If I had a restaurant...

This is what it would be like.

My latest contribution to The American Magazine is a glimpse into a fantasy world in which I am the cook and owner of a small neighborhood restaurant in Rome.

illustration by Suzanne Dunaway

My heavy blue canvas apron has a white torchon tucked at my waist, it is wet. I have just finished cleaning the kitchen after dinner service, and my bones ache a little. The metal surfaces shine and the air is redolent of duck ragout and brown butter.

When it rains in Rome, people come into the restaurant mainly seeking shelter. Aficionados growl at these walk-ins who unknowingly steal their customary tables. Take Signor Roberto, for example. He comes in, like clockwork, every evening at 7:30 p.m...

Continue Reading → Notes from da Lola as appeared on The American Magazine in Italia

Happy Birthday, Dad!

DISCLAIMER | This post has nothing to do with food or Italian lifestyle, so it doesn't fit Aglio, Olio & Peperoncino proper. If a mouthwatering recipe or a traditional Roman custom is what you came for, be prepared to find out about something completely different. Today I want to talk about a place I found out about a few days ago. And tell my dad about it.

My dad is a golfer. Ever since I can remember, he has loved the sport. He not only plays once a week, lives in the Monterey Bay–which is golfers' heaven–but he goes as far as enjoying golf on TV (which to me is a mystery, why do the announcers whisper as someone is taking a putt or a drive, when they are actually secluded in a media box somewhere far, far away from the golfer?). One of my father's earliest parent-proudness moments came when aged 10, I hit a Par 2 Birdie in a children's tournament in L.A.

So since today is his birthday–and this post is about a mind-blowing golf course in South Africa, which I am sure he'll appreciate learning about–I want to share it here and dedicate it to him.

I've noticed that over the years, golf has conquered some pretty treacherous terrain, from the sheer cliffs of Scotland, to the portable slabs of grass from hole to hole in an Australian desert town, to the moving ice floes on an island in Northern Greenland—but I may have found the most gobsmacking setting of them all.

Here's a hint: your golf cart is a helicopter...

Introducing the world's steepest Par 3 golf hole: The Extreme 19th at Legend Golf & Safari Resort in South Africa, teeing off now from Hanglip Mountain.

Think of it as a piece of Pebble Beach dropped onto the African plains and then perched on the edge of a skyscraper-sized cliff. To get to the tee box, golfers take a six-seat chopper to a peak roughly the height of the Empire State Building. That puts the ground-level green more than 1,200 feet away and adds a much needed dose of danger to the game—if you slice, you may have to tussle with a rhino to get your ball back.


When you get down to the green (again via the chopper), you'll notice it looks familiar: it's a map of Africa, outfitted with the Continent's exact peaks and valleys, which raises the possibility of banking a putt off Kilimanjaro—or leaving a divot where the Sphinx quietly guards the pyramids.

After you've finished off the full course, you'll have a whole wildlife preserve at your disposal, not to mention a luxury resort complete with lakeside cottages, villas on stilts, spa, photo safari jaunts and a fire-walking workshop that will take you tiptoeing over real live 200-degree coals (still less painful than hitting a bunker).

And finally here's the video that made me want to pack my 9-iron and leave today. Look at what it feels like to tee off the 19th hole at Legends.

I hope all my other readers won't mind this small digression from the usual pots and pans.

I'm having fantasies of us playing this course together soon.

Happy birthday, Dad.

♥E.


The Extreme 19th at Legend Golf & Safari Resort
Entabeni Safari Conservancy, Mookgophong, Waterberg Region
Lompopo, South Africa
+27 (0) 11 729 6700
for more Extreme 19th information click HERE

A prayer for 2010

The new year begins.

I am borrowing the poem/prayer below and offering it to you as a sign of gratitude. As a gesture of love. As a symbol of where I am right now. My new year's resolution is to repeat this prayer and reap its deep beneficial effects. I hope you will too.

This is a perfect moment. It’s a perfect moment because I have been inspired to say a gigantic prayer. I’ve been roused to unleash a divinely greedy, apocalyptically healing prayer for each and every one of us—even those of us who ­don’t believe in the power of prayer.

