Mara's newly published novel:
The Summer of the Spanish Writer by Mara di Sandro De Matteo Go to Book

January 24, 2012 Learn Italian with MaraWriter in Scarsdale!

Yes, I will be teaching 3 Italian language courses at Scarsdale Adult Ed. School in Scarsdale, NY, starting in March. Join me and let’s do this! If you always thought you’d like to learn Italian, now is the time: Enroll in my friendly beginners’ class! Or, if you just wish to practice and refine your conversation skills, enroll in the Book Club and Conversation class, where we’ll read and discuss modern Italian authors through short stories in a very relaxed atmosphere. Traveling to Italy? Take my Italian for travelers, where we’ll talk about everything you need to know to fully enjoy my beloved Italian culture.

Classes start on March 5, 2012 and end on April 30, 2012. These are three separate courses, on Monday, Tuesday and Thursday, 7:30-9:30 pm. Go to http://www.scarsdaleadultschool.org/ for detailed information and to enroll. I hope to see you all there, my dear readers!

January 22, 2012 Roccaraso: A Snow Memoir

Snow. Well, that was a word that didn’t often enter the conversation when I was growing up in Italy. In the south, Portici, Naples, you don’t get that kind of weather; sure, cold, rain, but the white stuff belongs only in American Christmas cards. Okay, to be fair, both my parents were familiar with snow. My mother grew up in Modena and snow was certainly an inconvenient part of her winters (plus the fog, she used to say, a fog so darn thick you could slice it with a knife). And my father was born and raised in a small village in the mountains of Molise, Colli al Volturno, so snow storms were expected and arduously dealt with. But we Di Sandro kids had never been in proximity of the white stuff, for us a somewhat incomprehensible aspect of a winter we’d never have. It was a January day of nineteen something something, and we had taken a rare trip to Colli for the weekend (which we never did because it was too bloody cold for our taste), and my father decided that we should drive the forty kilometers or so to Roccaraso, a quaint little town in Abruzzo, at the foot of the mountains. We had been there many times - it is a pretty-famous resort - but always in the summer. In those days, weather reports were not nearly as detailed and wide-spread as they are now, so when we woke up on that Sunday and got in the car, it was cold and a bit windy, but nothing more. When we arrived in Roccaraso we were stunned to find…snow! Snow, people, SNOW! A thick layer of the sparkling white stuff everywhere, the streets and sidewalks slippery under my pretty black patent-leather MaryJanes, my toes numbing fast under those argyle knee-highs that were quite appropriate for Neapolitan winters, but not for the ‘real’ ones…Oh, the joy, the exhilaration, the wonder, the emotion…My first snow, and it was real, not in a story book, not in a postcard, but under my gloved fingers, solid, glass-like, sparkly, so unbearably beautiful…And the fountain! Look at the fairytale image of the squirting water, frozen in mid-flight, shimmering explosion of icicles and lights. Andiamo su, babbo, I was begging my father, pointing to the ski station right behind us (see photos), let’s get on the skilift, up on the mountains, please please please…Oh the dream about to come true, the immense expanse of the hills under the pure white blanket, flying down on a sled…Ma no, my father said quickly, we’re not prepared, your bare legs, no snow boots, your thin coats…Per carità, my mother added, horrified, let’s get out of here, I have heels, I’ll break my leg…Torneremo, my father promised, we’ll come back, we’ll wear heavier clothing, the right shoes, woolen scarves…But we never did, not in the winter. My first taste of snow, a child’s dream, romantic, unforgettable, forever lost in the elusiveness of time. And here I am now, in my New York, shoveling snow from the front steps, unburying my Toyota, which should surely be in the garage, but so much junk in there already...Now that snow is just a major nuisance, well, I’d like a bit of that childish dream, the miracle from the sky that softens reality, creates a magic kingdom. But one must grow up.

January 15, 2012 Here's my new novel!

Yes! My book is ready, hot off the press! Pretty, don't you think? I took this photo with my Blackberry at Lasdon Park this past summer. It was never intended to be the cover of the book, actually I posted it on this website when I wrote about one of my favorite places, Lasdon Park. But you know, sometimes things just fall into place, an so it was with this picture: it was absolutely perfect for the cover of my novel, The Summer of the Spanish Writer. And Lasdon Park, well, is very significant to my story. Inspired by my Fridays in July, listening to the wonderful jazz concerts that are offered there, images started to emerge, ideas, characters, plots developed...Back to the fascinating world of the suburbs, my dear readers, to the well-concealed secrets (small and not), the lies, the intrigue, the drama and the tragedy, delicious liaisons, unrequited love, tenuous friendships and, mostly, deceit. Come and meet my characters, Cassandra, the sad little wife, Natalie, the beautiful, restless teacher who dreams of becoming a writer; William, Cassandra's disturbed husband, Neil, the gentle, elusive musician. And Gabriel of course, the fiery, mysterious Spanish writer. Now available in soft cover and for your digital devices. Welcome to Westchester!

purchase The Summer of the Spanish Writer on Kindle for most electronic devices. | Softcover book

January 6, 2012 A witch we all like

“Zitti, zitti presto a letto
la Befana è qui sul tetto,
sta guardando dal camino
se già dorme ogni bambino,
se la calza è ben appesa,
se la luce è ancora accesa!
Quando scende, appena è sola,
svelti, svelti sotto alle lenzuola!
Li chiudete o no quegli occhi!
Se non siete buoni niente dolci né balocchi,
solo cenere e carbone!”

