a place? Well, when I first moved to this county seven years ago we needed a groomer for our dog (who no longer lives with us after viciously attacking our then-toddler daughter, but that's another story). This kennel/groomer was close by and the owner was very nice. When we adopted our second dog, a older, scruffy looking Pomeranian mix who had lost most of his teeth, saving him from death row one week before his date with the Creator, we took him there, too. I had always heard barking from my house, about a mile away, but never made the connection. Oddly, I didn't hear a lot of barking when I was there. I also didn't ever see a dog on the premises, because everything was fenced in and on the other side of the grooming site.
This is a picture from the kennel.

When our rescued dog, Zorro, died of liver failure after we had him for six months, I was devastated. Four days later I went to this kennel to try to replace my poor old Zorro with another dog... as if he could ever be replaced. But I went. I went to our groomer, who I knew bred many different types of dogs, especially "poos" and "doodles" (that should have been my first red flag) and I asked the owner, who by now I had known for about a year, for a furry dog about 10 pounds. I thought he would let me take a walk around and see what kind of dogs he had. Instead, he brought the first dog, a "rescue" out to me. I didn't feel anything for it. Then he brought out what he called a "Cockapoo." (Three vets who have seen Rico have concurred that he is a Poodle-Bichon mix, not a Cockapoo.) My daughter and I fell in love right away- he looked like Benji. He was very inexpensive by breeder standards and I asked him why. He told me that he was small and was the last one in the litter and had been there for so long that he could give him to me for $200. I didn't ask the right questions. After all, this guy was our groomer, he wouldn't steer us wrong, right?

These are the dead dogs being taken out of a freezer at the kennel- 65 total.

We brought our newly christened Rico Brogna (yes, we named him after the Phillies player) home and then endured months of him pooping and peeing in his cage. I called the owner of kennel twice to tell him he was doing this and he told me to not give him food or drink after 7 pm. Well, duh. Meanwhile, the other problem was that the dog ran from people who came into the house. He was fine with me but ducked away from my husband. When someone else tried to pet him, he cowered. It just didn't sit right but as I put the pieces together it was to late in the game to do anything. In my heart I have always believed that Rico had been abused in some way. He definitely was not socialized, and it was obvious he had lived his life in a cage, or why else would he poop and pee where he slept... for months after we took him home? When we took him out to do his business, he didn't seem to know what to do.

Needless to say we did not go back there for grooming or another dog. (Our next dog was rescued from Mississippi in March after hurricane Katrina, when someone from work went down there to bring about ten homeless dogs to PA for waiting families.)

Flash forward to today, October 1st. My mom calls me to say there was a puppy mill bust in a nearby town. I immediately said the name of the kennel. She thought I had seen the news but no, I just knew. I went home and turned on the news and wanted to get sick. Reports say it is possibly the biggest puppy mill in the history of Pennsylvania. (And that says a lot since Lancaster, PA is infamous for their puppy mills!) Over 800 animals, multiple dogs in cages, 1000 counts of abuse and neglect, dogs covered in feces.... and my dog lived there for 10 months. My sister, a rabid anti-puppy mill proponent, told me that I truly rescued Rico, because he was not in a shelter, but living in horrific conditions in a puppy mill.

When I drove home today I passed by the kennel. It was an animal SWAT team scene. Red SPCA trucks parked all over the kennel's lawn and driveway, all the Philly news crews, news choppers hovering overhead, reporters on both sides of the street, police cars, gawkers and traffic a mile long. In one report I saw, the owner (there are three) deny that they had that many animals there and then he pushed the camera tripod out of the woman's hands. He could actually stay in business after all of this. How is that possible???

Out of the estimated 800 to 1,200 animals in this shelter, the SPCA could only remove 100 of the sickest today to send to area shelters. What will happen to the rest?

If you don't know much about puppy mills, consider this: dogs crammed in cages with other dogs, water with feces floating in it, not replaced regularly, no exercise... the list of horrors goes on.These dogs are then sold to pet stores. When you buy a pet store dog, you may be saving that particular dog, but you're leaving room for a new puppy mill dog to replace it. Reputable breeders do not sell to pet stores. It's hard to accept that your dog may have come from a puppy mill, but don't repeat the mistake, and tell others. The best place to find a dog is on petfinder.com, which lists dogs from shelters all across the country, and which is how we located Zorro. PETFINDER

Allow me to give you a few links, one of which includes this site: Write To Legilsators to write to your congressman in PA to get the USDA to enforce the Animal Welfare Act and stop breeders from being allowed to shoot their dogs when they are too old or useless to breed anymore. You can also read about how PA farmers kill the dogs and use their remains as fertilizer for crops.

PACASHCROP
Mainline Animal Rescue

Click HERE for the video.

My Pal Al Becomes a Teenager Today

2008-08-30T00:30:00.012-04:00

Thirteen years ago today I became a mother at the age of 26. It is hands down the single-most amazing day of my life, that day I gave birth to my daughter. Not even the recollection of 41 hours in labor and complications can taint the memory of the moment I held my baby girl for the first time and realized that astoundingly deep, special, love that other moms had told me about but that I had never experienced until then. There is no other love in the world like that of a mother and her child.

There are people who tell me to "cut the cord." I want to know why I have to? If my daughter likes to be around me but has a normal social life and friends, why should she not want to turn to me when she needs advice or help or just to snuggle? Why should she not want to be with me when she is somewhere where she does not feel comfortable? Why must a cord be cut at this crucial age when kids get involved with illicit substances, irresponsable peers, boyfriends who may pressure them to have sex and bring unexpected children in to the world only to dash the dreams of two youngsters with a future? Our society has become a bunch of cord-cutters way before the cord should be cut. Drop-outs, teen pregnancies, drug users, absentee parents, permissive parenting, emotionally unavailable parents... these are all good reasons for parents to keep that cord intact until the child indicates he or she is ready to cut loose. When I was a kid it was called "having a strong relationship with your parent."

So, today my baby girl becomes a teenager and I find it so hard to come to terms with. Wasn't it just the other day I carried her in the Snugli and danced with her to get her back to sleep at 3:00 AM? Wasn't it just yesterday when she was playing dress-up? Where are the years going? My beautiful little baby is now a beautiful little woman in whom I see many of my own traits- some good and some not so much and so many more that I only wish I possessed. She is artistic, creative and musically talented- playing drums, keyboard and singing soprano in the competitively selected choral group at school. She is sensitive, intuitive and feisty. She is athletic-- playing basketball, soccer and cheerleading all since she was seven years old. She is writing a book, she writes songs and poetry and she loves to learn. While at times her adolescent moods interfere with some (or all) of these activities, I know that they will pass. (They will pass, right?) For the past 3 years, my "little" girl (who is now 5'2") has been setting her alarm to wake up at 5:50 AM, the exact time she was born, in order to wake me up and thank me for giving her life. She then goes back to bed and I fall back to sleep thinking about what a sweet child I have and how lucky I am.

So to the teenager I call "My Pal Al" (after a favorite kids' book of ours) I say

HAPPY 13th BIRTHDAY!!

I love you the whole wide world and the universe!

The Olympic Gymnastics Routines Have Me

2008-08-14T23:06:00.005-04:00

I don't usually watch the Olympics. I do enjoy the gymnastics competitions, especially for men because I am amazed that a man can contort and move his body and demostrate such strength in such a graceful way. So this year I have watched almost all of the gymnastics competitions and I have found myself staying up late with my daughter cheering for Jonathan Horton (her favorite)
and Alexander Artemev (my favorite).

When I coached cheerleading I was always in awe of the girls who could do standing tucks, back tucks, roundoff back handsprings and rted combinations. When I see the USA girls do this and more on the bars, the vaults, the beam, or their floor routines I watch, mesmerized, knowing that under no circumstances could my body ever be trained to imitate that. Watching Alicia Sacramone fall attempting her mount on the bar broke my heart, but not as much as it did when she fell later in the floor exercise. She was the one I was rooting for the most. Here she is at Olympic Trials doing a great job- no falls.

My favorite event this year is the pommel horse, and only because I saw Alexander "Sasha" Artemev turn his body into a machine atop that horse. In and out, side to side, up, then down and finally a complicated combination of twists and turns with his lower body in the air gave me the chills. His dismounts were excellent and he was proud of his bronze medal.

But remember when a bronze medal counted for something? These young men who earned the bronze medals for gymnastics were so visibly excited to have that medal, with one even saying he would tattoo the bronze on his back when he got home, are what the Olympics are about-- the pure love for your sport, the spirit of competition whether you win one or not- the most momentous occasion of one's life.

And then there is the grumpy Swede. Ara Abrahamian does not consider a bronze medal to be anything more than a failure in his quest for gold in Greco-Roman wrestling. So when he got his medal, he stormed off the stage and threw it away. Boo hoo. Only a bronze. I hope the next person was awarded it. If he didn't want the bronze medal, he should have performed to the standard of gold!
Here you can see this sore loser get his medal, high five the guy next to him, step down from the stage and throw his medal on the floor and leave. What a baby.

A final note, even before Bela Karolyi mentioned how young the Chinese women's team looked, as in, not the minimum age of 16, we sat here and noticed that some of those girls looked younger than my almost 13 year old daughter! There's a big secret newspaper article about it that was pulled and is not spoken about so the mystery will remain unless China fesses up.

Wuddya tawkin abou? The Philly Accent

2008-08-14T00:46:00.004-04:00

For 38 years of my life I spoke with a Philly accent and never realized how heavy it was. I had never paid attention to the way I chop the ends of my words off, or slur some words together. That was until I did an internet radio show early in 2007 and a friend of mine in Florida harrassed me about my thick Philly accent. So I started paying attention to how I speak and it's a wonder people know what I am saying! I'm way in the suburbs of Philly now and not many people speak like I do. But most of the people here are from New York or Joisey so they don't really notice. So now I catch myself saying words that other people pronounce correctly and I mangle. That's "cuz" I'm originally from "Sowfilly" (that would be South Philly, but to me, it's all one word).

I never realized that instead of saying "leg" I say "leyg." I do remember being teased by friends in high school because I couldn't (and still can't) pronounce "mirror." I say "mir-eh" and of course it's not "window" for me, it's "windeh." I say "anutheh" not "another" and "aready" not "already." My dad always corrected my pronunciation of "crayon" which was (and still is) "crown"' as if I had a speech impediment. Come to find out, it is no such thing! It's a product of my upbringing ovah deh! "Didn't" is "Dint" and "nothing" to me has neither an "o" nor an "ing." (Nuthin) If you bother me while I'm "writin" I'll say "whadyawan?"

For vacation, I just go "Downehshur" which means the Jersey Shore, and by the way, you don't go to the shore, you're not "at" or "on" the shore, you go down the shore and you are then down the shore. I pay the lectric bill, (it's a cuppela hundred dollahs but I wish it were only a cuppela corders) and I don't know what happens to the "E." I dry off with a tal after I showeh with wuhduh.

I never say "youse" or even "yiz" but I do call everyone "you guys."

There's a more complete list I found for more Philly pronunciations. I don't committ all of the crimes on the list but I have some not on there!. Check it out!
Amd here is a great link for more detailed reasons as to why we tawk funny- at University of PA they actually study this phenomenon!

So, YO, next time you hear someone with a funny Philly accent speak, take a look at your own regional accent ovah deh.

Have You Seen This Man?

2008-08-11T17:37:00.001-04:00

Last seen near Philly, June, 1986.

If you have seen him, please call Chong, he misses him.

Is She Your Daughter?

2008-08-11T16:49:00.006-04:00

Today I had to take my oldest daughter to the hospital for some bloodwork. Between registration and going in to have blood drawn, my daughters and I waited with the crowd to be called back again. Gabriela, my seven-year old, sat down at a play table and Allie and I opened books to read. I couldn't concentrate, however, because I felt like people were staring at me. And whispering. I knew exactly why. I looked to my right and there was a couple staring at me, then Gabriela, then Allie, and whispering. Again, I knew why. I didn't need to hear their conversation to know what they were saying. "The older one looks just like her but the other one must be from China." Gabriela was oblivious to the stares but I wasn't. After a few seconds I heard the dreaded words:
"Excuse me." I knew it was meant for me. I looked up, ready to answer.
"Yes?" I asked.
"Is she your daughter?"
Well duh, of course she is, didn't she hear her call me MOMMY a second ago?

"Yes."
"Is she Chinese?"
"No," I answered, not offering any other information.
"Where is she from?" the woman was not giving up. This was my chance. This time I had a smart-ass answer that my husband and I had always joked about using when people are rude enough to ask me how my family was formed.
"My uterus." I replied.
The woman looked startled, confused.
"You mean she isn't adopted?"
Now I'm mad. What nerve! Didn't I just say the word UTERUS? I am floored. Gabriela is not listening, she's playing happily.
"No, she is not."
"Oh. Well, no offense, but she looks Chinese."
"None taken. My mother is Chinese."
Now the woman has no idea what is going on.
"Really? You don't look Chinese."
Here was the coup de grace that I had dreamed of using.
"I know. My mom was adopted."
I got the girls together and walked to the other side of the waiting room and left the woman and her husband to ponder how my mother is Chinese but I'm not and how Gabriela looks Chinese but is not adopted.