And so I am starting to pray right now to the God of Gods, the God beyond all Gods... the Girlfriend of God... the Teacher of God... the Goddess who invented God.





DEAR GODDESS, you who always answer our very best questions, even if we ignore you:

Please be here with us right now. Come inside us with your sly slippery slaphappy mojo. Invade us with your silky succulent salty sweet haha.

Hear with our ears, Goddess. Breathe with our lungs. See through our eyes.


DEAR GODDESS, you who never kill but only change:

I pray that my exuberant, suave, and accidental words will move you to shower ferocious blessings down on everyone who reads or hears this benediction.

I pray that you will give us what we ­don’t even know we need—not just the boons we think we want, but everything we’ve always been afraid to even imagine or ask for.






DEAR GODDESS, you wealthy anarchist burning heaven to the ground:

Many of us don’t even know who we really are.

We’ve forgotten that our souls live forever.

We’re blind to the fact that every little move we make sends ripples through eternity. Some of us are even ignorant of how extravagant, relentless, and practical your love for us is.

Please wake us up to the shocking truths. Use your brash magic to help us see that we are completely different from we’ve been led to believe, and more exciting than we can possibly imagine.

Guide us to realize that we are all unwitting messiahs who are much too big and ancient to fit inside our personalities.


DEAR GODDESS, you sly universal virus with no fucking opinion:

Help us to be disciplined enough to go crazy in the name of creation, not destruction.

Teach us to know the distinction between oppressive self-­control and liberating self-control.

Awaken in us the power to do the half-­right thing when it is impossible to do the totally right thing.

And arouse the Wild Woman within us—even if we are men.



DEAR GODDESS, you who give us so much love and pain mixed together that our morality is always on the verge of collapsing:

I beg you to cast a boisterous love spell that will nullify all the dumb ideas, bad decisions, and nasty conditioning that have ever cursed all of us wise and sexy virtuosos.

Remove, banish, annihilate, and laugh into oblivion any jinx that has clung to us, no matter how long we have suffered from it, and even if we have become accustomed or addicted to its ugly companionship.

Conjure an aura of protection around us so that we will receive an early warning if we are ever about to act in such a way as to bring another hex or plague into our lives in the future.

DEAR GODDESS, you psychedelic mushroom cloud at the center of all our brains:

I pray that you will inspire us to kick our own asses with abandon and regularity.

Give us bigger, better, more original sins and wilder, wetter, more interesting problems.

Help us learn the difference between stupid suffering and smart suffering.

Provoke us to throw away or give away everything we own that encourages us to believe we’re better than anyone else.

Brainwash us with your compassion so that we never love our own freedom more than anyone else’s freedom.

And make it illegal, immoral, irrelevant, unpatriotic, and totally tasteless for us to be in love with anyone or anything that’s no good for us.




DEAR GODDESS, you riotously tender, hauntingly reassuring, orgiastically sacred feeling that is even now running through all of our soft, warm animal bodies:

I pray that you provide us with a license to bend and even break all rules, laws, and traditions that hinder us from loving the world the way you do.

Show us how to purge the wishy-­washy wishes that distract us from our daring, dramatic, divine desires.

And teach us that we can have anything we want if we will only ask for it in an unselfish way.

DEAR GODDESS, you who just pretend to be crazy so you can get away with doing what's right:

Help us to be like you—wildly disciplined, voraciously curious, exuberantly elegant, shockingly friendly, fanatically balanced, blasphemously reverent, mysteriously truthful, teasingly healing, lyrically logical, and blissfully rowdy.



And now dear God of Gods, God beyond all Gods, Girlfriend of God, Teacher of God, Goddess who invented God, I bring this prayer to a close, trusting that in these pregnant moments you have begun to change all of us in the exact way we needed to change in order to become the gorgeous geniuses we were born to be.