Cute little children’s nursery rhyme. About the Befana of course, which is today! The Epiphany, the arrival of the Magi in Bethlehem to honor baby Jesus. A big celebration in Italy - schools are closed and also many businesses. You should even go to mass, you know? Well, following the constant and always very much alive trail of my memories, we Di Sandro children sure did wait for the Befana, the good old witch who filled with gifts the stockings of all well-behaved kids. Naturally, not being always well-behaved, we collected quite a bit of coal, the traditional ‘punishment’ for the naughty. But the sugar kind. It was a sort of rock candy, dyed black, that perfectly simulated a big chunk of the real thing. Quite genial, I should say, a bittersweet offering, a gift that was slightly reprimanding, but gently so. But, since we were generally on the nicer side of naughty, we’d also find other trinkets, small toys, pretty miniature Motta panettoni, the one-serving size, buttery yellow and moist, scattered with plump raisins and aromatic diced candied orange and citron. A subdued celebration, the Epiphany, with none of the excitement and grandeur of Christmas or New Year’s, an ancient Italian tradition, a treasured memory of our wonder years, when the Christmas festivities lasted for at least two long weeks (with no homework assignments, as kids were actually encouraged to enjoy their break). Oh, and the extended vacation still goes on in today’s Italy, you know? Back to school is January 9^th this year! And, of course, the Befana comes to my Westchester home: the little gifts are wrapped and waiting! Happy Epiphany to all!

January 5, 2012 A Good Beginning

Onions sautéing early in the morning. Sometimes it happens, like today. When you’ve got to put dinner on the table, and the time to do it is now. Because of whatever - work, day plans, you know, the usual stuff we women get entangled in regularly. No, not my favorite aroma in the morning, I’d much prefer, let’s say, a flaky cornetto fresh from a Neapolitan pasticceria, but you’ve got to adapt. To everything. Anyway, well, not a bad beginning, you know. Naturally, like with almost anything I do these days, the memories assault me. Eight am in Portici, a lifetime ago. Getting ready for school, not hurrying because who wants to rush to classes, no? My espresso waiting on the table, some sweets nearby, or fette biscottate, an ubiquitous Italian breakfast standard, packaged toasted bread slices, meant to be spread with butter and jam (hated it)…and my mother stirring sautéing onions in a small terracotta pan. I’d grimace of course, really, too damn early for such earthy smells…But the pranzo had to be prepared, and she had to run to school, to market, etc, you know, her normal frenzied existence. Then I’d be off, usually after just downing my espresso (seriously sugared). Then back home for lunch, entering my apartment, welcomed by the enticing smell of something good. Which had started with onions cooking in olive oil (and often a generous chunk of butter, since my Northern Italian mother always liked to give that wonderful extra richness to her cooking). It could be a porcini ragù, a tomato sauce with chunks of tuna, a thick sugo ai piselli (lovely sauce with peas) or - if we were really lucky - a delectable Carbonara, redolent of peppery pancetta. Now, what will happen today to my cheerfully sizzling onions? Still not sure, as I’m writing this. I’ll take a look at the fridge, scan the pantry, allow my memories to inspire me, and surely something tasty will take form. The possibilities are endless when you start with sautéing onions…

January 3, 2012 Awaiting...

The new novel! Just about ready to be read, people! Working on last details, arranging, over-thinking...Well, it's got to be perfect, no? I'm super-excited, need to do a book party; my new baby - this book - one that won't cry all night! A double story, involving many crazy, quirky, dramatic, unpredictable, temperamental, loving (and hating) characters. In short, very realistic. Another Westchester tale, my friends, with all the places we know and love or despise, but still our own. Cassandra, Natalie, Kevin, William, Neil, Gabriel, Sara walk among us, patronize the same stores and restaurants. You might even think you know them. Well, soon enough I'll introduce them to you: brace yourself! The title? You'll have to wait! :))

January 1, 2012 Let’s do it again

Believe in it. In the glory and rebirth of the new year. Let’s cling to the hope that, subtly powerful, directs every single action we take. Let’s pretend we’re being offered a clean slate, shining white, a sort of iPad with all the apps possible. Click on the Happy app: downloaded! Click on the No more blows app: done, no more blows! Click on Love. What, not available? Depleted? Over-used? Over-said, over-talked? Oh, well, asking for too much, no? Let’s just hope that the other apps do not get unexpectedly deleted, you know, the ones I just downloaded…But HAPPY NEW YEAR, my dear friends! May all your apps work smoothly, may you find true happiness in the new clean slate! Buon anno!