This was not a young couple that perhaps was asking about Gabriela because they wanted to adopt. I've met parents like that and they know how to approach adoptive parents for the most part. I've also met other adoptive parents who will come up to me and say something like "She is so cute. Is she from _____." Parents of Chinese children know Gabriela is not Chinese. (She is Guatemalan, by the way.)

These people are rarely people interested in adopting. I am more than happy to help those people. These are tehe people that have asked me how much Gabriela "cost," why she was given up for adoption, couldn't we have children of our own, and asked if I met her "real" mother.

I used to take these opportunities to educate the rude and the curious about international adoption and adoption-sensitive language but I'm getting tired. I'm not ashamed of how Gabriela came to be my daughter, on the contrary, I am grateful and proud. I am an advocate of adoption. However, people need to think before they approach a stranger and just let things fly out of their mouths, especially when the child is right there.

Happy Birthday Lauren!!

2008-08-02T23:27:00.004-04:00

Today is my cousin Lauren's birthday. She is older than I but I will refrain from mentioning her age. She doesn't look it, regardless. Lauren is beautiful-- so beautiful that when she had her senior portraits taken in high school, the photographer asked to use her face as his advertisement photo. She is also one of the most caring individuals I know, using her common sense and her nurse's training to care for my aunt who is sick with Lyme's disease (See July 1st post). And that is on top of raising her 4 children.

About the time I started college, Lauren became more like an older sister to me-- something I always wanted as a kid since I was the older sister and had nobody to confide in or teach me about makeup and boys and girl stuff. She always had great advice, and while together we are quite the judgemental duo, she has never judged me for a decision I have made and vice versa. I guess you could say our support for each other is unconditional, like love.

Happy Birthday Lauren, and Many More!

Love,
Claudia

The Throne

2008-08-02T22:57:00.004-04:00

When I was a kid, and I mean as far back as I can remember, my grandparents had a clear toilet seat with real coins inlaid in the plastic. As a very young child I thought this was the coolest thing ever and always tried to count the coins and see how much money was in there, but would lose my place and give up. I knew there were Kennedy half dollars in there, maybe five. As a teenager I just thought it was freakishly odd. Nobody else I knew had a toilet seat like this and I always thought it was some special Italian item for some reason. It turns out that they bought it on a trip to where else? Las Vegas.

When my grandparents moved to Florida in 1986 they took the seat with them. On my first trip to visit them I recall saying "Oh My Gawd it followed them here." And to make matters worse, in their new home they put the seat in the bathroom that had a solid wall of mirrors and great big Hollywood vanity lights. It was what I pictured a Vegas casino bathroom to look like.

My grandmother died in 1996 and my grandfather moved back to Philadelphia to live with my parents. My dad had flown to West Palm Beach to pack up what he could for my grandfather and shipped it to Pennsylvania. He said he was mainly shipping items of sentimental or monetary value and having an estate sale for the rest. So, imagine my disgust when that coin-laden toilet seat showed up- IN MY PARENTS' POWDER ROOM!! I know when I walked into that room I actually screamed. "WHY WON'T THIS SEAT DIE?" My mother said "That's a very valuable seat." (To whom, I wondered, to the collectors of coin-encrusted toilet seats??) I responded "That is a very TACKY seat." Not to mention it did not match the décor in the powder room at all. Well, my mother must have agreed because on my next visit there, it had been replaced.

Fast forward about four years later when I was at their house after my grandfather died, throwing away some stuff I had stored there years earlier. Out of the corner of my eye I saw it, something bright and shiny under a box and some newspapers, like it had fallen out of the trash and then a box fell on top of it. I dug into the pile and to my utter horror there it was-- THAT FREAKING GAUDY COIN TOILET SEAT. I yanked on it to pull it out the pile and when I had freed it, I dumped it right into the garbage can. I smacked my hands together to dust them off and walked away proudly. That seat would be no more.

About an hour later my father came home from a fishing trip and I heard him open the garage door. He spent a few minutes in there putting his gear away and then he came into the house... HOLDING THAT @!(@*#)(# TOILET SEAT. "DAD! What is that a boomerang? I just threw it out." "Hey, you leave this be," he said waving it in the air. "This is expensive." "Dad,look, let's get the axe. We'll bust it open and you can have all the coins, ok?" My father gave me one of those patented "Don't mess with me" looks and returned that eyesore to the garage. I appealed to my mother. "Mom, is Dad just going to keep that coin seat in there like Fred Sanford?" "He still has it?" ooops. "Yes, I threw it away and he fished it out." "Well, you know, it wasn't cheap."

Yes, I know. But it's a 25 year old, used, gaudy, cheesey, tacky COIN-FILLED TOILET SEAT!!!

It's 2008 and the seat remains in the garage. Not being used, of course, just saved. 'Cuz it's expensive.

Feel my pain.

Waiting for 50 Years For True Love

2008-07-27T21:24:00.001-04:00

Who says you can never find your way back to your one true love?

Loni Anderson, who is 62 years old and has been married three times, most famously to Burt Reynolds who shocked her with divorce papers out of the blue, has been reunited with her first boyfriend and true love, Bob Flick. She met him when she was a teenage model and was hired to pose for pictures at one of his folk music concerts. They dated for seven months. Now, almost 50 years later, they got married, after Loni got back in touch with him and they had a long-distance relationship for a year.

How sweet is this story? It's even sweeter knowing what Loni went through with her divorce to Burt Reynolds, but rekindling a romance 50 years after it started and falling in love gives me goosebumps! She found her soulmate after all. "Never give up on true love," she was quoted as saying.

Good for Loni!

From the WHAT THE HELL? Department

2008-07-25T13:08:00.004-04:00

When it comes to naming children, I'm pretty traditional. I'm big into maintaining one's ethnic heritage or choosing a name that won't get a kid beaten up at school. However, as this is a free country, I do respect the right to name your child whatever you want, even if it makes you look like a weed-smoking idiot.

That said, an article popped on my yahoo screen about a poor nine year-old child in New Zealand who was cursed with the name "Talula Does The Hula From Hawaii." Yes, you read correctly. Talula Does the Hula... From Hawaii. I suppose it could have been worse, because other nutty New Zealanders have also tried to name their children Fish and Chips, Yeah Detroit, Stallion, Twisty Poi, Keenan Got Lucy and Sex Fruit, only to be blocked when they tried to register the names. "New Zealand law does not allow names that would cause offense to a reasonable person, that are 100 characters or more long, that include titles or military rank or that include punctuation marks or numerals."

I want to laugh at the thought of someone being named "Fish and Chips," really, I do, but it's too tragic. I mean, come on. Sex Fruit? How much crack does one have to be doing to want to burden their child with this name, which is not even a name? What is wrong with people?

Why stop at these names, though? I have some I think should be considered:

Fonzie
Rumplestiltskin
Female Pajama (Pronounced: Fe malay- Pee-jah-may)
Hibachi
Lemon Pledge
Ink Jet Printer
Earwig
Beetlejuice
Awopbabaloobobawopbamboom
Nostril Hair
Go Eagles! (exclamation point must be included)
The Tonight Show with Jay Leno
Library Card
Penicillin
Horshack
Epidermis

I thought Michael Jackson had lost it when I found out he calls his youngest child "Blanket," and Gwyenth Paltrow named her kid "Apple." That's nothing after reading this.

Picture it, Sicily, 1923...

2008-07-22T23:00:00.002-04:00

She was not really Sicilian but she did a lot of things that reminded me of my Sicilian grandmother. I loved the character of Sophia Petrillo on the Golden Girls, played by Estelle Getty, who died at 84 today. I know, she looked 84 when she was on the show in the 1980's but she was actually younger than Bea Arthur, who played her daughter! I never missed that show as a teenager and I still watch the re-runs on my little treadmill television at the gym. Very uncool, I realize, but the only reason I go to the gym is to pick up octagenarians.

I crack up when I hear her crazy "picture it, Sicily" stories, like the one when she was friends with Mama Celeste, or she slept with Pablo Picasso. I found the clip on YouTube:

Her character's sarcasm was unparalleled. Here are some of my favorite lines of Sophia's:

Sophia: Make way for the victors.
Rose: You won the big game?
Sophia: No, Rose. We lost and we all changed our names to Victor.

Rose: Penny for your thoughts Sophia?
Sophia: You’re and idiot and that’s on the house.

Rose; Did they have chores in Sicily?
Sophia: Are you kidding? They invented chores in Sicily. Crossing the street without getting pregnant was a chore in Sicily

Estelle Getty was Jewish and she played a Sicilian immigrant. She's not the only one, though. (Allow me to digress from my tribute to Estelle...) It always struck me as odd how Hollywood casts so many Jewish people to play Italians. Case in point:

- Sophia Petrullo- "Golden Girls-" Estelle Getty
- Dorothy Zbornak-"Golden Girls-" Bea Arthur
- The Fonz- "Happy Days-" Henry Winkler
- Frank DeFazio- Laverne's father on "Laverne and Shirley"- Phil Defazio(born Arthur Cohen)
Paul Muni, Edward G. Robinson- played Italian gangsters in movies.

I know there has never been a shortage of Italian actors so what gives?

Supposedly, real Italians don't look as Italian as Jews. I don't know what that means or who the Italians are that the casting agents saw but they need to visit my family and cast a few of us.

But, I've also heard that Italians look more like native Americans.
Remember this guy?

He was known as Iron Eyes Cody but his real name was Espera DeCorti, and he was Sicilian-American born in the US of Sicilian immigrants! (However, he did live his life as a native American, marrying a Native American woman, adopting Native American sons and dedicating his life to native American causes.)

So it is a sad day for Estelle Getty's fans. Looking on the internet for a video of her I found a huge amount of tributes and comments from fans, so I know I an not alone. The poor thing died from dementia, a really terrible way to go, and to picture her dying like that is the total opposite of how many of us remember her in real life, both on the show and off. Rest in Peace, Estelle.

Can't Wait For This Book! "Drop Dead, Neighbor"

2008-07-20T20:38:00.006-04:00

I'm a book dork. By that I mean that several times when I finished a book I really loved, I wrote to the author. I figure that if my book ever gets published (or finished) one day, I'd like to hear from someone who read it and was moved to either laugh or cry.

So a few years ago I wrote to Saralee Rosenberg. It was the first time I wrote to an author and I didn't expect to get a response, but I really loved her book "Claire Voyant," which I just happened to pick up at Wegman's supermarket. The cover caught my eye so yes, I judged a book by its cover. Bad book dork, bad! I laughed so hard in some parts that I remember having tears streaming down my face-- especially a part about spam emails. I also got misty-eyed at another part, but that was because it was so sad.

So, not only did Saralee respond, we exchanged a number of emails over the following weeks. In fact, I almost got her to come to the high school where I teach and give a presentation but I think it fell through on my school's end because she was definitely willing- in fact, it was her idea.

So, after reading "A Little Help from Above," which I also loved, and then "Fate and Ms. Fortune: A Novel," the trifecta sealed my place as a confirmed fan. When I found out two weeks ago that Saralee has a new novel coming out on 7/22, I cheered a little. 'Cause I'm a book dork, remember? It's called "Drop Dead, Neighbor," and here is the summary:

In Mindy's yoga-obsessed, thirty-is-the-new-wife neighborhood, every day is a battle between Dunkin' Donuts, her jaws-of-life jeans, and Beth Diamond, the self-absorbed sancti-mommy next door who looks sixteen from the back. So much for sharing the chores, the stores, and the occasional mischief to rival Wisteria Lane.

It's another day, another dilemma until Beth's marriage becomes fodder on Facebook. Suddenly the Ivy League blonde needs to be “friended,” and Mindy is the last mom standing. Together they take on hormones and hunger, family feuds and fidelity, and a harrowing journey that spills the truth about an unplanned pregnancy and a seventy-year-old miracle that altered their fates forever.

Dear Neighbor, Drop Dead is a hilarious, stirring romp over fences and defenses that begs the question, what did you do to deserve living next door to a crazy woman? Sometimes it's worth finding out.

If you are looking for a great book to read, check out any one of these, if you like chick lit, you'll love them!

P.S. I am not being paid by Saralee Rosenberg to plug her books.

