Italian Overload

I just got back to England from Italy. Needless to say, I'm a bit culinarily depressed. To abate this, I've been filling the kitchen with a LOT of Italian scents since I got home. Tonight it was this:

Zucchini Rice Gratin.

The recipe was taken directly from here, and I made virtually no change to it (little extra cheese here, some generous drizzles of olive oil there). Unfortunately, I was running around the kitchen too dramatically to take pictures of the process. I can almost guarantee, however, that you will have all the ingredients in your fridge on most average days of the week.

So, Penn and I had a vegetarian dinner that felt like nothing of the sort! The wedges of gratin were accompanied by a massive plate of Caprese scattered with olives of various kinds. And this American girl couldn't live without a bit of garlic bread to add some carbs to this delightfully Mediterranean meal.

A long, drool-worthy blog about Bologna food coming up soon!

British Food Fails & Wins

I've been meaning to start a list about my culinary realizations here in England. My fellow expats and I have been comparing notes on what they do well and what they do, um, notsowell here. All of these observations come from a severe American bias, but they are the daily frustrations of An American in Oxford.

Here are a few fails and wins for today. Please contribute your joys and frustrations! I hope that, by the end of our time here (who knows when that will be) this list may be the complete reference for those considering life in the UK (what should they stock up on at Costco before coming over? What treasures must not be missed during a stay on this island?).

British Food Fails:

Crackers (aka Savoury Biscuits). Tastelessly prepared and perpetually impractically packaged. Some American and European imports, but still no concept of how to keep them from turning to crumbs or going stale.

Half-and-Half. Well, it just doesn't exist here. We go straight from whole milk to single cream, which is like our heavy cream and goes sour very quickly . . . don't get me started on the 'tops' for dairy products (and then from there to double cream, which gets poured on desserts). It's not that these cream varieties are bad, it's that my coffee is very lonely.

Mayo. I only recently bought mayo here at all following a craving for chicken salad. I can't quite put my finger on it, but there's just too much of this random buttery flavo(u)r that overtakes anything it coats (One of the favo(u)rites here is a baked potato stuffed with tuna, sweetcorn, and a blop of this mayo). Maybe American mayo is vinegar-ier?

British Food Wins:

Water. Specifically, the boiling of it. I will be bringing an electric kettle back to the US and it will have a permanent place on my countertop.

Tea. Particularly the black varieties. Full of flavo(u)r and still delicious in decaf (a very hard feat).

Candy bars. There may not be a single candy bar I don't like in this country. They do the chewy/crunchy/salty/sweet combination juuuuuust right.


That'll do for today. I have so many more stewing around in my head. What about you?

Meat and Beer - International Favorites

With the combination of a new job, a long-weekend road trip, and an all-in-the-family stomach bug, I haven't been cooking much lately. I think that means it's time for another International Favorite.

You know by now that, last year, Penn and I lived in Italy for about four months. Penn studied art and writing . . . and I ate. Okay, I did a little drinking of cappucino and Prosecco, too. And, fine, I did join the Travel Writing course towards the end of the trip when I was so full of pasta and the joys of Italian living that I just had to learn how to write it down—and well. But, sorry to disappoint, this entry won't be about Italy. I don't have enough strength back after a bout with that nasty virus to even venture to describe all that is heavenly about Italian eating. That'll be another day's work.

Today, we'll go to Prague.

We planned our post-Italy trips perfectly, if I may say so myself. We weren't ready to come back the The States, but we desperately craved food that didn't end in a vowel and that we didn't have to twirl around a fork. The culture shifts and culinary contrasts during our three weeks of Italy detox kept us invigorated and excited. Prague was so different from our little cliff-top hometown in Orvieto, Italy. Right when we needed a change, Prague was there to provide it.

The most important variation was dietary. Knowing that I was SO done with risotto, God put a Mexican restaurant across the street from our hostel in Prague, a city that is located 6,000 miles from the origins of the chimichanga as I know it and the Latino country that makes my favorite type of cuisine. Praise Him for transporting a burrito to the Czech Republic (and for the English-speaking host who had heard of Magners on ice and made a mean spicy pork taco. Seriously, the pork filling for his various dishes was some of the best I've had. I don't know how authentically Mexican it was, but it was just what we needed).

Prague has its own food, too, don't get me wrong. We were just thrilled by the plethora of cultural influences there—they are powerful examples of the excitement the Czechs felt when, in the late 80s, they were finally allowed to open their doors to their global brothers and sisters. We felt accepted in Prague, even though we were obviously tourists—American tourists at that. Having only been able to mix with others for a couple of decades, they haven't been jaded by centuries as a tourist hot-spot. With all the hype surrounding Prague in the traveling industry, I don't think I would have appreciate it nearly as much if we hadn't gone to the dinky, silly Museum of Communism on the cusp of Wenceslas Square in the Old City. I was so moved by the fact that, while I lived a fat and happy toddler-hood in Connecticut, the young people in Prague were leading a Velvet Revolution to be able to dress, travel, and live as they pleased in their own country. What a captivating city to explore. Plus, beer flows like water in Prague, plentifully and cheaply.