December 26, 2011 But no

Go figure. But perhaps one should. That Christmas would turn dark. It happens quite often, I hear. Gather people together and, at some point, heads are going to be rolling. The selfishness of relatives (it’s always them), who might believe that what’s happening in their lives is the most fabulous thing ever to take place on earth, and the hell with everyone else, toss their feelings, as long as you are happy. Everyone must be elated for you, right? No matter how it will affect the lives of others, how devastation might darken the future of another who was simply trying to get through life without bleeding too much. But no, it’s all about you, isn’t it? I should talk, though. I, the one who dropped family and friends without any sympathy or care, in a matter of days. For an undeserving cause. A hundred years ago. Because I believed (young, naïve idealist) to be heading toward the path of everlasting happiness. What a fraud. Been paying for decades for my youthful sins. To this very day. No, selfish-minded people, it never ends, payback. False friends, too. But, aren’t they all? People whom you attempt to trust, carefully, suspiciously, because, you know, who wants to get hurt after all…it’d be nice to have trustworthy friends, no? Friends who, well, get you, feel for you. Who don’t go whispering in others’ ears you know what my friend said what my friend did I think it’s drama this person likes, you know, getting attention at all costs…So, dear ones, all of you who trust, believe, love, don’t do any of those things, I beg you. No good deed shall go unpunished. You’ll only crash into a puddle at the end of the gutter, disappointed, broken and wondering why. But that’s life, my friends. Done.

December 24, 2011 A Sweet Christmas to All

So here it is, my seasonal video. I thought I’d show you ‘live’ some of my Christmas desserts, instead of simply posting photos. Come into my kitchen, take a look at my Neapolitan Struffoli, made in the most time-honored and true manner, crunchy (never soft!), cooked in a thick honey syrup (not simply coated), redolent of lemon and orange, scattered with delectable cinnamon confetti that I bring back from Portici every year, livened by colorful diavolilli, adorned with slivers of Italian candied fruits. For me, Christmas can’t be such without the sumptuous Struffoli which mean childhood, the purest joy of those innocent times and the ancient traditions that must be held tenderly in your hand, then placed ceremoniously in the ones of future generations. Behold, now, the Pasta Reale, exquisite petit fours, lovingly made individually by hand with homemade almond paste and satiny fondant. A labor of love (and oh so much patience), these sophisticated Neapolitan miniature pastries are always present on my Christmas table, perhaps my favorite dolce of all. Naturally, being this also an American Christmas, I dive breathlessly into the baking of hundreds of traditional cookies, happily celebrating the creative bounty of my magnificent adoptive country. Oh, the delightful Jelly Thumbprints, buttery, vanilly and tangy with cherry and apricot preserves. Sweet and crunchy Sesame Cookies, Chocolate-dipped Coconut Sticks, subtly flavored and crisp; delicate and tender Almond Crescents, simple and elegant under their snowy dusting of powdered sugar. Brilliantly decorated by my daughters, the Gingerbread Cookies infuse the air with the spicy scent of Christmas that we expect. And, of course, an abundance of the one and only Chocolate Chip Cookies, which I made with an assortment of chips and flavorings, from milk chocolate to mint to white to butterscotch. Welcome to my Christmas dessert celebration, my friends. May your Christmas be kind and serene, may love surround you, may you feel its exhilarating embrace. Buon Natale a tutti!

December 23, 2011 Portici at Christmas

Beautifully lit up and jubilant is my little city! Just a few images, sent to me by my dear cousin Norma. The tall, streamlined tree of lights stands in front of San Ciro, the main church in Portici, honoring the city’s patron saint. The red, green and white motif is in celebration of Italy’s 150th anniversary as a united country. Love to see my streets dressed up for Natale, wish I could walk along those crowded sidewalks, hear those Neapolitan voices that so pull at my heart. Ma tu le vedi dal vivo adesso, no? J

December 20, 2011 Flash Mob in Portici!

I found this brief video on Facebook : a flash mob in Portici, on my beloved streets! I wish I had taped this, I wish I had been there...

Ho trovato questo breve video su Facebook: un flash mob sulle mie strade adorate! Vorrei tanto essere stata io a farlo questo video, magari ci fossi anche stata...Non sono sicurissima della strada - è Viale Leonardo o che...? Amici porticesi, se la riconoscete, fatemi sapere!