Remembering Rosie

2008-07-17T21:02:00.003-04:00

Two years ago today my mentor and dear friend passed away from breast cancer. Dr. Rosario Caminero was my graduate school Spanish professor whom I had met two years before starting grad school when I worked in the Foreign Languages Department as an assistant. I got to know her very well working there and by the time I got my B.A. and signed up for her grad courses, I already had a tremendous respect for her. Her knowledge of Spanish linguistics and composition was vast and her classes were always upbeat and interesting. I looked forward to those intensive graduate classes-five days a week- and even the compositions, because she was the professor. I learned more from her in two years than I had in the four previous years- she was that incredible.

Dr. Rosie, as I called her because I respected her too much to call her by her first name as she asked, dressed with panache. She always wore a brightly colored dress or skirt to teach or a beautiful pantsuit, and never without stylish shoes. She walked with a clip and always seemed to be in motion, talking with her hands- her Spanish and English coming out rapid fire. She smelled of Giorgio perfume, a scent I liked so much I bought it myself but it didn't smell the same on me. Simply put, she was my guru, my mentor, my inspiration to become a teacher, for when I first met her I was not a teaching major- I was set to graduate with a B.A. in Spanish which did not qualify me to teach- I needed a B.S.Ed.

I began the graduate program immediately after I graduated so I could become certified to teach. Still unsure of my decision after many mornings full of pedagogy classes, my future as a Spanish teacher eventually fell into place in the afternoons in her classroom. Her love for teaching, her patience and her passion were all qualities I wanted to emulate. She made teaching look fun, enjoyable and dare I saw... rewarding! I wanted my students to enjoy my classes as much as I enjoyed hers. She counseled me on boyfriend troubles, family situations and taught me what it took to be a great teacher. She was my surrogate mom.

Rosie lost her battle with breast cancer on July 17, 2006. The only time I have felt as sad as I did that day was when my grandparents passed away. I am grateful for having had her in my life to inspire me, to guide me and to be there for me to try to emulate. Her stylish pumps are way too big to fill but she is always present for me to look to as an example. And I will never forget the advice she gave me on my wedding day, which I am so happy was caught on videotape: "Claudia, acuérdate quién es la jefa." ("Claudia, remember who is the boss"- she used the feminine form to mean me.)

Rest In Peace, Dr. Rosie

Someone Took My Sunshine Away

2008-07-15T20:29:00.007-04:00

Pec and I had lunch with Julio yesterday. He was the only thing that kept us sane at work and this year he left to pursue his doctorate at Georgetown. Even though I tried to push the fact that he was gone out of my mind this year, spending a few hours with him yesterday reminded me of how crappy it is at work without him. All our silliness and goofiness, his advice, not to mention my total dependence on him as my personal Spanish reference manual was noticeably absent from my free periods. I'm happy for him, of course, but man, it sucks to be me without him!

Remember...

2008-07-14T21:52:00.005-04:00

...when you were young and you could sit and play in the sand all day and not care where it ended up?

Gabriela would sleep in the sand all night if we let her. Me, not so much.

Adios, Big Guy... Rest in Peace.

2008-07-14T00:11:00.009-04:00

My sister just called me to tell me her gigantic dog, Zeus, died. He was a big, gentle, Great Pyrenees who I admit, always got in my way because he was immense, about 100 pounds. I always joke that he should have a saddle. But regardless, he was a nice, calm dog and my sister loved him to pieces-- he was a stray when she found him about 5 years ago. At 11:30 tonight the vet called her to go to say goodbye. Zeus gave her his paw to hold as the vet injected him to put him to sleep, her choice so that he didn't have to suffer what probably would only have been hours anyway. So needless to say she is distraught beyond words. And I know what she is going through and it feels terrible.

So we were on the phone talking and I got emotional thinking about my own dog, Zorro, who I got from the Humane Society in 2002, where he had been taken in as a stray. He was a pomeranian mix and had been very neglected, his teeth were broken and was a little mangy-looking, but hokey as it may sound, he connected with me during our visits. I remember how angry I got when they told me he hadn't been neutered--they estimated he was around 8 years old, which means some cheapskate never bothered to get him fixed in all the years he owned him. They day I went to pick him up one of the workers there thanked me for choosing him-- he was on death row and scheduled to be put down that week. He had been there so long and nobody wanted him. I felt special, like there was a reason I connected with that particular dog. Turned out that dog loved me- followed me everywhere and when I took a shower he waited for me on my bathmat. When I scrapbooked in the basement, he parked himself next to me on the lineolum floor. In fact, it was Holy Thursday when I went to buy him a piece of carpet to lay on so he wouldn't be on the cold floor in my scrapbooking area. When I came home he had gotten sick and had an accident. When I scolded him he just looked at me. I picked him up and he snuggled into my lap and I called my husband down and told him "Zorro is dying." I just knew. Chris took him to the hospital and I took my daughter to Holy Thursday Mass and when we got home, Zorro was gone forever.

So I know my sister's pain. I know crying for three hours, bawling into my pillow at how unfair it was that I only had him for 6 months. How unfair that I didn't get to say goodbye. I know the pain that feels like you are losing a human being- a family member. And lucky for me, everyone close to me at that time understood what that felt like, because almost everyone I know has a dog. And when I woke up the next morning, unable to open my eyes from all the crying I had done, and I realized that my Zorro was still gone, it hurt all over again.

People who don't have pets have no idea what it is like to consider a pet as a family member. You feel helpless when they are sick, you are nervous for them when they get their shots, you worry if they dash across the street if they will get hit by a car, and sometimes, you worry someone will want to steal them. You buy the best food to keep them healthy and supply them with toys and their choice of sleeping area, you brush them and dress them up in Eagles jerseys. (Ok, that may just be me.) But you love and care for them like a child, and you get back from them what you get from a friend. Their love is unconditional- they just need some food and water but they will love you if you forget. They love to be pet and stroked, but they will be there for you anyway if you don't pet them. They will alert you and protect you, comfort you and entertain you. They love it when you come home and are sad when you leave. So how can you not feel like a member of the family has died when your pet leaves this earth?

You can't.

So, may Zeus not have been in pain in his last hours.
May Zorro know that I loved him, even though I didn't get to say goodbye.
May they know each other in heaven and become friends.

We used petfinder.org to get Zorro. It searches the SPCA's and rescues to find you a dog. We also got our Zorro look-alike, Sammy, from a shelter- he was a Katrina rescue who still had no home 7 months after the hurricane had hit Mississippi. Please don't rule out the great pets you can get from rescues and SPCA's and give a dog another chance.

We have three dogs now- Sammy from Mississippi, Rico, who had been adopted after being abused, and Rosie, from a breeder. They drive me crazy with all of their noise but I love all of them.

For you IPhone Phans

2008-07-13T14:44:00.001-04:00

And this, my friends, is why I don't buy Apple anymore.

Pilfered from my friend Alberto de la Cruz at Babalublog

I Flip for Waverunning!

2008-07-11T16:15:00.007-04:00

I love jetskiing. The wind in my face, the salt on my lips, the thrill of zipping over water- I look forward to the shore just for that. I always go to the same place-- the owners are Claudio and Claudia and they are both from Argentina, accents and all. They make a big fuss over me because of my name and we always speak in Spanish, which was my problem today, but I'll get to that.

So today I took my oldest daughter and her BFF with me. They screamed and hollered and my daughter's arms were squashing me through my life jacket as we bumped and flew over giant wakes caused by the other six skis that were with us. The water was choppy as a result and a few times I had to fight to get control of the ski to get back on course and stay within the designated area. Several times a giant wake or two completely doused us with foam, which was all part of the fun.

What I did not count on, however, was having problems docking. I cut the motor as directed so I would drift over to the dock. But, instead of drifting forward, I drifted backwards. I started the motor again and turned around and cut it, this time drifting toward the patrol boat not far from the dock. I started the motor again to get away from the boat and turned to the left, hard. In doing so, I flipped the ski over, sending two teenage girls flying into the water. But while I was doing this, Claudio was on the dock yelling to me in Spanish while using gestures. I couldn't hear or understand him and as I opened my mouth to say "Como?" I flipped right over the ski with the girls, unplugging the kill switch attached to my jacket and, mouth open, swallowing a whole lot of the Atlantic's saltiest. I popped up and instinctively reached for the girls, grabbing one with each hand while I tried to get back to the ski and tread water-- impossible to do. The patrol boat guy told me he'd take one of them. Well, neither wanted to get back on the ski with me, so I dragged them over to the boat and they hopped on, and I figured I'd just swim to the dock. "Uh, you have the key," the guy said. "Oh, yeah, guess I have to get back on." And that, I'm sure was a sight, as I mounted the triple ski from the back, throwing myself onto it like a sick fish and crawling up onto the seat. Claudio was ready again to get me to the dock, yelling for me to give it gas and swing it around. I'm thinking to myself- WHY IS THIS SO HARD? I never had problems before! Same marina, same dock, what gives? I docked it, much to Claudio's relief, and still sputtering from drinking a cup of sea water, I went to the shop and got my keys (that's shah-vays in Argentine Spanish) from Claudia who felt bad that I was soaking wet and tried not to laugh.

My daughter and her friend actually enjoyed it, as now they have a story to tell when they get home. I reminded them that we went over huge wakes, got cut off by a rule-breaker who almost tipped us over, and I was flooring it much of the ride and nobody fell over until I tried not to hit the patrol boat, and that was the story I wanted them to tell. My perfect record is ruined. And on top of that, my arms are really sore from driving.

Cursing, Italian Style

2008-07-06T14:08:00.000-04:00

I'm in the car on my way to the Joisey shore for a week. Since I am no lover of sand, this is more like my yearly penance, thrust upon me because my inlaws have a house there. I am looking forward to jet skiing which I love.

So we're on I-95 now (I'm not driving, though that would be a trick) and my two kids are fighting and the dogs are barking. My 13 year old has her BFF with her so we're trying to make her think we are not the boisterous Italians that we really are. That's no mean feat because hour two into the trip I deviate from my planned course of civility and let rip the following:

"MANAGGIALAMEDIGABRUTAFACCIADISPORC."
Which is coined from my Dad's homemade cursing of a hateful pig-faced medagon and used for really, absolutely any reason whatsoever.

My oldest shot me a look like "Mom! You Guido! You promised!" and I shot her a look like "would you like to ride strapped to the roof rack?" She stopped instigating and for effect I threw in a loud "MADON."

Other handy expletives and insults you might like to try:
Managia! damn!
faccia di chooch Horse face
State zito! (statazeet) Shut up!
fon-gool (everyone knows this one- it's very vulgar)
Fanabala (va en Napoli- like saying the above but nicer, telling someone to go to Naples instead of doing something to themselves)

my daughter should be grateful that I didn't curse in English, no, I don't get any thanks. Just her malocchio.

Happy Birthday, Aunt.

2008-07-01T12:48:00.011-04:00

Today is my beautiful Aunt Carole's birthday. (She has always been just "Aunt.") She is also my godmother and a wonderful human being and I love her very much. She is my mom's younger sister and is still plenty young with many years ahead of her.

Unfortunately, because of an insect, the past 4 years have been a living hell for her. My aunt is suffering terribly from late stage Lyme disease- you cannot even imagine what this disease, if left untreated, can do to a person. It invades every part of your body and can make you a mere shadow of your former self, rendering you unable to walk and talk, gasping for breath, and you may not even know why. Such is the case with my aunt. She had no telltale bullseye mark after being bitten. She just started getting stroke-like symptoms which got progressively worse. She has finally, after four years, been diagnosed with Lyme, after first being MISdiagnosed with everything from ALS to Parkinson's to Multiple System Atrophy at hospitals including Columbia, Johns Hopkins and Mayo, in addition to local doctors. She can't even count how many doctors she has seen, many of them dismissing her with "It's Parkinson's, no cure," and some even laughing at her when she asked if it could be Lyme. She has taken multiple medications for diseases she doesn't have, filling her body with drugs that didn't do a thing, all while the Lyme burrowed its way further and further into her body.

After a doctor took a chance on my cousin's gut instinct and treated my aunt with medication to make the Lyme leave the tissue and enter the bloodstream where it could be detected, was she finally diagnosed. The relief we all felt was immense- one doctor had told her she had 3 years left to live, another had given her the diagnosis of MSA, an untreatable and incurable disease with less than a year to live. Now she has a light at the end of the tunnel.

But the recovery is not easy and the herxheimer reaction-- killing off the Lyme bacteria, causing them to release their toxins into the body-- makes her feel worse. That often makes her stop the treatment to get relief from the pain, and she backslides. I know it's hard, and I know the pain must be unimaginable. But she needs to stick with it and finish the treatment so she can get her life back. She has lived through problems in her life that seemed insurmountable before and she came out on top- she can do this, too. I know that with determination she will soon get out of that wheelchair and put on her stylish suits and walk and talk like before. We pray for her every night and fear that she is simply exhausted-- too exhausted to fight anymore, but we know she can do it. This disease has not only affected her and her children, but her 10 grandchildren have missed out on their once vibrant and energetic grandmother, too.