Amen


Om


Hallelujah


Shalom


Namaste


More power to you




Oh, but one more thing DEAR GODDESS, you pregnant slut who scorns all mediocre longing:

Please give us donkey clown piñatas full of chirping crickets,

ceramic spice jars containing 10 million-­year-old salt from the Himalayas,

gargoyle statues guaranteed to scare away the demons,

lucid dreams while we’re wide awake,

enough organic soup and ice cream to feed all the refugees,

emerald parachutes and purple velvet gloves and ladders made of melted-down guns,

a knack for avoiding other people’s personal hells,

radio-controlled, helium-filled flying rubber sharks to play with,

magic red slippers to contribute to the hopeless,

bathtubs full of holy water to wash away our greed,

secret admirers who are not psychotic stalkers,

mousse cakes baked in the shapes of giant question marks,

stories about lightning strikes that burn down towers where megalomaniacal kings live,

solar-powered sex toys that work even in the dark,

knowledge of secret underground rivers,

mirrors that the Dalai Lama has gazed into,

and red wagons carrying the treats we were deprived of in childhood.

~Rob Brezsny

Happy 2010!

ore 21, an essay in Italian

Una giovinezza trascorsa ad aspettare. Fin da quel primo pomeriggio di primavera. Ero adolescente e come quella prima giornata di sole, ero innamorata del primo amore. Aspettavo.
Ho aspettato finché fuori si è fatto buio e mentre vedevo calare la luce, appesi e pronti per essere indossati, sbiadivano una camicetta e una leggera sottana, fresca di cotone e nastri appena stirata. Avrei dovuto indossarli quel pomeriggio ma fuori è diventata sera. Aspettavo di metterli e fare quella passeggiata col mio primo amore. Quella passeggiata, né l'amore, né il momento arrivarono mai e ho rimesso nell'armadio la camicetta e la leggera sottana, fresca di cotone e nastri appena stirata.

Come ho aspettato triste quell'amore non puntuale e mai giunto, ne ho aspettati altri. Anche ora, dopo tempo––dopo la giovinezza––aspetto ancora con quella stessa sciocca speranza di sentire il ronzio del citofono. Sono trascorsi anni e amori, e lunghe citofonate di allegria e brevi passeggiate. Ma ancora aspetto, come quando da ragazza innamorata guardavo appesi sul gancetto dell'anta i vestiti pronti della primavera. Ci sono volte che nascosta guardo fuori la finestra mentre aspetto. E mentre lo faccio sento ancora quel sapore non proprio dolce in bocca. Il sapore dell'attesa. Aspetto.

Aspetto ancora. Attendo l'uomo che adesso ritarda perché forse sta passeggiando con una ragazza fresca e giovane, vestita di primavera. Sto aspettando che mi venga a prendere per portarmi via. Ancora attendo, chissà perché. Possibile ch'io non mi sia ancora stancata? Io la Maestra, Campionessa, la Sacerdotessa dell'Attesa! Sono secoli che perfeziono la mia arte. Non ho mai perso il sorriso. Ho aspettato sempre speranzosa e ciascuna volta l'attesa è stata inutile. Inutile e vuota come la casa dove me ne stavo lì, ad aspettare.

Pronta, le valige chiuse. L'affitto pagato. Il gas spento. Aspetto.
Ma è tardi, fuori s'è fatto buio e lui non arriva.

Oscar night rituals

I'm jet lagged. I spent the night in L.A. yesterday and the body’s schedule is not yet in synch with the clock ticking on my bedside table.

Every year come mid winter, hordes of movie buffs, cinephiles and fans gather in séance-like covens to worship the Academy of Motion Picture’s viril statuette and its artist, thespian and author recipients. Here in the Old World - 9 hours ahead of Hollywood - we like to party hard and late to watch the Oscars through dawn. Buffet style snacks, loads of chocolate, pretzels & chips, espresso and gallons of booze accompany us through the wee hours and the overly long acceptance speeches of the less interesting categories. Bets and prognostications, theme dress-up (it is Carnevale after all) and convivial merry make the 6 hour-long Notte degli Oscar an annual must.