December 13, 2011 The Ciambella Romagnola lives on : Her cake

It’s the simple, most ordinary things that remind me of her. My mother. Let’s say, I make her ragù with veal, with a touch of porcini, and it tastes just like hers, so I think, yes, I’ll tell her, I’ll call her…But no. Silly me for forgetting that she’s gone. Not in her yellow kitchen in Portici anymore, leafing through a magazine between chores. Not hanging the clothes out to dry on the balcony facing the stunning Bay of Naples, thinking (I know) how lucky she is to be here, witnessing this, the most amazingly beautiful panorama in the whole world. She’s not rushing home from school any more, to get the pranzo on the table quickly, before my father returns from school, too. Four years already, but it can’t be, really, because I didn’t get the chance to say I understand you now, I care, I know, I admire you, I’m sorry. So far away for so damn long, what happens is that you get used to not seeing someone (everyone!), and they slip your mind at times, shamefully so, because, well, because you’re doing stuff, living, fretting, breathing, thousands of miles away. So it seems unreal, impossible, some days, that she’s actually flown away, up there, since she wasn’t always near me, already gone before she was. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Vulnerable and lost I am, when the truth of my reality enters my unconscious then conscious, and the excruciating burden of those preventable regrets leaves me breathlessly shattered. But I cut through the thick fog of remorse, fiercely determined, because then what? Can one recover from the grief of things not done, not said, not even thought, yeah, not even considered, because life pushes you inexorably to move on, move forward…The Ciambella romagnola, a rustic, hearty cake from her native Modena, that she used to make for us on Saturday night for Sunday breakfast, well, it’s one of them, the little events that bring her back, in my yellow American kitchen. As I unmold this plain cake, subtly fragrant of lemon, sparkling with the sugar granella I picked up in Portici this past October, I feel her presence. It’s Saturday here in New York, and this is Sunday breakfast for my daughters. But enough, here’s her recipe. You don’t mind, mamma, that I give it out, vero? Oh, I write too much, I know.

December 7, 2011 I don’t like soup but this one is good

There, I said it. Yes, I really, truly dislike soup. Liquidy, sloppy, loose, bits of things floating in herby-flavored fluid…Booooring. So, whenever my mother decided to offer the family a ‘healthier’ alternative to pasta (rarely, thank God), she would present us with a pot full of soup. The rebellion was intense. Nearly a mutiny. The three of us hated soup lunches and wouldn’t partake of it without extensive complaints. How could you? How disappointing…Cabbage, beans, potatoes, whatever it was made of, it was never accepted. The worst one was the dreaded minestrone. I know, I know, Americans consider this a delicious, almost gourmet, highly desirable soup, but Italian kids despise it. We knew we were going to have to suffer through that abominable concoction when my mother declared (triumphant!) that she had found il mazzetto, a neatly tied together bundle of all the essential fresh minestrone veggies and herbs. Oh, how we prayed (no, really prayed) that the store would be out of mazzetti…Another despicable soup was pasta e ceci, made with chick peas, whose taste (at the time) induced me to instantly retch; these days, I actually like them, albeit in only specific forms, like delectable falafel. Now, chicken soup with pastina was in a whole other dimension: sacred. My mother’s delicious chicken soup, rich but refreshing, bursting with teeny tiny pastina and liberally dusted with parmigiano never failed to produce the miracle of healing sick children, especially if served in bed with a generous helping of extra attention and a tall glass of freshly-squeezed (and abundantly sugared) orange juice. Oh, those good old sick days…Anyway, here I am, today, making one soup that I actually like (and did even in my Italian years), thick Lentil Soup with ditalini and lots of parmigiano. A dreary, misty, wet day, just the environment needed for lentil soup. Simply made with a pound of lentils, onion, parsley, carrots, it quickly produces the warming meal you need, served in a beautiful rimmed bowl, generously sprinkled with fine parmigiano. I used ditalini today, which is my favorite small (but not too small) pasta, but use whatever you like as long as it's on the petite side. So, if it must be a soup day, let it be lentil!

December 5, 2011 The Baking has Begun!

Though on a smaller scale this year, considering. Still, the spicy, buttery gingerbread dough was mixed and rolled, the Royal Icing prepared and colored, then I handed the reins to my daughters and a friend to do the decorating. And an amazing job they did! This is the wonderfully traditional American part of my Christmas baking, and it wouldn't be Christmas without these adorable cookies.

November 26, 2011 25% off till December 14th!

Great time to buy my novel in soft cover, my friends! My publisher www.LuLu.com is offering 25% off the cover price, till December 14th. Use code: BUYMYBOOK305. A great gift for the readers in your life, and for you. Find yourself a comfortable spot, sip some tea or white wine, and follow Diana in her unexpected adventure. I promise you that you won't be able to put it down. Happy reading!

November 26, 2011 Another Stimulating 'Talk plus Cake' at the Eastchester Italian Club

And so it was. I was once again lucky enough to do a presentation for this super-active club in beautiful Eastchester (yes, people, I used to live there several years ago, and loved it). The subject of the lecture was the changes in modern Italian culture and lifestyle, and the evolution of the language. Presented entirely in Italian! The only place, this, where I have the opportunity to speak and converse in my native language, and be clearly understood and followed by all the members. Oh, goodness, how quickly time passed, as my audience eagerly participated, amplifying the depth of our conversation, adding their own experiences and observations, gathered from their frequent visits to Italy, being this a very sophisticated and highly informed group, intrepid travelers all, and not only to Italian shores. As usual, I arrived with my dessert du jour (love to bring along a sweet accompaniment), a light but intensely flavored pound cake, made with sour cream and accented with delectable apricot preserves. Unusual and satisfying, in the stunning and intricate shape of the Heritage Bundt - one of the precious molds in my baking collection - this cake offered an enjoyable ending to our cultural morning. And, of course, we had authentic espresso, prepared by the members of the club, to enhance our torta. If you’d like the cake recipe, click here (I posted it in both English and Italian, check recipe index). I can’t thank enough Enzo Salvo, the organizer of the Eastchester Italian Club, for making this event possible, for allowing me to express so freely my passion and eagerness to spread my beloved language to all. I’m also grateful to my dear friend Luzmarina Montesinos-Lalli, writer and Spanish language professor, who took all the pictures and was thrilled to say that she understood everything! Allora, vi ringrazio tutti di cuore, signori membri: rimango sempre colpita e commossa dalla vostra grande conoscenza della cultura italiana. Looking forward to coming back! What shall we talk about next time, amici?