So, Happy Birthday to my Aunt, I wish her strength, perseverance and may next year's birthday find her shopping at Talbot's and celebrating her new life, free of pain and disease.

I love you.

Readers:
Please help me to send words of encouragement to my aunt, who is unable to talk to me on the phone because Lyme left her unable to speak, by leaving your comments below. Even though she may not know you, knowing that people are praying and rooting for her may help her to stay with her treatment and get better.

For more info on Lyme disease please check out these sites.

Protect Yourself Against Ticks and Lyme
EARLY SYMPTOMS!
PDF Downloads about Lyme
NJ Lyme rates by county- If you live in Jersey, like my Aunt, watch out
Meant for doctors but very comprehensive information about Lyme
Lyme Diagnosis
What Lyme Can Do to Your Brain
Why Lyme diagnosis gets delayed
Lyme Vaccine Gets Pulled for Poor Sales
Daniel Wood's Story
Personal story- Roger Doyle
Shelly Pinter's Story

But I Don't Like Fish

2008-06-29T21:49:00.001-04:00

I was watching the E! Channel tonight (yes I watch E!. Cut me a break, I'm on vacation and I took my brain with me) and I was drinking some iced tea (sweetened, with lemon, please). The show, the name of which I forget, flashed on a service provided in Los Angeles called, are you ready?

HUMAN SUSHI PLATE.

I was in the middle of a mouthful and I swallowed it kind of weird and choked a little.

A HUMAN SUSHI PLATE?

Esqueese me?

Yes, apparently, the angelinos have become bored with eating off of ceramic and glass and now feel the need to eat off of the human body. At $900 an hour for a male and female, um, plate. I'm sure this is appealing to men who like to look at a good-looking female body with bodacious tatas covered with... fish, but even with a buff man with butt cheeks you can bounce a quarter off of as my plate, this does nothing for me but make me say "ick!"

Further investigation revealed that this is Japanese in origin (those horny Japanese!) but nonetheless, all that comes to mind is UNSANITARY.
First of all, how clean is this dish? Where was it before it became service for 12?

Secondly, what if the dish is, you know, flatulent? Then it has to clench to suppress the flatulence and the sushi slides into prohibited areas. Or what if the dish has to sneeze or cough? Or falls asleep?

Thirdly, why sushi? The innuendo is not lost on me, but seriously. If you know me or have been reading this blog, you know that I am possibly the only Italian in the world who doesn't eat seafood (or drink wine). So the idea of picking raw fish out of a stranger's potentially lint-filled belly button is just not appealing to me. Now, you put a little veal in a delicate marsala sauce with a side of risotto on there and you just might get me to dig in, but sushi? No thanks.

And you can't pick the sushi off the human plate with a fork because you'll poke the hell out of the plate (and make the plate bleed- gross!), so you have to use chopsticks.

I guess I've lived in a small town too long, because this is just straight up CRAZEEEEE to me.

I Got Your Home-Made Pasta Ovah He'

2008-06-29T21:27:00.005-04:00

So, the family made the half-mile trek to Pec and Joe ovah deh's house last night for a little dinnah. A little dinnah? It was a freakin' gourmet spread ovah deh!

Joe Ovah Deh (that's his name, legally, now) cooks.

And if you missed previous posts, I mean COOKS. Pec says not only in the kitchen (wink, wink, nudge, nudge, if ya know what I'm sayin'.) He stood right there with his pasta dough and fed it through his pasta maker, making spaghetti. He had marinara cooking on the stove, had the mixture for the bruschetta ready, was about to prepare a baby leaf salad and of course, he had his very special meatballs already made. After finishing the pasta-making, Joe went and grilled the bread for the bruschetta appetizer, which was accompanied by Steph's favorite soprasatta and provolone (with a BITE!). Somehow, the gravy and the meatballs tasted almost exactly like my paternal grandmother's recipe, which was always very different from my mom and Nonna's gravy and meatballs- a little spicier, but always recognizable. I was temporarily transported back in time to when I was a teenager, eating at my grandmother Lena's house. (She died when I was 16 at the age of 69.) It was kind of weird.

For dessert Pec brought out CANOOLS. Madon! Just what I need! Unfortunately, since Joe Ova Deh did not make the canools, I did not try one. I heard they were very good, regardless.

So, Pec and Joe O.D., thanks for a super delicious dinner and some really hilarious conversation. Next one is Wal-Mart pasta and Ragú at Fanelli's! No need to bring agiduh, I'll supply it! ;)

Fresh Prince

2008-06-25T23:22:00.002-04:00

Today my friend Julio and I (he's the one who abandoned me, throwing me to the wolves by leaving PA to pursue his doctorate at Georgetown. BIG WHOOP!) entertained ourselves by exchanging our favorite lines from The Fresh Prince. I still watch the re-runs because they make me laugh, still! We used to annoy people at work by reciting these and then laughing. Nobody else appreciated this discussion but man, did we crack up.

So here are some of the best lines from the show. If you are a fan I'm sure you remember.

Carlton: "For a long time it gave me nightmares, witnessing an injustice like that... It's a constant reminder of just how unfair this world can be... I can still hear them taunting him...”Silly rabbit, Trix are for kids!"... I mean, WHY COULDN'T THEY JUST GIVE HIM SOME CEREAL?"

Will: "I'm stuck in a basement, sittin' on a tricycle, girl gettin' on my nerves; Goin' outta my mind, I thought she was fine, don't know if her body is hers."

Dr. Hoover--"Fine. Speaking as a doctor, I think your daughter should be heavily sedated and immediately institutionalized."
Uncle Phil--"Well speaking as a lawyer, I can only say that your daughter fits the criminal profile to a T, right down to the sloping forehead, and the wide jaws suitable for grains and small rodents! "
Dr. Hoover: "I think you have her confused with your momma!"

Janet: "I need more ice."
Carlton: "You need more ice, *what*? "
Janet: "I need more ice in my warm soda. "

[Uncle Phil just grounded Will and took away all of his privileges]
Will: "Why don't you just do me like Kunta Kinte and cut off my foot? "

Will looking in mirror: "Jean Claude Van Dam I'm fine!"

Carlton: "So, Dad, how do you feel?"
Phillip Banks, wearing a toupée: "I feel like Little Richard: Attorney at Law."
Geoffrey: "Dinner is served. A-Whop-Bop-Aloobop-A-Wop-Bam-Boom!"

Kayla: You're so ugly, your momma had to tie a pork chop around your neck just so the dog would play with you.
Will: You're so ugly, your momma had to feed you with a slingshot.

Tyriq: "He sold me a fake Rolex."
Jazz (to Will, referring to Tyriq): "He paid with a fake $20."
Will (To Tyriq): "Now, first of all. You should have known it was fake when you saw that the warranty was only for two hours."
Will (To Jazz): "And you should have known the Jackson on the $20 ain't Jermaine."

My Idol

2008-06-21T00:32:00.009-04:00

I just caught some of the Daytime Emmies. I don't watch soaps anymore and I rarely am able to watch daytime programming except in the summer, so the Daytime Emmies just happened to be there when I changed channels tonight, ergo, I don't care about them.

But I did catch Susan Lucci and she just popped up on my Yahoo welcome screen. Wow. I used to watch All My Children in college and until Barney took over my television 12 years ago, and I have always thought she is a gorgeous woman.

But now she is a SIXTY-TWO year old gorgeous woman. She is a tiny little thing, too. Obviously looking great is her bread and butter, but how many 62 year-old women look like THIS?

It's hard work to look that good at any age, let alone 62! Sure, some think she may have had work done, which I doubt because she doesn't have any telltale signs, but if she did, she had a great surgeon because she doesn't all pulled and fake. She actually looks better than she did when she started on All My Children in 1970.

When you think about all that women have to do to look decent- not even stars, just regular women, it's exhausting. Shaving, waxing, plucking, hair-dying, manicuring, pedicuring, dieting, teeth-whitening, zit-covering, applying make-up... Good Lord I'm exhausted just typing it! And none of that guarantees us to look anywhere near as good as Susan Lucci on a bad day at SIXTY-TWO YEARS OLD.

Susan Lucci, I don't care how long it took you to win an Emmy- you are my idol.

This post made under the influence of Ambien but I mean every word.

AGIDUH

2008-06-13T22:52:00.002-04:00

"Agiduh" is not fun. It comes in two varieties. It is spelled "acidez," but of course we don't say "Ah-chee-des." Duh. We say AGIDUH.

Agiduh is heartburn, acid. We use it like this:

1) After we eat something which causes heartburn or indigestion. The remedy for this in my family is a glass of Brioschi. Brioschi is little pieces of slightly lemon-flavored effervescent agiduh relief that you put in water and drink. It tickles your nose if you drink it while it is still bubbly. :)

2) When you are aggravated, you get agiduh. Your spouse (sorry, dear), your kids, your job, waiting in long lines, just about anything that makes your blood simmer can cause you frustration which can then fall under the category of AGIDUH. When this happens, you MUST tell someone, or just say it out loud. Everyone has to know you are getting agiduh or that agiduh is impending. Otherwise, the effect is lost. "You kids better knock it off, you're giving me AGIDUH!" No one wants to give Mom agiduh!

Happy Birthday Dad!

2008-06-11T19:53:00.005-04:00

Today my father turned three quarters of a century old. I wish him at least another quarter and much good health with which to enjoy those years.

I have written about my dad before, because he has had a big influence on my morality (as has my mother) but also on my political understanding and views.

My dad is super-conservative. When I was a kid, I never realized that his views had a label. I debated some of those views as I got older and thought I knew more than he, but I eventually came to my own conclusions about them and with the exception of a few, I share those views.

Growing up, my sister and I knew the words "pinko" and "commie" as part of our vernacular. Patriotism was instilled in us from the time we learned that an American flag is not a toy, and that people died to allow us to live the way we do. When I was a senior in high school, my dad and I, both Stallone fans, went to see Rambo, First Blood, Part II, where Rambo rescues the POW's in Vietnam. That sparked great coversations about history and communism and I learned words like "black pajamas," and finally realized why my parents would not watch a Jane Fonda movie.

A veteran of the army who served in Germany after WWII, my dad is a treasure trove of historical knowledge. All of what I learned about that war and that period of history comes from my father, not from my junior year history class. (Although I do remember the word "blitzkrieg," but that's about it.)

It's not just because of politics that I hold my dad in such high regard. It's for his deternination, his intelligence, his sense of humor, honesty and his tremendous love for me that I love him so much. It's for the way he broke the news to me that my goldfish died when I was five, and shed some tears with me. It's for the way he taught me that being silly makes you feel good, but never at the dinner table. It's how he drove me to and from a friend's house or a dance at night even though he was exhausted after work. It's the way he showed me that living a honest and clean life is the only way to live and that nothing is more important than family. It's because I never heard my dad say an off-color word- ever- because he has too much respect for women to say a dirty word in their presence.

So, for all he taught me, and for all he means to me, Happy Birthday to my father. I am fortunate and grateful to have you as my dad.

Philly Cheesesteaks? No thanks.

2008-05-26T20:30:00.003-04:00

Blasphemy!
How can a girl from Philadelphia say she doesn't like Philly cheesesteaks?
Simple. They're greasy, soggy and don't even contain real cheese. Cheese whiz? Blechh.

So, don't ask me "Pat's or Geno's?" Because I will say NEITHER. (Although in deference to my husband, Tony Luke's is supposed to be better than both of them.)

In my house growing up, my dad (who doesn't cook anything but this) always made the steak sandwiches, which we ate on a Saturday (only) night maybe once or twice a month.

Here's how he (and I) makes a cheesesteak:

Get very thinly-sliced rib-eye steak (or Steak Ums if you don't have a butcher nearby, but trust me, the real steak is wayyy better). You will need about 4 or 5 slices per person.

Warm vegetable oil in frying pan- just enough to put a thin coating on the pan- at medium heat.

Add steak.

Break steak up slightly with spatula and cook until brown on both sides.
(If you like fried onions, which I do not, now is the time to add strips of onions to the oil.)

Place steak rolls in the oven for about 5 minutes on 300. The outside should be crispy but not to the point where it all falls apart.

CRUCIAL STEP!!***Add two pinches of oregano while steak is browning- mix well.

If you like cheese, add it now. Lay it on top of the steak and let it melt slightly. (I prefer sliced provolone but American can be used.)

Scoop it out and place it on a plate covered in several paper towels so some of the grease is absorbed.

Add it to the warm roll.

Put teeth into sandwich.

No Song for Me :(

2008-05-25T21:00:00.004-04:00

Most of my female friends and relatives have songs with their names as titles. But not me. What made me think of this random piece of trivia? Because I'm sitting here listening to Frankie Valli songs (he is my all-time favorite singer) and I just heard Sherry and Dawn, which are hands-down my two most favorite songs of his.