My virtual flight of fantasy landed early on the Kodak Theater’s red carpet, as ushers were still buffing the brass velvet rope holders, cameramen tweaking their equipment and florists busily assembling the last colorful arrangements. As the celebs and their limos began spilling onto Hollywood Boulevard, I dwelled – my stiletto heels burrowing into the soles of my feet – brushing gowns with Nathalie Portman, Anne Hathaway and Meryl Streep. I winked at Robert Downey Jr and socked Mickey Rourke in his granite shoulder. I tried hard to chase after Sean Penn, but that slender wife of his kept bouncing me off. Once I finally filed into the Oscar shrine, I managed to get front row seats and followed the event’s succession of surprise presenters and acceptance speeches through the night.

The first celebrity to grasp Uncle O’s statuette was the sexy guapa Penelope Cruz who claimed she just might faint. The documentary winner "Man on Wire" was the first Oscar acceptance speech to include magic tricks, its star Philippe Petit furthermore showed his gratitude by balancing the Oscar on his chin. The Best Animated Feature Film? The award in this category was picked up by Wall-E and his beloved Eee-vah (yippee!). Dustin Lance Black tried hard to hold it together while accepting his original screenplay award. That’s when I started sniffling. I tend to get quite get emotional at the Oscars.
The most powerful and touching Oscar moment pinnacled as the Hollywood crowd rose to its feet, with several nominees getting teary-eyed, as Heath Ledger’s family stepped up to accept his best supporting trophy for "The Dark Knight." Ledger's father, Kim Ledger, said the award "would have humbly validated Heath's quiet determination to be truly accepted by all you here tonight, his peers within an industry he so loved." Sister Kate Ledger told the audience the honor will go to "your beautiful Matilda," which drenched quite a number of tissues for me. I also was moved by the inspiring "All my life I've had a choice between love and hate. I chose love… and I'm here." A.R. Rahman’s speech, the shy and quiet man who won both best score and best original song for Slumdog Millionaire and clumsily sang on stage between awards.
Sean Penn won for his portrayal as Harvey Milk in Gus Van Sant's excellent Milk, his speech reflected the recent Proposition 8 issues in California and featured quite a bit of good light-hearted comedy.
Kate Winslet’s out of breath gratitude opened with a humble "I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t made a version of this speech when I was 8 years old staring in the bathroom mirror and this was a shampoo bottle," as The Reader actress told the audience. "Well, it’s not a shampoo bottle now. I feel very fortunate to have made it all the way from there to here."
In one of yesterday's sweetest moments, Slumdog Millionaire director Danny Boyle jumped up and down like Tigger the hyper tiger from Winnie the Pooh after winning for best director. Explaining his eccentric behavior, the British filmmaker said he'd told his children that "if this miracle ever happened, I would receive it in the spirit of Tigger." It was a Slumdog Millionaire sweep, the rags to riches story infact held the last smile with the Best Picture win. Steven Spielberg took the stage to announce the winner of the Academy Award for best picture. This was the 8th and the final win for Slumdog in the 81st Oscar Night. The entire cast and crew climbed on the podium to receive the award. And it indeed made me smile as I coasted down from the clouds and landed face down on my bed where E snored quietly.
The early morning school day alarm buzzed me awake at 7:40 am, shattering the coma-like nap I had slipped into just moments before, and erasing all Hollywood glitz. Until next year, that is.

Dreaming is gratis

bureaucracy |byoŏˈräkrəsē| noun ( pl. -cies) a system of government in which most of the important decisions are made by state officials rather than by elected representatives.
• a state or organization governed or managed according to such a system.
• the officials in such a system, considered as a group or hierarchy.
• excessively complicated administrative procedure, seen as characteristic of such a system eg: the unnecessary bureaucracy in local government.

I have not been able to post much this week. Say thank you to ruthless Italian red tape, traffic, foul weather (highly influencing my mood and functional skills), too short 24-hour days, menstrual cramps, E's tantrums, unemployment and a general money-chasing moment which has lasted too long.
There are however remedies to the above-mentioned obstacles to positive thinking. Many of them involve good food&drink, stimulating conversation, profuse usage of crayons and stickers, unexpected sunny days, reminding myself that the beach is only a 30km drive away, the company of friends and family, and dreaming.
I do that a lot lately. Dreaming (often with eyes open) and napping with E are among the best free-of-charge activities I like to engage in. They match very little else in terms of joy and satisfaction.
Right now my no.1 daydream entry is Escape. Here are a few images and thoughts associated with my latest reveries.