November 22, 2011 Happy Thanksgiving!

So, here comes Thanksgiving again, my friends. A good holiday, easier to plan and cook for than any of the others because, well, the menu is pretty-much the same one every year, unless you decide to be creative and mess around with some of the dishes…No, not a good idea. If something is perfect just the way it is, and everyone looks forward to it, let it be perfect once again, and all shall be happy. So I make my usual savory onion-apple-sausage stuffing, the Neapolitan pumpkin sauce for my tubetti, my cranberry relish seriously kicked up with fresh jalapeños, and buttery doughs for my pies. Oh, okay, well, I am using a different recipe for the pecan pie, actually a pecan tart, with the addition of dried cherries and maple syrup…Let’s see out it works out. Wish me luck! And let me wish you all a wonderful, heart-warming, delicious Thanksgiving!

November 22, 2011 25% off till December 14th!

November 16, 2011 The bars of Portici: quando la vita sa di caffè

So many of them, more than one at every corner; you just look and there’s another, and another. I’m talking cafés, people, pasticcerie. And a bar in Italy is all of these things – a heaven of excellent coffee, scrumptious pastries and, sure, a bicchierino of whatever adult beverage you fancy. Though most people just go for the espresso (called simply caffè in Italian), super-strong, covered with steamed foam and incredibly aromatic. That would be, aromatic of coffee, the real bean, at the highest level of flavor. The bars of Portici, God how I love them, small (some), always charming, even if in a little vicolo, where not even a SmartCar can get through (but it does!), always a couple of tables inside, maybe one or two outdoors, under the traditional umbrellas. Well, staying at my sister’s, in October, waking up to the stimulating fragrance of brewing coffee, bubbling up in the 3-cup moka stove-top espresso maker. The household in high activity, as everyone was getting ready to go to work or school, snatching up a sip of coffee, una mezza tazzina, or just whatever was left in the caffettiera…So, instantly, the black gold of my dreams disappeared before I could even smell it properly. Then the apartment became silent. Alone (a bit lonely too), I surveyed the kitchen situation, eyeing the little collection of colorful tiny cups in the sink: should I make a fresh pot? But then, way too much coffee available, which I’d be in danger of consuming in its entirety (and have!); or just get dressed and hit the streets of my city, following the trail of the bars. And this I chose to do, day after day. Pretty little mosaic-topped tables at the charming Bar Roma, on Via Roma, across the street from the school where my father was once principal, and where my sister now teaches first grade. I order a caffè for one euro, start to sit down, then my gaze is drawn magnet-like to the beautiful pastry counter, where lay enticingly fruit tartlets, rum-soaked babàs, sugar-coated graffe (similar to donuts), sfogliatelle frolle, a dazzling array of miniature pastries and of course, that classic of Italian breakfast fare: il cornetto, the better-than-a-croissant delicacy, filled with dense pastry cream. I opt for that. Ten minutes in this little haven, listening to other customers chat and laugh, disclose their plans, and glancing at a newspaper left conveniently out for all to read. The cornetto is super-delicious, the coffee outstanding, and I’m ready to face the day, which promises to be hot again. In the afternoon, at the Bar Chicco, off Piazzale Brunelleschi, an exciting and lively shopping area, surrounded by elegant condos, for a caffè nocciolato, a luxe concoction of espresso, (lots of) sugar and finely ground hazelnuts, served in a slender glass: delectable, really a dessert. Right at the southern end of Via Diaz, where it meets Corso Garibaldi, you can find an unusual bar, il Bar Vertigo, which has set up a bright red tent outside, to enclose tiny tables for enjoying coffee al fresco but in privacy. And here I behold a caffè macchiato with an artistic touch: the design of a pretty flower of ground chocolate lies on top of foamy milk, almost too beautiful to stir. Oh, what thoughts, ideas and stories those little cups of coffee have inspired, as I gaze at my image, shimmery and featureless, in the well of black nectar that warms my fingers! My history of coffee, a little bit of my soul diffused with the steam that rises, capturing memories and reveries, and effortlessly making them one.

Mara's New Short Story Available: Suddenly, at the Airport

November 10, 2011 In my favorite Liceo again!