So I started thinking... my sister, Valerie, has a song, actually she has TWO. So do these friends and relatives: Sharon, Katie, Stephanie, Lauren, Marlena, Carol, Jessica, and of all names, my daughter, whose name is Italian- has a song in Italian. Me? Nothing.

Girls with my name have never inspired anyone to write about them. Not Claudia Schiffer,
not Claudia Cardinale,
not Claudia "Ladybird" Johnson,

and not yours truly.

Hard to believe a face as cute as this doesn't deserve a song, right?

The closest I ever got was when I managed the baseball team in high school and when I would get on the bus the boys would sing, to the tune of "GLORIA," by the Doors-"CLAUDIA- C-L-A-U-D-I-AAAAAA." But that doesn't count.

So, I'm songless. Oh, and my name also means "lame." My parents really picked a winner!

Scrapbook Room

2008-05-23T22:08:00.006-04:00

Sorry to the scrappers I promised these photos to earlier. Here is the latest incarnation of my scrapbook room. I did post them on the beginner's scrapbook blog I have but I never linked to it. Ooops

I got the furniture you see here at D&D Furniture Outlet. The china cabinet was an orphaned piece which was $211, originally $1,200. It has touch lighting and a ton of storage. The pub table was only $97 because it has no leaf. Which is fine, because I have no space to open it up anyway. Under the pub table are Rubbermaid containers with office supplies and boxes of photos. On the back of the French doors are two shoe bags and next to that a pantry rack for storage. I also have a 6 foot computer armoire that holds less-frequently used supplies and machines but I don't have a photo of that because I haven't finished painting it yet. I used to have my computer in there in our first house where there was no space for an office, so it worked out great.

Next to the door I have four wire paper racks from a scrapbooking store and I have 6 more next to the pub table for 12x12 paper storage. My 8.5 x 11 paper is stored in the china cabinet in light blue bins. I organize by theme- holiday, stripes, dots, etc., as well as by manufacturer. I'd like to tell you it works for me, but it doesn't. I just have more paper than I will ever remember to use.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom

2008-03-14T22:16:00.008-04:00

I have been a mom for 12 years and it is by far the most challenging, most diificult, yet most rewarding job I have ever had. It is not one to be taken lightly.

Since I became a mother, my relationship with my own mother transformed into more of a friendship, which I enjoy very much. My mom is not only beautiful, but she is probably the most generous person I know. She always thinks not just of her children but her grandchildren. On top of that, she is uncommonly thoughtful. For example, I remember not long ago mentioning in passing that I somehow shrunk my lavender sheets. It wasn't a big deal, but that Christmas, about a month after I shrunk the sheets, she bought me a new set of lavendar sheets- not because she had to, but because she neatly filed that tidbit away. She did the same thing when I commented that I had to buy some more steak knives. She saw them on sale soon after and bought them for me.

It's not just the act of giving me things that makes my mom so generous. I call her every day and if I need to whine, she listens. If I need to vent, she listens. If I need a babysitter, she's there. She always says the only thing she wants in return is respect, and for everything she has given to me, both material and non-tangible, I respect her very much. It is my mother who has taught me that being a mom means being selfless. It means putting your children first, before your needs. It means giving your child the last bite of your favorite food if she asks for it. It means stopping what you are doing to help with homework or let her style your hair. It's what being a mom is. I may do things with my children that my mom did not do with me, or not do things that she did do with me, but the idea is the same.

Pictured here are two other great moms- my aunt/godmother (holding me) and my late grandmother. My grandmother raised her children under adverse circumstances and was widowed a month after I was born. She was a strong, stubborn, generous, throughtful, loving, brave little Sigi woman that I adored and whom I miss tremendously.

My aunt is a stunning woman who also had her share of hardship as an adult but came out of it just like her mother did- strong and victorious. She is battling Lyme disease now, a very advanced form of it, but I know she will be victorious over this, too.

So, I hope to continue the 3rd generation of motherhood to the best of my ability, to raise my daughters to be decent, loving and kind, and for them to respect me and what I do for them as I respect the moms in my family.

Thanks Mom, for being a great mom.

Best Superbowl Comercial

2008-02-03T21:33:00.000-05:00

Is it because he's Italian? Or is it because he's from Philly? Or is it the whole underdog theme that is so appealing to me? I don't know but if it's Rocky, I love it. And if you put a beautiful horse in a commercial, play the fanfare to the Rocky theme and make him train, Rocky-style with a dog, I'm all over it.

I Love Sly, But...

2008-01-25T20:09:00.000-05:00

(My favorite Stallone picture and the photo on my mousepad.)

When I was a senior in high school my school held a Father-Daughter Dance. I didn't want to go because I thought it was weird for a girl to dance with her dad all night. My dad is a great dancer but being a teenager, I didn't want to go. Because I love my dad, I didn't want to slight him, either. So, I asked him to go on a "date" instead. We agreed to go see Rambo, First Blood, Part 2. We are both Rocky and Rambo fans and the movie had just come out so we went to the movies instead and then got something to eat. We had a great time and whenever Rambo 2 comes on I think of my Father-Daughter Night.

It turns out that Rambo, First Blood, Part 2 was, in our opinion at least, the best of the three Rambos. I loved when Stallone pops out of the mud mountain and grabs that commie bastard. One of my favorite lines of all time is when Murdock pretends he's happy Rambo is alive and says "Rambo, this is Murdock, we're glad you're alive. ...we'll come to pick you up! " and Rambo's mouth barely moves as he says "Murdock... I'm coming to get...YOU." And Murdock starts sweating bullets. It's in my Top 10 movie list for sure.

So, when I found out the 4th Rambo sequel was in the works, having just seen my aging hero in Balboa, I wasn't very excited. I thought, what's this? "Rambo, Last Rites, Part 1?" I love Stallone, don't get me wrong, I have most of the Rocky movies memorized and after all, the guy's from Philly- our very own hometown superstar. But the idea of Stallone lumbering around the jungles of Burma just doesn't seem like a just ending for the series.
Sly was hot, HOT, in Rambo 2. That slow motion scene where he is running to escape the impending explosion? Hubba, Hubba!

Now the guy is 63 and looks great for his age, of course, but believable as a warrior? Not so much. So, I'm going to skip this Sly movie, and there aren't many I have skipped- yes, I even saw "Stop or My Mom Will Shoot," but I want to remember Rambo as he was- hot, ripped and raging. (No steroid pun intended.)

FA FREDDO, Dammit!

2008-01-20T18:18:00.000-05:00

Pennsylvania. It's the only state I've ever called home, although I have lived in a lot of different parts of it. I have spent a lot of time in New Jersey; every summer of my life has included a trip down the shore, and several weeks a year in Florida while my grandparents lived in West Palm Beach for ten years. I hate the beach so trips to the Jersey shore are akin to torture for me. The sand mysteriously ending up everywhere on my body, the salt on my skin, the jellyfish, the wind sending grains of sand into my contacts lenses in spite of my sunglasses, the four times in my life I have been crapped on by seagulls, the chasing of them from my children so they can eat in peace, the seaweed that tangles itself up in places the sand may not have gotten to, and the inevitable sunburn I endure along the part in my hair from wearing a ponytail. I don't like it one bit.

In all the trips I have made to Florida, however, it wasn't until this past summer when I touched a Floridian beach. I generally park myself at the pool and swim and tan. I'll read in the pool if I can. Give me a raft and I'll sleep in the pool. But the Ft. Lauderdale beach I liked no better than a Jersey beach, except the water was calmer, bluer, and free from floating garbage. But there was sand. And I hate sand. And the summer Florida heat and humidity did not improve my outlook at all.

Now, in Pennsylvania we don't have an ocean or beaches, unless you count lakes. But, my state does have beautiful and diverse scenery- mountains, farms, lakes and amazing foliage in autumn. We have Philadelphia for culture-vultures and the Pocono mountains for those who want to relax and soak up nature. We have an Amish community in Lancaster County where people can marvel at how simple life can be. The scenery behind my house is amazing-in the spring and summer the mountains are green and picturesque. In the fall the colors are breathraking. In the winter I have a perfect view of the ski slopes and the ski lift, which at night is quite a sight to see all lit up.

But now that I am older, I find myself cursing just about every day when I go outside from about December through March. Sure, when the snow falls it's gorgeous. And late at night when I go outside with the dogs and it's snowing or it has just snowed, it's so perfectly silent and serene and white that I forget where I am for a second and I just stand there and relish the silence. Ahhhhhh.

Then I snap out of it, pull my eskimo-style coat around me, stomp the snow off my boots on the doormat and hurry back inside to the heat. For as much as I hate the humidity, the 90 degree weather in Florida, the sand in my eyes and my teeth, for as much as I hate finding seaweed in my bathing suit when I shower and as much as I want to throw things at seagulls, there is something I hate so much more that I would take a sandy, seaweedy bathing suit, sand in my eyes, a burnt scalp and a windy day at the beach where stupid people don't know to put their umbrellas down and they fly all over. And that is THE COLD.

It's 17 degrees right now and going down to 8. EIGHT. ONE DIGIT. Humans were not meant to live in SINGLE DIGITS. At least, not THIS human. I mean, you know it's cold when the hair in your nose freezes. And I won't even talk about how much fun it is as an adult to shovel the snow. Let's just stick to the COLD. In 1994, right around this time, PA had a major freeze. It was so bad that the Delaware River froze and the boats transporting fuel got stuck. I was staying with my parents because my apartment was freezing cold. It was so bad that their heater just couldn't crank high enough to keep the house warm. It was so bad that I slept in thermal underwear, two pairs of sweat pants, three pairs of socks, 2 t-shirts and a sweatshirt plus a hat and gloves on one of those nights. And my nose, which was not covered, was frozen when I woke up.

It is this time of year when I start dreaming of Florida. My husband, who hates the winters more than I do and would live in a hut on the beach if he could, calls his boss and says he wants a transfer. I start looking at real estate in Florida. I begin pleading with my parents to please move with us to the Sunshine State because I can't leave them here. They tell me I'm crazy, why would I want to leave Pennsylvania? And I say: BECAUSE IT'S FREAKIN' COLD!! FA FREDDO! FA FREDDO! Hello?? COLD!!!

As I am typing this I'm doing a search in the Palm Bay area of Florida for houses. Sure. I'd miss PA, but I'll bring pictures of the PA landscapes and look at them on my raft in the pool in February. I'd visit in the summer. Ma, I know you're reading this, and you're going to be responsible for me turning into a human popsicle. Remember my knees, the cold isn't good for my arthritis. It will be all your fault if my teeth chatter so hard they fall out. Is that what you want? A toothless gimp for a daughter? For now, I'll just pray I make it to March without hypothermia.

Where I could be right now:

Where I am:

To be fair, this is the view in the spring from my bedroom window:

The Web Bites the Mob in the Coolie

2008-01-13T21:22:00.000-05:00

First of all, if you're an Italian-American you no doubt have heard the word "coolie" before. It comes from the word "culo" which means butt. But it's crude. So, by tweaking it a little, it became acceptable for little kids to say, and that's the word we used for butt growing up and the word my kids use now.

Anyway, I just came across an article that says that Sicilian businesses, tired of being strong-armed for protection by the mob, created a website where they can find strength in numbers. The Information Superhighway is sending the mob packin'! A few young men started with clever slogans, plastering Palmero with stickers reading ("Un Intero Popolo Che Paga Il Pizzo E Un Popolo Senza Dignita" ("PEOPLE WHO PAY THE PIZZO ARE PEOPLE WITHOUT DIGNITY.") Pizzo is the money they must pay the mob. The word spread and the common feeling was if your baker pays the pizzo, and you buy from the baker, you are giving the mafia your money, adn who wants to do that? Good old Italian guilt worked and lassoed clientele into the circle with the business owners, forming a united front. Emboldened, Sicilians took a stand and formed Comittee Addiopizzo (The Goodbye Pizzo committee). According to the AddioPizzo website,

"The campaign “Against pizzo change your shopping habits” wants to create a group of consumers in Palermo and in the region, ready to support businesses who stand up against racket and, overcoming fear, denounce their extorters."

When I read this I realized how little I know about how the mob operates to this day in Italy and Sicily. I am proud of the Sicilian business owners who have joined forces and finally stood up to thugs and thieves who think that they own Sicily. How dare someone demand another person's hard-earned money just so they won't bully them? Maybe now the mob can get a job- or go to jail. The AddioPizzo campaign could effectively wipe out this extortion for good- finally!

Good for you siciliani!

Sicilian business owners and supporters gather in Sicily.