A lovely agriturismo in Alto Adige.

A hot air balloon ride.

A beautiful Pre-Raphaelite painting.

A gorgeous Tuscan landscape in Garfagnana.

A lazy midday ride on board the S. Giovanni.

Venice, period.

African skies.

Positano at sunset.

Lions.

Hidden Mediterranean coves.

Sangiovese grapes.

Books.

E's art.

Local&organic oranges (self harvested).

Madamina il catalogo è questo

I love lists. I make all sorts of them. Usually handwritten, and commonly portable: my lists must always travel with me wherever I go. I have inherited this from my father, Insane List Master Supeme. My best expressions of writing are shorthand registers scribbled on odd scraps of paper, receipts, restaurant bills, post-it notes (man's second largest contribution to humanity after plastic wrap), or any other writeable surface in my posession that can fit in my handbag or better yet, in my wallet. My house is one big artistic collection of shopping checklists, to-do lists, wishlists, books I want to read, restaurants I want to eat at, people I want to write actual pen&paper letters to, etc. My enumeration of duties, tasks and missions is boundless. The wall by the phone is decorated with an ever-expanding graffiti mural of useful numbers to grocery stores, ethnic cuisine takeaway, butcher, CSA, pharmacy, wine supplier, hairdresser, manicure, wax parlor, yoga class hours; and recently pediatrician, playgroup, car pool, etc. Many items of my Lists never get entirely crossed off, those that do make me feel like I’ve conquered monumental endeavors.

In a moment of deep emotional distress, around the age of 30something – time when perhaps others too draw a balance of life thus far - I found myself compiling one very important inventory of personal identity skills and resources. It was divided into two columns, on one side it rolled down quite a large number of abilities, led by my proficiency of several languages, professional competence, my aptitude for adapting easily to change, down to one-handed cartwheels and kissing. I guess I needed that list to see my accomplishments in black and white in a ridiculous attempt to perk myself up, but it didn't work very well because in the I AM NOT column, the first item listed was: a mother. Something my age, single status and a pesky ovarian cyst rendered highly unlikely.

Years have passed and I have lost that list. I'd be curious to scroll down it's silly contents now that so much water has flowed under the proverbial bridge. My job has taken me places both physical and emotional enough to orbit me to the moon and back; I have shed my skin a hundred times, re-inventing the new me each time like a phoenix from burning embers. I have traveled, banqueted, lived and loved like there was no tomorrow. I have managed gargantuan efforts and plummeted into deep chasms of solitude to be where I am now: a pretty lofty place surrounded by simplicity, beauty, art and family. Above all, my old aspiration entry n.1 is a definite check mark drawn with a fat red felt tip marker. The indelible kind that bleeds right through the stack of lists below.

Now that motherhood, maturity, life and a shred more wisdom have encouraged me to look at my existence with a smile, I no longer need to keep a record of lifetime goals.
But I do have a few more items still leftover from my Ultimate Wishlist, and they are:

1) Swim with a dolphin at open sea;
2) Scale Mt. Kilimanjaro, and from its snowy summit, gaze down at the birthplace of mankind;
3) Take a hot air balloon ride over a beautiful landscape;
4) Spend a pamper week alone in a yoga retreat in Bali, Indonesia;
5) Wake up to the sound of a seagull’s raucus call and crashing waves (a long way of saying I want to move to the beach);
6) Learn to type with 10 fingers;
7) Get my sommelier certification degree;
8) Publish my first manuscript;
9) Grow my own produce and herbs in a vegetable garden;
10) Take a writing workshop vacation in a country I’ve never visited before;
11) Help build a school in Africa;
12) Take singing lessons;
13) Travel with my son to Australia and South America;
14) Learn Russian well enough to read Cechov and Dostoevskij in original;
15) Volunteer in a soup kitchen;
16) Repower my house with solar panels;
17) Lose about 20 pounds;
18) Make more lists