Well, in October, I mean. My annual trip to my homeland, last month, found me once again as a guest speaker at the dynamic Liceo Scientifico Filippo Silvestri in Portici. What would interest these brilliant, super-sharp kids whom I had met in previous years, discussing mostly American culture as related to high school and college? After some consulting with my cousin - English prof par excellence - we decided to explore the subject of, well, Italian culture as perceived by Americans. And some fascinating little facts came to light. For instance, when I clicked on my slide show of common images of Italian-American culture, the students were mesmerized by photographs of an iconic Little Italy celebration: the San Gennaro Festival. Of course, of course, San Gennaro being the patron saint of Naples, everyone was familiar with this day and all the festivities, which, naturally, are grand. But…the food? Well, the popular food of this event was…puzzling to these Neapolitan kids. Sausage and Peppers? What’s that? Yes, indeed, this dish considered, quintessentially ‘Italian’, is unknown in Italy, or at least by the younger generation. However, I must admit that I, being of the previous generation, was also completely unfamiliar with Sausage and Peppers until I moved to the States. Where lies the mystery of this disconnection? Well, I have some theories, and I’m sure many of you, dear readers, have your own. I’d love to hear them, so, come on, contact me and let me know! I was very fortunate to be among these gifted boys and girls, their intelligent inquiries and impressive command of the English language. I hold you in my heart, carissimi ragazzi del liceo scientifico, and you curiosity and interest in the life and lore of my adoptive country, has the power to touch and move me each and every time that I have the pleasure and joy of spending time with all of you. To next year, I hope, and a gigantic grazie to my cousin Norma for making this magnificent experience possible.

November 6, 2011 A live taste of Portici

I know, some of you might think I’m exaggerating with my fervent accolades for my hometown. Portici, that is, the one and only. Nostalgia, you might say, rosy remembrances of a lost time, a golden childhood, a thrilling adolescence steeped in romance, my ‘wonder years’ immortalized in a still picture forever glowing. Not so. Though my memories are caressed by the hue of wistfulness, there was often the harsh reality of extreme sorrow, as my heart was torn out - fragile and still pulsating - not a few times. But one gets strong (and, yes, touched with cynicism) when slapped by pain, because that is the essence of human survival. But Portici is real. It was then, it is now. A small Mediterranean city with all the qualities of such a place, and you know them - the nearly perpetual sunshine, the shimmer of the calm sea lapping at the foothills of Vesuvius, the boulevards lined with aristocratic villas, yes, faded these days, some slowly crumbling, but clinging with tenacity to the dignity of their glorious past. Then, still within walking distance, you can step into the ancient Roman past at the Ercolano excavations, not less fascinating than famous Pompei. And the abundance of food, of course, really, really good food, the one you dream about on frigid New York winter nights. But Portici is so much more. Vibrant with people that explode on the beautiful downtown streets in the evening, wearing chic boots and super-long scarves arranged and knotted in such creative ways (which I’m still trying to figure out). People who are exuberant, wise and accepting, even in these hard times, most of them smoking freely, and I walk into the clouds of their smoke, trembling with my memories. Glittering boutiques selling Emilio Pucci and Dolce & Gabbana at exorbitant prices, and those the thrills that only your eyes can enjoy. But stroll down a few more meters and a glorious saldi sign beckons from a cheerful little shop, where you can indulge in an elegant charcoal-gray shrug for only a few Euros. Or a pair of suede platform pumps (coral red, perhaps), not signed by Ferragamo, but just as delicious. Of course it’s a city of great contrasts, my Portici, but isn’t this what makes a place mysterious and exciting? I love (LOVE) Via Marconi, the open market street, the melodious (or not so much) cries of the vendors, praising their just-off-the-fishing boats at the Granatello (the picturesque harbor) seafood, which you know it’s going to be tender and exquisite in a light sauce aromatized by the local white wine. Snatch up (and I do) a warm and flaky cream-filled cornetto for less than a Euro at a unassuming bar, where the espresso is (always) the best you ever had. I hear the sharp tapping of my heels on the artistically placed sanpietrini (a kind of cobblestone made from lava), and the snapping noise reverberates through my body, spreading through my veins, and I feel my revitalized blood flow energetic, bearer of new hope. Walk with me, my friends, on those sanpietrini, even if for just a few minutes. Let the green, velvety afternoon light that ensconces the Vesuvius warm your heart, tease your imagination. Let my Portici seduce you too. (For more videos about Portici go to YouTube, search my name or MaraWriter.)

November 3, 2011 Just walk

I see you passing by me. Swift and focused, on what I don’t know. But can imagine. The loneliness of fear, I can sense it, even if you’ve wrapped it carefully in a soft flowing scarf. You thought friends were forever. Not so. The complications of life erase ties and emotions, tread on their fragility. Just like love. At the end, there’s just you and the distance. So you walk. It’s hard under your footfalls, the road, gray, marked by weeds sprouting through the brick design along the edge of the sidewalk. Broken glass, and you sidestep it, and wonder who let it happen and simply moved on. Because we can all be without soul and sympathy, at some point. Allowing ourselves not to care. Not any more. The burden of anxiety, fueled by our isolation, often auto-imposed as our emotional self-defense mechanism kicks in. You hide the anguish, I know, and your face is serene, your eyes liquid but bright. The wind whips you hair and it feels good when you can’t see too clearly because the strands block your vision, and it’s like everything will just go away. Dispersed in the wind, the breath of time. The fear is real, but there’s only a rosy stillness on you face. Makeup is good at that. Via, then, concentrate on the continuity of the road, you can keep going forever, there will always be a turn you could take, sometimes intricate - behind a wall, concealed by a door you didn’t know was there - and your steps will resound clearly, and the monotonous thud is comfort and relief. I hear your desperation, silent walker, trembling unseen under the layers of normality you slather yourself with. You don’t know where you’re heading, but the distance seduces you. Tighten that scarf around your neck and your thoughts, allow its warmth to guide your senses. Just walk.