New Pictures of My New Addition

2008-01-06T18:27:00.000-05:00

It's been a week and in terms of responsibility, I feel like I have a new baby in the house. It's not just because Rosie is so small and, untrained on the leash, has to be carried or coaxed and can't do the stairs yet. It's also because I have to stay up later to let her out and get up earlier to let her out. I have also been coming home over lunch to let her out of the crate. She has a very short attention span so walking her takes a while as does feeding her- I sit there while she eats, gets distracted, eats, wanders away, etc. So, to make sure she eats when it is time to eat, I stay and monitor. I don't mind any of it, I am the one who wanted the 3rd dog, but I haven't had a puppy this young since I was fourteen, and never this delicate. She's quite fastidious, which works in our favor, and hasn't had a problem in her smaller cage, true to all the puppy advice I have gotten and the support from the fellow Japanese chin owners I've talked to this past week.

She has been so much fun for us, though. She has a few spurts of massive energy per day and during these times she literally runs around in circles and, to my surprise, barks! She also nips a lot when she plays which hurts, even though her teeth are so tiny. The new food she started this weekend (Flint River Ranch) is a hit- and she picks it out of the other puppy food that she has been eating. I never saw my other dogs eat food as quickly or completely as this stuff. The treats I ordered from there are huge but she goes crazy for them, as do my other dogs. I even got an email from Flint River Ranch asking me if I received the food and how it was working out. I highly recommend it and am happy to plug it here. It's twice baked, all natural and has no chemicals- it has cranberries and chicken and other human grade ingredients.

So, here are some new photos of Rosie, the new princess of the house.
(Don't worry, I'm still the queen.)

Christmas Dinner

2007-12-28T22:17:00.000-05:00

I spent Christmas Day with my family at my parents' house. My mom has her table all decked out with the Christmas tablecloth, her Christmas china and her silver plus her fancy Christmas coffee mugs. She even has special Christmas plates for the grandchildren.
My dad made his twice-a-year antipasto. He makes it with lettuce, tomato wedges, provolone cheese, Genoa salami, roasted peppers, mainated artichoke hearts, mushrooms, olives and tuna. he liked anchovies but nobody else does so he put some in a dish for himself. We put oil and vinegar on it after we pick out the parts we like- which ticks my dad off every year. He thinks we should eat whatever ends up on the serving spoon but my sister and I never do- mainly because we don't want mushrooms on our plates. YUK.

My mom made manicotti and served them with meatballs, Italian sausage and braciole. For dessert we had the typical tray of homemade Italian cookies, plus pies, nuts, coffee and cordials (Limoncello, Sambuca, Grand Marnier).

It was two hours of eating. We forgot the finocchio this year (that's fennel) and we eat it after the main course to aid in digestion.

More Mangled Words

2007-12-21T19:31:00.000-05:00

In the course of a day I mangle at least one perfectly good Italian word. By mangle I mean I anglicize it. I don't do this much in Spanish but I think that is because although I know way more Spanish than I do Italian, and I have been speaking Spanish for over 20 years, it is nonetheless my second language. That means that for every word I know in Spanish, I know the English equivalent. Since I grew up with certain Italian words in my famnily vernacular, I never realized as a kid that everyone didn't know them.

Italian I don't speak very well. I try, really I do. But I don't have anyone to practice with anynmore. However, because in my house growing up there were words that existed only in Italian, we end up Anglicizing it- you know, put the "ing" on it or making a past participle out of it.

For example:
Sporco- (sporko) meaning: dirty pig, messy.
Years ago my parents paid me a surprise visit in my apartment while I was working on a grad course paper. I was working on the floor and had books and papers spread everywhere. I looked through the peephole, panicked and ran around the living room shoving papers and books in the closet. Clearly everything was slightly askew. When I let my parents in, my dad looked around and said "Were you "sporking?"
("Were you being a slob?")

Cafone- (cavone)- meaning: a rude person or someone who has no class.
This is used so frequently (and properly) in my family that I use it even with my non-Italian friends because it just sounds so much better than saying "that classless person" or "that rude person." We mangle it and add a "y" to it, for example: "She ruined Christmas when she showed up with her cafoney friends."

chiaccarone-strong> (Kyack-ya-roan) meaning: talkative person.
My oldest daughter was a pretty timid child when she first started pre-school. This was a serious pre-school- a Montessori school- and she really enjoyed it. At the end of her second year I had my spring conference with her teacher, an Italian-American man, who also happened to be the director of the school. He told me about her progress and then said "It seems that your daughter really enjoys, how do I put this, "Chiaccaroning," now. I couldn't stop laughing.

Come si chiama (goomaeeigeeam)meaning: what's it called (lit. what's its/your name) My parents and grandparents used this word a lot, especially for body parts that weren't supposed to be on display. "Look at that girl in the short skirt with her goomaseegeeam showing!" Or, "Can you get the goomaseegeeam and bring it over to me?" I was quite embarrassed in my first Italian class at 19 when the professor's first lesson started with "Come si chiama?" It wasn't clear at first what it was, and I sat there listening, thinking, "that sounds a lot like the whaddyacallit" word. DUH.

This, amici, has been your bundle of butchered and mangled Italian words for the day.

The Dreaded Christmas Eve Tradition

2007-12-13T07:32:00.000-05:00

There are fewer rituals that my family performs that I dread more than Christmas Eve dinner. It should be re-named "Torture Claudia Night." No, it's not the Christmas carols that my husband and kids and I sing to far away family and friends in operatic voices over the phone- I like that part. It's not the anticipation of seeing the kids wake up and see what "Santa" brought them the next day. It's not even the exhaustion I feel every December 24th at about 1:00 in the morning, having wrapped all the gifts when the kids finally have fallen asleep. Nope. It's CHRISTMAS EVE DINNER.

What could be so dreadful about a Christmas Eve dinner? Well, my medagon friends, a typical Italian dinner on December 24th involves a long-standing and for me, unappealling traditional meal- SEAFOOD. It's the one night a year when I, myself, wear the title of "Medagon," given to me by my parents.

I don't eat seafood. Non mi piace. It never has appealed to me, with the exception of flounder. So, the meal to which I was subjected for every year of my life until I was 33 and moved far away enough from my family to not go back on Christmas Eve, just Christmas Day, is an array of "Seven Fish(es)." This does not have to be actual fish- any seafood will do. The offending fare can include (but is not limited to) the following:
-flounder or another kind of fish (in my family it was breaded flounder, the only kind I would eat, to make me feel included and loved)
-crabmeat
-shrimp
-mussels
-clams
-lobster
-calamari (I think this appeared on the table once or twice at my grandparents house where we would spend Christmas Eve until 1986 when they moved to Florida)
-tuna (in the marinara sauce)
and the one dish that my mom opted out of making and left it to my dad and grandmother: bacala (as in dried codfish, not "Bobby."). It gets soaked a long time before preparation to remove the heavy salt taste and is served with a red sauce. You'd have to rip out my tastebuds to get it to taste good to me.

The seafood was always served with linguini (I prefer capellini, but I took what I could get) with the tuna sauce and I would get a "medagon special," a dish of linguini with melted butter and cheese. Nope, I wouldn't even eat the sauce if it had fish in it.

Now some people ask why the number seven? It's debatable- the number of days to create the universe, some say, others say the number is 13- one for each apostle plus Jesus (keep me out of THOSE houses) and my mom's version- any odd number under seven. So when I got married, I made that number become ONE. Well, I started off with 3(odd number) fish the first few years of marriage thinking my Italian/Sicilian husband would expect such a meal, but after the second year while he was eating a crab cake and I was eating linguini with marinara sauce, he said "I don't really like seafood all that much, you don't have to make it." ARGHHHHHH.

The next few years we started a new tradition of flying in the face of tradition and, allegedly, Canon Law (this proved untrue- I could find nothing that says you cannot eat meat on Christmas Eve) and going out to an Italian restaurant on Christmas Eve and ordering anything but fish. For me, that means veal. On the way home from dinner we'd sing to anyone who would answer the phone while we drove, and then swear to them that we were not drunk and neither were the children. The kids sang in celebration of Christmas. I sang in celebration of not having to eat fish.

So, go ahead, take away my Italian membership card, but before you do that, you should know that this Italian-American does not drink wine, either. Good God, a 7 fish dinner with only wine to drink- what a terrible thought. blechhhh

POOH FREE ZONE

2007-11-26T01:37:00.000-05:00

Away from my own bed and having drunk too much caffeine, I am sleepless with something on my mind. It's something I feel very strongly about and I take a lot of flack for it. I won't shy away from exactly how I feel and if you take issue with it, well, just bring it on.

The topic?

Winnie the Pooh.
That's right. Disney's so-called loveable "huney"-eating bear and friend of Christopher Robbin.
Pooh is not allowed in my home. He never has been.
I'm not kidding- and if you know me, you know this is true.
I can't stand Winnie the Pooh- and here's why.

1) He's a bad example for kids- he's illiterate. "Huney?" Come on! How hard is it to spell? If he can write that much, he can learn to spell correctly.
2) He's a glutton. Hello? Moderation? He gets his freakin' HEAD stuck in the honey pot he's such a pig.
3) He doesn't wear pants. Yeah, I know, he's a bear and bears don't wear pants. EXACTLY! Then why the shirt- which doesn't even fit? I mean, if you're going to cover up a body part, shouldn't it be the bear goodies? That shirt is way too small and ill-fitting, either get a new shirt, buy a pair of pants and go shirtless or just lose the clothes altogether, you know, like an animal should do?
4) He's an embarrassment to bears everywhere. Yes, as a matter of fact I have spoken to them, and they are mortified. He's a wimpy, wishy washy, poor excuse for a bear. You're a bear, dude, BE A MAN ABOUT IT!
And finally,
5) His last name means crap.
Need I say more?

My children have never missed Pooh's presence. With so many other Disney characters, Pooh never cracked the top 20. Someone gave my oldest a Pooh hat- snuck it right under my radar- just to get me mad. I didn't have the heart to throw it away. So for a winter I had to look at that orange bear. Both of my kids laughed hysterically when we saw the "B Movie' when Pooh gets offed for stealing honey. I'm such a good influence.

So your next question (after "Are you drunk?" and no I am not) is "Well, how about Tigger? or Eyore and Piglet? No, no problem with them. Sure, Tigger is slightly ADHD and Eyore is depressed but at least they don't wear half an outfit. And Piglet? Well who could not like that cute little pig? And he's suitably clothed.

So, there you have it. I'm sure if a shrink is reading this, he or she is trying to figure out how to get me in the office but really, I've felt this way for at least thirty years. When one of my students wears a Pooh sweatshirt or shows a Pooh folder (yes, even in high school) I cringe and wait until they are about to leave to tell them what a rotten influence Pooh is- and how much smarter and clever Garfield is. This inevitably makes pictures of Pooh appear on my board the next day, or "VIVA POOH" written on the board before I get to the room. They think I'm kidding.

But I'm not. I detest Pooh.

That is all.

FLYING HANDS

2007-11-16T21:28:00.000-05:00

Yes. My name is Claudia and I talk with my hands- all the time. I admit it, I cannot talk well without my hands. I'm not alone, of course- I don't know any Italians who do not talk with their hands. I remember once we dared my mom to talk without her hands- she sat on them and actually couldn't get her thoughts out!

We need our hands to punctuate and give what we are saying that little extra meaning that our simple words cannot. I put my cell phone on speaker a lot since my hand surgery because my hand cramps up. It is very handy (ha, ha) because I can gesticulate with both hands while I am on the phone, even though the effect is lost on the listener who cannot enjoy my gestures. And trust me, people say I talk fast, but I can move my hands just as quickly. And when I get angry, my hands and arms actually flail around.

Of course, being an Italian has its dangers when it comes to gesticulation. I once put my hand through a picture frame hanging on the wall in college when I was dramatically (of course) illustrating a point to a sorority sister. The glass went flying everywhere. My sorority sister ducked and I somehow managed to not slice my hand. Thank God- how would I have spoken? One can also get injured standing too close to an Italian speaking animatedly- a scratch or a poke in the face, for example.

Standing front of teenagers all day long means that I find out things about myself that I wasn't really aware of. Once a student asked me why I stood in third (ballet) position, which I did not realize I did when I taught. More than once, and in fact, several times a year, some student who is not paying attention to my lesson asks me why I use my hands when I talk. My answer is simple: "I'm Italian." They dared me to try to teach without using my hands, just like my sister and I did to my mom. Impossible. I made it through about 5 words and then gave up.

I think Italians have to use their hands because the volume when we are all together gets to such high levels that sometimes the person across from us needs some help to understand because he can't actually HEAR.