We, as artsy folk, reveled in the spectacular architecture, new and really old, in Prague. It is a wandering traveler's dream. I could have walked around the streets all day long (actually, we did). In our wanderings, we tried all sorts of spaetzle and dumplings, pork knee, goulash, and their famous cinnamon and sugar trdelnik pastries.

Because we needed this flavor change so desperately, we really enjoyed it all. We're not talking gourmet stuff here, but it feels like eating something a little old lady drummed up just for you. You do have to try to seek out the restaurants with the old-world feel and ask for recommendations from the locals (or the crazy American kids who lead the free tours around the city, one of the best things we decided to do).

If I had to pick my favorite culinary specialty we came across in Prague, I would go with the slightly sloppy-looking but ever-tasty assortment of meats and sauces that we washed down blissfully with more than our fair share of Pilsner Urquell after a sweaty and exhausting walk up to the Prague Castle.

This little pub was dark and narrow and went deep into the side of an old set of buildings. We found it on our way back down the steep street that had guided us to the ancient castle. After scarfing most of the contents of this platter, I came home determined to put marinated onions on everything. They are amazing. They lose all that can be offensive about onions and gain all that is wonderful about vinegar and spices. I think I even ate the pickles in the middle, though I am usually a devoted sour dill girl (sometimes a sour, dull girl, too. Just ask Penn).

Are we noticing a theme here? Just when our bodies and bellies are at their breaking points, whether from long walks up hills to important historical landmarks or long stints jammed in a flavor rut, the part of God that cares about my victual vitality directs my path to a special treat. Or maybe food just tastes better when you're desperate.

P.S. If you ever go to Prague, stay here, Miss Sophie's Hotel:

It was the cheapest, cleanest, most WiFi-filled hostel we came across during all our travels! Make sure you stay in the main building, pictured above. The prices may have gone up since we stayed there, but it was a GREAT find for us. And just look at that building!

Something Different . . . International Favorites

Today isn't about food I've made. Rather, it is about food that I will spend my whole life trying to replicate but most likely never quite recreate. These are the delicacies of the lands I have been privileged enough to visit; they are the secret gastro-gems of the tiny cafes in Paris, the culinary-creations of the dimly lit pubs in Prague, the cuisine-art of the pizza shop on the edge of a cliff in Italy. Every once in a while I will share one of these with you as a way of begging you to visit these places, to consume these treasures. I hope I will have a lifetime's worth of these discoveries to share with you, and I am on my way to a pretty good stockpile of suggestions.

Let's start in Paris. It ain't chronological, but it's necessary.

When my husband and I were heading to Paris for an eight night dream-come-true, we were coming off a period of four months in Italy and a week in Prague. Needless to say, our stomachs had been satisfied for that preceding period. We'd reveled in the gnocchi and spaetzle, but we were moving on to the city that created Julia Child and has defined culinary skill for generations. We were very lucky to have specific food suggestions going into our stay in Le Marais, Paris (Thanks, Ruth!) and I couldn't wait to try everything.

I can easily talk about the croissants for hours.

I can discuss the duck and the crème brûlée until I am blue in the face.

But, I was prepared for all those things. I knew their reputations and, of course, I was not disappointed. The surprises are the best, though. I had never heard of (never mind eaten) the Parisian "Macaron" cookie. I hate the American cookie of the same name, so I probably wouldn't have tried it if it weren't for our friend Ruth's emphatic suggestion. It is nothing like the American version, she insisted. Not even related!

Boy was she right.

We didn't find one of these green piles of joy until later in our trip. We were headed up to Montmartre to see the open air art market and Moulin Rouge, since we had exhausted most everything else down in our neighborhood. We took the Metro most of the way, but had to climb a good little hill to get from the night club section to the quiet hilltop neighborhood. We stopped for baguettes along the way at a tiny bakery situated on a 45º angled road up to Sacre-Coeur and the marketplace. That's when I noticed a small hand-written sign for "Macarons"! We scraped together enough Euro coins to get lunch and dessert and mustered-up enough self-control to finish our long, HOT climb up to a bench overlooking the entire city. We even managed to eat our baguettes before allowing ourselves a bite of Paris's hidden treasure. Right up until the moment I took my first bite, I was skeptical about just how much this thing could offer me. Then my teeth sunk into the most perfectly-textured cookie and most-perfectly whipped center cream. I can't and won't even try to tell you how delicious it was. I'll just beg you to try one.

Go to Paris. Take a long, sweaty walk. Find a little bakery. Buy out their supply of Macarons. Find a bench. Stare at the Eiffel Tower. Eat.