October 28, 2011 Living my Sari Fantasy

I always wanted a sari. Have had this fascination with Indian culture pretty-much forever, perhaps fueled by my passion for travel/adventure stories when I was a young teenager, especially the classic tales by Italian writer Emilio Salgari, whose exciting characters - pirates, adventurers, explorers, princes - wandered the planet and got drawn into the most unfathomable situations (of course I was in love with handsome, rugged, fearless Sandokan, certainly his most famous protagonist). Many of these young adult novels took place in India and I was totally mesmerized by that mysterious and alluring culture. Through my many years in the States, I’ve continued to read about India and got seriously involved in the works of some of the fantastic writers emerging from that country, to the point of actually proposing a presentation on some of my favorite Indian women writers at the high school in Italy where I’ve been doing culture-related lectures in the last few years. We discussed the novels by two greats, Jhumpa Lahiri and Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, and I was thrilled to find a very interested and enthusiastic audience. And of course there is the food: love at first sight. I’ve even been making Indian dishes for years, sure, not pretending to cook like a native, but my chapattis, naans and parathas are pretty delicious… So, it’s love all around for things Indian, including my penchant for exquisite, colorful, subtly sexy saris. I nearly got married in one (well, almost nearly. See blog of July 8, 2010). Very luckily for me, I had the pleasure of meeting Sudha N, and our friendship has grown through the years, stimulated by our reciprocal interest in each other’s culture. When she placed in my hands the beautiful folded sky-blue cloth, shimmering ethereal, fresh from southern India, I was nearly speechless. After she patiently helped me arrange and pleat the lengthy stretch of fabric around my body, I suddenly found myself wrapped in a gorgeous sari: yes, people, a dream come true. So, here I am, in my alter ego, with my friend next to me, also wearing a delicate, very elegant silk sari. I love this picture: a blonde can pull off a sari, no?

October 22, 2011 Good food from Colli and memories with my brother

It is here that we’ve gathered in the last few years. My autumn trips to Italy, revisiting those old photographs that spin around my head, constantly intensifying as time passes. My places, my people, my stories, the essence of who I am. So, when I see my brother, it is usually in Colli al Volturno, my father’s native village in the mountains of Molise, where the old Di Sandro family’s house still stands, ancient and massive, its thick walls impregnated with 150 years of families, dramas, war, and the scents of strong wine from the family’s vineyards and green-gold olive oil from the uliveti on the hills. The restaurant Volturno where we have our pranzo, at the outskirts of town, is also a small hotel, run by a local family of fabulous cooks. Fischiotti alla carbonara is one of their specialties, rich with eggs and pancetta, aromatized by onions sautéed in olive oil. The only shape of pasta they use is the traditional fischiotti, a curvy, spiraling short pasta that goes by different names in other areas. Now, my mother always made it with spaghetti, but I - not a fan of long pasta - much prefer it this way. The link is to my recipe (actually my mother’s), since the restaurant’s dish is a jealously concealed secret. But I can assure you that mine is almost as good. I cherish these moments in my life - sadly much too brief and rare. Grazie to my brother Glauco for kindly agreeing to be in this video. Glauco, sei grande!

October 19, 2011 A Realization

I noticed a great difference between the Italian and the American attitude toward life: Americans, if unsatisfied with their lot, will often go forward and try to change it; Italians will resign themselves to it and live of regret. Che peccato, signori italiani, che gran peccato...

September 30, 2011 Rotolo ripieno: Savory pastry roll for dinner!