Don't confuse what I am saying with actual meaningful gestures that Italians use to convey such phrases as the brusque wave of the hand under the chin for "Me ne frego." (I don't give a damn) or the clasped hands, look to the heavens "Ayudame" (help me) gesture which I do frequently in class. (Note: "Ayudame" was the first Italian "word" I ever said when I was a little kid- I got stuck in the toilet and called for help. But that's another story)

Once when friends from Italy came over we all went out to dinner. I was a teenager at the time and Paolo, one of our friend's sons, was about 18. Everyone ordered wine at dinner and so did he. My dad told him he couldn't. He did not understand because they drink wine all the time in Italy, even at his age. He launched into a little description of when he and his friends go out to the club:
"But in Italy, we go to the club (points), we eat a little (pretends to put food in his mouth), we dance a little (does a little dance), we drink a little (takes an imaginary drink), we don't have these rules (frustrated gestures). My family and I recall this fondly usually whenever someone says "eat a little" and we still imitate Paolo twenty-something years later.

My gestures aren't really sign language, per se. They are just disconnected movements that sometimes relate to what I am saying and involve a lot of waving, pointing and jabbing. Think of a maestro on crack.

No other culture has earned the hand-speak reputation quite like Italians. Sure, some other countries gesticulate, but the constant and sometimes wild gesticulations of an Italian trying to make a point are pretty much incomparable. We don't get a prize or anything but it's fun to watch us.

"MADONNA" (MADON), explained.

2007-11-11T00:26:00.000-05:00

No, not the singer. The exclamation. "MADONNA!" or "MADONNA MIA." When butchered properly, they sound like "MADON!" and "MADONAMI" and sometimes "MARON." The "d" sound formed when your tongue hits the back of your front teeth is different from the "d" sound in English where your tongue hits further back in the roof of your mouth. And then of course, being Italian-Americans, we chop off the end of the word.

So why do we feel the need to call upon the blessed virgin mother so much? Gosh, you got me. I do it about 20 times a day, even to myself. Examples:

Now that it's cold in the morning, I step outside and say out loud: "MADON it's cold!" Do I actually need intervention from Mary? Naw, I'm just giving her a shout out to let her know I'm not so happy about the impending winter.

My husband came home one day and said "I put in a transfer to Florida." I said "MADON! Are you nuts?" Here I was calling on Mary to alert her to a possible manslaughter charge that could be brought against me, asking her to look out for me. And my husband.

We have Christmas dinner at my parents' house every year. My mom makes enough food for 20 people and we are only 9. She heaps the food on my plate and I say "MADON! Not so much!" Here I am actually thanking Mary and God for the good food and for my mom's ability to cook it in abundance.

I get up every morning at 5:45 to get ready for work. I am not, nor have I ever been, a morning person. This is a problem since I am very much a night owl. So every morning when that alarm goes off, since my mouth is not working yet, I say to myself without fail: "MADON! It's early!" or "MADON! Is nighttime over already?" What I really mean to say is "Madonna, please tell God I am thankful for waking up this morning and grateful to have a job to go to."

Doing laundry is my kryptonite. I'd rather clean the bathrooms. In college, I used to pay my sister to do it for me. I despise it. I hide from it. I pretend I don't see it. But it is there and it accumulates. When my husband takes pity on me at the end of the week and hauls my baskets downstairs to the laundry room and I see them, of course I say: "MADON!" That's usually all I can muster when I see giant piles of laundry staring at me. In this instance I am actually desperately pleading with the BVM to make a few phone calls and cause some seismic event in my laundry room and have the dirty clothes just get swallowed up. I find that she does not hear me.

Yesterday I was at the gym and it was my first day back to lifting weights since my carpal tunnel surgery. Actually, it was the lat pulldown machine so I was pulling, not lifting since I don't have enough strength in my hand to lift over 1 pound yet, nor can I grip very well. So, after 6 weeks of no upper body weight-training, I slide the 30 pound pin in, which is where I was pre-surgery, and I pull. Unprepared to not be able to pull down the bars nor to experience the pain through my upper back, I yelled without thinking: "MADON!" The guy next to me laughed. (He must have heard it on the Sopranos.) I was unabashedly calling upon Mary to make me come to my senses and to make the pain stop.

So there you have the various insightful ways this particular person uses the word "MADON!"

This has been your butchered Italian word for the day.

Birthday CANOOLS!

2007-11-01T15:21:00.001-04:00

MORE FOOD TALK!
Today after I taught my first two classes I went to the faculty room where I go to correct my papers when I am not in class. At the place where I usually sit was a bakery box, addressed to ME. I saw Pec's writing on it and I was very it was a box of cannoli (aka canool.) It was! Then I was sure that her husband Joe ova der made them just for me, as today I turned 23. (On each leg.) However, Joe did not make those himself. (Though the other night he had a craving for sausage at around 9:00 and ground the meat and brought out the casing and made homemade sausage. What a guy!) I broke out the canools and shared them with Pec and the medagons. Even though Joe ova der didn't make them they were still very good. Anyway, Pec, you are so sweet and thank you so much for remembering my birthday! I'll be thanking you for that extra mile I need to do on the treadmill tonight, too :-\

Chi Mangia Bene Sta Molto Vicino A Dio

2007-10-26T22:47:00.000-04:00

(Those who eat well are close to God.)

A non-Italian friend of mine visited my blog recently. I asked him what he thought of it and he said “it’s all about food.” That’s not entirely true, of course, but I do have a number of posts dealing with food because, well, that’s what Italians do. We cook. And we eat. (I have a gym membership to prove it!) And we talk about food. Other cultures do that, too, obviously, but we do it a certain way. It defines us- our parties center in the kitchen, lots of bodies packed, standing around eating and talking. For most Italian Americans I know, the kitchen is the most popular room in the house, even if it's not time to eat. It reminds us of family, holds memories, and is the center of activity. Our dinners are complete- an entrée, two sides and lots of animated conversation. My mom never just served us pizza when I was a kid- always a salad and soup with it. Even our barbecues are big productions. They are almost just like a regular party except the food is different and it's more work because we have to haul everything in and out.

A typical Italian-American barbecue at the homes of any I know consists of the following menu, typically: plates of appetizers, home-made hamburger patties- big, thick, seasoned ones, grilled sausage and peppers, pasta salad (not macaroni salad, although that could be there along with the pasta salad), bakery-style rolls, marinated & grilled chicken, sides of sweet peppers, hot peppers and onions, a salad of some sort, grilled eggplant, corn on the cob, insalata caprese (mozzarella, basil leaves and tomato slices in olive oil), at least 4 desserts- a cake, a pie, a jello mold with lots of other ingredients in it, a tray of cookies… the list goes on. You’ll find the soda and beer plus pitchers of fresh iced tea, lemonade and a mixed drink. No store-bought frozen hamburger patties and bagged rolls in my family. You also won't find store-bought potato salad. If it happens to be there with the other stuff, someone made it at home.

We break out the bocce set or the horseshoes, the soccer ball or kick ball and like non-Italian families, if there is a game on tv, the men will try to get away with watching it if we don’t make a big fuss- which we generally do.

People tend to speak more loudly when they are outside and in Italian families we all try to talk over each other. But nobody just “talks.” Our hands are always involved- it’s no secret that Italians are incapable of communicating without their hands. And we laugh and talk LOUDLY. I used to complain about our “off the boat” neighbors from Italy when they had parties outside, which was frequently, because I could hear their conversations (which I never understood since it was in dialect) and their raucous laughter. Then one day a non-Italian friend said to me “Your family is just as bad and twice as loud!” It’s true. We’re a loud bunch.

After everyone is stuffed and has given up on activities, the women take a few things each into the house to help the hostess, then we say goodbye for 15 minutes, for one person cannot just say goodbye and leave. As we say goodbye, we must have a litany of last minute comments on when we’ll see each other again, which is the best road to take home, warnings to be careful, instructions to call when they get home all while we are kissing the same people goodbye more than once because it takes so long to get out we forget who we started with. Of course, someone always lingers for a cordial (Sambucca, Anisette, Tuaca). When the barbecue is over, and all clean-up is done and the supplies and leftover food that has not been sent home with guests are wrapped up and taken inside, the hostess usually plops on a chair and swears that is the last outside party she’ll have. Until the next one!

You say Manicotti, I say MONAGUT. STOP TALKING AND LET'S FREAKIN EAT ALREADY

2007-10-20T23:23:00.000-04:00

Last night at a party, my comah, "Pec," and her husband, Joe over der, were talking about hosting this year's Christmas Party. Pec is a lucky woman whose husband doesn't just cook-- he COOKS. And he's Italian. When she gets home from work, dinner is all ready. I've been wanting to have a dueling "degos" dinner with him but I think I will be roundly trounced. Anyway, I asked what he would be making. He asked what I wanted. I suggested:

gavadeel with madinahd
pruhshoot
scahmutz
monagut with smooth rigut and only lucatel on top
some soprasat
a little brooschet
sasseech
and some canools for dessert.

Since my husband wasn't there, only the 3 of us knew what we were talking about, we being the only Italians. The poor medagons who would also be at the Christmas party looked a litle worried as they did not recognize any of these foods. Which made us laugh even harder than our pronunciations.

Here's the translation:
cavatelli in marinara sauce
prosciutto
Scaramuzza mozarella
manicotti,smooth ricotta with Locatelli cheese (see earlier post)
soprasatta
bruschetta
sausage
cannoli

Pec and Joe over der are New York Italians, transplanted to the boonies as I am from Sofilly. However, it cracks me up to know that butchering words is not limited to Philly Italians. Marone! It was funny!

How Skeevy!

2007-10-10T17:34:00.000-04:00

If you are an Italian or you have friends who are, you have undoubtedly heard the word "skeeve" or "skeevey." As in, "Ew, that glass has lipstick on it- that's skeevey!" Or "Her house has cat hair all over it- that skeeves me out." Or, "I won't eat in her house, I skeeve her utensils, they're always crusty." So, you can skieve something or you can be skieved "out" by something. The adjectival form is "skeevoose," as in "I had to use Marie's bathroom while I was there- SKEEVOOSE!"

The actual spelling in Italian is "schifoso," and as far as I know, it's an adjective, not a verb, although it has evolved into such among Italian-Americans. As we tend to butcher the language, however, it comes out "skeevoose." It literally means disgusting or repulsive. I remember after taking my first semester of Italian when I learned the proper spelling and told my great-aunt at Christmas dinner. Nobody could believe the true spelling of the word, after all, the only one present who had been schooled in Italian was my grandmother.

This, amici, has been your butchered Italian word for the day.

A cheese by any other name... doesn't touch my food!

2007-09-22T22:10:00.002-04:00

I had dinner guests at my house tonight and I served manicotti. I also made meatballs. Now, please know that what makes my meatballs so good is the enormous amount of pecorino romano (aka "parmesan,") cheese that I add to them. So, the topic of conversation turned to... cheese, and my one friend asked if it were Lo-ca-tel-li cheese. As if there were any other kind?? Her husband, for whom she does not make Italian food, since although she is Italian, he is not, had never heard of this cheese. I showed him the little bag of almost one pound of the finely grated cheese. He saw the price and said "NINE DOLLARS FOR THAT?" His wife and I looked at each other and just said "yeah." Like, duh, of course, IT'S LO-CA-TELL. You can buy it in a big wedge and grate it yourself or buy it already grated. I have carpal tunnel syndrome in my right hand so I can't grate it anymore, but it tastes just as good if it is already grated.

I was raised on this cheese. I never knew it by "pecorino romano", or "parmesan," or "grated" cheese. It was just "Lo-ca-tel." as we tend to omit the end of words in Italian.) No other brand ever made it into the house. It's the same with my husband. In fact, before I wrote this, I asked him "When you were a kid, what did you put on top of the gravy on macaroni night?" No hesitation: "Lo-ca-tel." My dad would buy it in South Philly at the corner cheese store or the Italian deli, and in fact, still drives there to get it for my mom. When I lived in Lancaster County, PA, for college, the Pennsylvania Dutch-owned stores and even the bigger supermarkets did not carry such cheese. It's usually in the deli section. So, my first time shopping on my own at 19, I bought Kraft grated cheese in a can. The can was green and I can still remember the taste of the "cheese." I believe it was actually made of plastic. I can't quite describe the taste, but if evil had a flavor, it would be that Kraft grated "cheese." I threw out the pasta I had made because once the cheese touched it, it ruined the entire meal for me.

I called my mom and she "tsk'ed tsk'ed" me for buying it but there was not a lot to choose from. Since I have lived in five different counties in the state, I have tried a lot of grated cheeses when lo-ca-tel was not available and each time I opted to eat my macaroni without cheese after having tasted it. Now to an Italian, at least, in my family, macaroni, or "pasta," is never served without grated cheese. However, because it is so expensive, my mom frowns on using a lot. I have inherited that trait and my husband always asks me if I'm giving out Communion when I put cheese on everyone's food so they won't use a giant pile. Then he grabs it and dumps about $2.75 worth onto his capellini.

Die-Hard Philly Fan

2007-09-20T17:28:00.000-04:00

Ok, so I love Philly sports. We don't get very far but we're used to it. It doesn't hurt any less, but most of us are numb by now. The Flyers last took the cup in 1975. I was in first grade and the school cancelled afternoon classes so when we went home for lunch we just walked to Broad Street with our parents (also home from work) and watched the victory parade. I didn't know why I was cheering for these huge guys on a float but I was darned happy to be out of school. I'm lucky I have savored that memory because it may not be repeated in my lifetime.

By the time the Phillies won the World Series in 1980 I was a major baseball fan. I tried to stay up that night to watch until the end but it was a school night and I couldn't keep my eyes open. Until, of course, the horns in my neighborhood started honking. I woke up and caught the big victory pile-on, then I ran around the house screaming. My parents weren't home, though, they were at a World Series party and my grandmother wasn't so into it.

When the Sixers won, I was away at college and didn't care. I hate basketball. But GO SIXERS anyway, it had been six years since any team in Philly had the word CHAMPS after it.

The Eagles, however, are a different, if you'll pardon the pun, ball game. Eagles fans are hard-core, loyal, defensive and well, a little violent. An Eagles game is not a place for children. When my dad took me to my first game I was a teenager and my uncle chastised him- "You're going to expose her to all the cursing and fighting?" My dad assured him it would be fine. And it was- I only saw one guy get harrassed. He was rooting for the other team. Seriously, what was he doing there anyway?

But when you mention Dallas to an Eagles fan, the hair on our neck stands up. I have seen some fans' eyes roll back in their heads. Some people even foam at the mouth. And if you bring a Dallas fan into a room of Eagles fans, they inevitably start talking trash to us about their five rings and their Tony Romo and how the ball he fumbled the snap in the last game last year was "waxed," yadda, yadda, yadda. (Yeah, well in light of the Pats' spying, we'd like our Superbowl rings, please!) Yes, Eagles fans hate Dallas. Since the days of Roger Staubach, Eagles fans are groomed to despise the Cowboys from when they are little. It may even be encoded in Philadelphians DNA. And we are not shy about it. Remember the Dallas game when Santa walked onto the field? The Eagles fans threw snowballs and boo'ed him. It wasn't the poor, drunk, Santa's fault. He just happened to be caught up in some literal "playah hatin'" is all.

And it's true, give 'em credit, Dallas does have a good record. But the beef with Eagles fans is that all the "forgeses," the turn coats, the Benedict Cowboys, who are from cities not even close to Dallas, consider the Cowboys, "their team." This is what ticks off Philly fans the most. Their home teams don't win so they bail on them and go to a more successful team, usually Dallas. We actually respect the 5 superbowl wins though we won't admit it, but WE HATE DALLAS and the non-Texas residing fans who are so obnoxious. Right, we have not won a Superbowl since we won the championship before they renamed it the SuperBowl but we have something Dallas fans will not ever have, at least those not in Dallas:

PRIDE.

Everyone in my family is a hard-core Philadelphia sports fan- as you can see.

I have seen grown men cry when the Eagles lost the Superbowl, and shed a tear when they made it there. People may think "Invincible" is a silly movie, but if you watch it, you'll understand what it is to be an Eagles, and a football, fan. We stick with the Eagles no matter what. Whether they win or lose, we still root for them. When they lose we don't switch teams to find a better team. We have a name for them in Philly, forgeses. Oh the suffering of having a team that hasn't a single superbowl ring... the shame and the embarrassment we endure...That's ok, we're still waiting and hoping and when we get that damn ring it will feel better than all 5 of those Dallas rings together. Of course we want our hometown team to win- but if they don't, we love them anyway. And I'm no big McNabb fan, and I curse at the tv like everyone else when he throws to an imaginary receiver, but the Eagles are still MY TEAM.

As for Dallas, I would like to thank you for taking TO off of our hands. It was the one day I can remember when I cheered Dallas on.

Da "Sauce" and Da Shame

2007-09-19T16:48:00.000-04:00

I just made a pot of "mahdanad" (that's marinara for you medagons) and I started thinking about how hard it was for me to master this very important staple to the Italian-American diet.

I couldn't cook a thing until I lived on my own in college. I poured a mean bowl of cereal but my mom was a stay at home mom until I was a senior in high school and we always had our lunches packed and our dinners cooked. Why would I have needed to know how to cook?

So, once in an apartment at 18, I committed the gravest of sins- the worst thing an Italian-American daughter could do- I bought pasta "sauce" in a jar (Classico, NOT Ragu, although in my family, one is no better than the other). However, I learned how to make stromboli (after all, at my college, kids basically lived off of take-out stromboli), I stuffed (pasta) shells myself, cooked chicken 4 different ways and made tuna salad in a way that the fish taste was disguised (secret ingredient- RELISH). Not bad a for a novice kid. At 20 I somehow made a four course meal for my future in-laws, no pasta.

Once I moved in with my friend Sharon, I was 21 and the family stigma of using jarred sauce was getting to me. So, I bought a little crock pot and, carefully following my mom's instructions... I burned the sauce. Badly. It was only in the crock pot for 1 hour. Sharon has not let me forget this and it's almost 20 years later. I maintain that the crockpot was faulty. I gave up after various attempts for the next few months and spitting out the conoction. I was branded a failure, an inept gravy-maker in a long line of masters of delicious gravy- my mom, my aunt and both of my grandmothers' gravies all tasted the same. Shamed, I continued using the Classico until I was about 24, when I discovered a restaurant that had takeout marinara sauce. I started passing it off as my own until the place closed and I was revealed for the fraud that I was. Even my father would comment how, by that time in my life, I could cook any entree but still turn out a lousy batch of gravy. It was my culinary failure to bear, no matter how many more times I tried to duplicate my mom's recipe.

It was only about 10 years ago that I mastered the impossible. I deviated from my mom's complicated recipe and made up my own. It was much like a science experiment, with many batches of foul-tasting gravy being sent down the sink. This past Easter I cooked for my family and my inlaws. Among several other items, I served 6 dozen stuffed shells (homemade filling) with, of course, "gravy" (that is, marinara with meat-ground veal, pork and beef), sausage, bracciole and my renowned, yes RENOWNED, meatballs. Since I had never made a pasta dish for any of them it surprised me that I got compliments because it didn't occur to me that they had never had my version. My mom, in particular, who is hard to please, said it was good. That's the stamp of approval in my family.

The way I make it is easy but specific:
1 can of TUTTOROSSA crushed tomatoes (I can't be held responsible for what happens if you use another brand)
3 tablespoons of garlic POWDER
3 teaspoons of parsley flakes
1 teaspoon of basil
1 dash of pepper (I like white)
1 dash of salt

Stir. Cook for 1 hour on medium-low.
If you want to make a meat sauce (or GRAVY):
brown 1/2 pound of ground veal-pork-beef combo with 1 clove of fresh garlic in vegetable oil.
add to sauce and cook sauce

Yo! What's for dinner?

2007-08-19T14:24:00.000-04:00

It's Sunday and if I were still living with my parents we'd have our usual big Sunday meal, around 3:00 or 4:00. Why so early? I don't know. Maybe so that my dad could watch the Eagles before or after? We always ordered a pizza around 8:00 while we watched tv. My grandmother would have a small glass of beer with her pizza. It was her big treat.

Our usual Sunday fare would be a roast something- pork, veal, chicken. Hardly ever "macaroni," because my mom would make a very American type of meal and Italianize it- she'd marinate it with Italian seasonings- basil, oregano, parsley; and the potatoes were never like the potatoes in my friends' houses. They'd be marinated, too! We always had a vegetable at every meal and a salad and Italian rolls on Sundays. No rolls during the week. I never asked why but that does seem mean, now that I think about it.

In my house I don't cook strictly Italian. My mom gave me an amazing, big hardcover, Cuban cookbook "Memories From My Cuban Kitchen," in 1992 and I have about 6 favorites from there, a handful of Mexican recipes (no, not tacos and enchiladas!) and then my standard repertoire of Italian favorites. Eating Italian every night bores me and American food... well, I save that for when we have non-Italian friends over for dinner.

Tonight I am planning veal saltimbocca. Saltimbocca means "jump in your mouth," as in, the veal is so good, it jumps in your mouth. It has cheese and proscuitto in it so I haven't eaten all day so I can eat tonight. This is my "big, involved" Sunday meal this week. Last week we had pasta fagioli (fahzool.) I don't do roasts. Ever. I ate enough roasts for 24 years to last me 50. I don't follow culinary rules based on what day of the week it is. During football season we eat wings and sandwiches during the game. My mom will be outraged when she reads this- I always blow off the "what are you making" question on game days. Sorry, Ma.

Hey, Sigi!

2007-08-18T18:26:00.000-04:00

I get so much slack about reading and writing about Cuba and "forgetting" that I am Italian, that I thought I should give my own heritage some acknowledgment. Granted, I don't have to prove my roots to anyone, sono che sono, but by scrapbooking and working on my family tree, I sometimes get so immersed in my culture that I want to share stories and words, etc., with other Italian-Americans who grew up like I did. I guess all the quirky little ethnic points don't mean much until you're older. For example, I grew up in a home:

that was a row-home (called "townhomes" nowadays but let's not kid ourselves) in an Italian neighborhood in South Philadelphia (until we 'moved on up' to Delaware County)

that had with plastic-covered furniture

where every Wednesday was "macaroni" night (we never said "pasta" and we always put "gravy," not sauce, on our macaroni.) Usually we would name the macaroni: "We're having mostaccioli tonight." Every kid in my family could name that "pasta."

where you'd hear "Madonna!" (pronounced, "Marone") or "Madonna Mia" ("Maroneami!") My parents were big into invoking the Blessed Virgin Mother's name.

where someone stupid was called a "dididoof," a showy, ostentatious Italian was a "spacone" and a person who had no upbringing was a "cafone" (cavone)

where if we lost something the first thing we'd do was pray to Saint Anthony, the patron saint of lost items.

where we couldn't put new shoes on a bed or a new hat on the table.

where we had to exit through the same door we entered

where Sambuca was served after dinner parties with 3, exactly 3, coffee beans

where a "comadre" or "copadre" meant a good friend of the family OR a mistress (comadre) and was pronounced "comar" and "compah" or bastardized into "goombah"

My father's side is from Central Italy (Abruzzi) and Calabria (at the very tip of the boot that is almost touching Sicily). My paternal grandfather was from a little town called Riccia and its patron saint (like many other towns) was San Giuseppe (St. Joseph), which was also my grandfather's name. So, on the Feast of St. Joseph (March 19) it would be a non-stop food fest in his South Philly neighborhood, with people going from house to house to visit, celebrate and eat. He was one of 12 kids so there were a lot of houses to visit. In my house we always celebrated this Feast day because of my grandfather- it was "his" day. My dad always brought a special dessert that we only ever ate on that day, which was, what else? St. Joseph's cakes. In Italian they are actually called zeppole, and although I have seen a few different versions, the ones we always had were similiar to creme puffs- light dough filled with creme, topped with powdered sugar and a maraschino cherry.

My mom's side is Sicilian. That's a dangerous bloodline. Not because of the Mafia, but because Sigis are known for their determination to get revenge when wronged. We also have all kinds of "hexes" or curses, if you will, that I have to admit, I give credence to. In fact, whenever I am ticked off and I tell my sister I want to do such and such to someone, she always says something like "you sigi, you." And sadly, my mom is the same way. When someone asks my mom if she is Italian, she corrects them and says "Sicilian," as if to say "watch out."

While I appreciate my Italian-ness more, it's the "Sigi-ness" that seems to be dominant. My particular favorite "curse" is when someone is bothering you, you place a photo of them face down in the freezer. I am not sure, but I believe the person doing the freezing has to be Sicilian. In other words, an Irishman would only come out with a very cold photo. I have done this several times, and for each person, I never heard from or was bothered by them again. I now keep a separate freezer. ;)

In college, many people mistook me for Latina. People came up to me and spoke to me in Spanish (without knowing I spoke Spanish) and other latinos were always assuming I was from ____ (insert one of 20 countries here). One day I walked into my first Spanish class with a professor who had lived in Spain for many years. He called my name out loud and looked at me and said "That is the most Italian face I have ever seen." I hoped he wasn't referring to my nose! When I started taking Italian classes the professor, from central Italy, said to me after class "Sei siciliana?" (Are you Sicilian?) I said Sí, and asked him how he knew. He said an Italian can spot a Sicilian instantly. For the record, Sicilians are generally darker-skinned and darker-haired. We're called the "black Italians" by Europeans and others. Sicily was occupied by the Moors, so there is an African element to it, and I traced my grandmother's family (her last name was Saiia, [sigh-eeh-ah]) to Mallorca, Spain, of Arabic origins. (Immigration, no surprise, spelled my grandmother's name "Saia" (Say-ya) In fact, the word "mafia" has its origins in Arabic.

Em beh, sono Siciliana e non posso fare niente per cambiare.