Now, this Rotolo ripieno is one of my favorite dishes to make. Because I get an awesome dinner, adored by my daughters, and which include all the components necessary for a satisfying meal. Meat, veggies and carbs, all rolled up into one delectable, visually appealing package. First time I had it was in Portici, a few years ago, at a New Year’s Eve party in the beautiful apartment of a very close friend of my sister. We were up on the seventh floor, with the same stunning panorama of the Bay of Naples I grew up with, even though her building was located in a different part of town. But a small city Portici remains, so that million-dollar view is available to all those who live closer to the sky. The crowd was lively and handsome, professional people dressed up in the latest styles, relaxed and comfortable with each other, since they were all long-time friends. Allora, I didn’t really know anybody in this group, but being "the sister from America", everyone was extremely fascinated and curious about me. And my desserts. Well, of course I baked a large pan of soft and golden Chocolate Chip Bars, and helped my sister make a traditional All-American Cheesecake. They loved them! Couldn’t get enough, I was assaulted with requests for the recipes. You see, my friends, Italians go for the food first and foremost. New Year’s Eve, you’ll say, so flowing champagne or at least prosecco or spumante…But no, not quite. Though the place was packed, there were perhaps 3 or 4 bottles of wine waiting in the back of the laden dining room table. And they weren’t touched till the traditional midnight toast. That’s it. Cin cin, auguri, kiss kiss, stop. Nobody was more than sipping sporadically, no one got even slightly intoxicated. They were too busy, these Neapolitan connoisseurs, to taste, appraise, enjoy the delicacies that every one had contributed: rosemary-scented veal roasts, puff pastry tarts filled with cheeses and prosciutto, lavish lasagne, exquisite tartine – dainty hours d’ouvres made with tiny white bread squares and savory pastes of anchovies, olives, etc. - savory brioches, and of course beautiful Rotoli ripieni. There was music, yes, romantic songs, and many of the women wanted to dance, But guess what? No way the men were going to accommodate them! Sadly, the majority of Italian men don’t like to dance…but much prefer to set up the hundreds of rounds of fireworks that traditionally light up the midnight sky in every part of Italy. Everyone in the building was out on the balconies, blowing up whatever it is that people use for such spectacles, and the noise level was very excitingly elevated. Amazing to me (not a fireworks devotee), how much fun they were all having with that Boom Bang Baraboom, while the women attempted to dance on their own (not pleased!) - little boys playing war zone, I guess. So here is my sister’s recipe for that delicious Stuffed Roll that I shall always associate with that Capodanno spent watching the darkened Bay of Naples explode enthusiastically into the new year.

September 26, 2011 My life defined

How would life be without school as the omnipresent entity in your life, I wonder. Now, don’t misunderstand me, I’m talking about the after part. After all the justly mandatory years of instruction we all need to be launched into productive adulthood. When you say goodbye to your high school, liceo, college, lovely alma mater but enough of it now, you’d think it’d be over, and the world is your canvas, limitless views, ever-expanding horizon…But then come your children, and you are sucked back in - lunch boxes, projects to complete at home, PTA, odorless markers and the lot. Then proms and graduations, tears over dresses that don’t fit right, fierce academic competition, immense college campuses, separation anxiety, more graduations, busted bank accounts, and often starting all over again. Even two-three more times. And what if the school is still your chosen environment just because, and that alarm clock initiates your school day again, year after year after year? Students come and go, all so different and so beautiful, but sometimes their faces blend together with others from times that have passed even though it was only yesterday, wasn’t it? Born and raised in the school, daughter of a teacher and a school principal, I was shaped by the never-ending classroom, breathed in air that smelled like pencils, rubber erasers and chalk, my life solely defined by academia. What would it feel like, I wonder, to participate in a year that doesn’t start in September and end in June? What if the mild, latish summer month of September were to be treated like, well, just another month, the one after August, when life could take you into any direction, not necessarily the road to PS 1? Oh, I know, I know, it’s not only the hard-working school personnel that beats the same path every day in those fateful months, that everyone else has duties and obligations, and the jarring alarm goes off for them too, on dreary mid-semester days. But what if you were working freelance, flying high on your creative process, with NOTHING as the limit, certainly not the sky? Oh, let me see, I’ll settle in Paris for a while, you know? Writing this novel that has these scenes taking place in the third arrondissement, need some time on location…Yes, good month for Paris, September…But I’ll stop here: gotta get my stuff ready for school. Besides, who knows, I'd probably miss it, that smell of dusty old Bobbsey Twins mysteries and way-too-early-in the-morning cafeteria tacos. Oh, well, I'm a child of the school and, you know what? School is an intrinsic part of me. And a good thing.

September 20, 2011

Eating melanzane fritte while gazing at the mountains : An Eggplant Memoir

The smell of car exhaust, as I power-walk along the streets of my town, makes me giddy. Oh, I know you’re doubtful, but it’s the memories that it unravels. Of my life in Portici - the traffic on the shopping streets, the mopeds whizzing by, squeezing into ten inches of space between two cars (well, almost). And the anticipation stirs those fluttery butterflies. I will walk again on those uneven pavements with the time-worn Sanpietrini lava-stones, soon, very soon - it’s a matter of a couple of weeks now. Going home again. No, not easy, bittersweet, often heartbreaking, even devastating. Because I’ll have to leave again. Just a taste, a breath, a fleeting kiss from the air that saw me born…and off again, four thousand miles away. But this is the bed I made for myself and I’m laying on it willingly, though a bit uneasily at times. Allora, such is life. But I’m home in Westchester now, eyeing the plump eggplants my neighbor lovingly picked from her garden. I slide my finger over the smooth skin, then reach for a cutting board. Suddenly I’m in Colli again, my father’s mountain village in Molise, where we had our summer house. Lazy late summer afternoons, sprawled on the recliner on the terrace of the old house. Breath-taking panorama of the Mainarde Mountains rising above pastures and thick, black-green woods. Naturally, neither myself nor my siblings ever gave it a second thought, used as we were to that majestic beauty - and bored to death by my father’s constant reminders of how lucky we were to wake up to such splendor every morning. Sure, babbo, thrilled. No, I didn’t get it – too immature, too self-centered, too many boys to inflame my susceptible heart. However, it was pleasant to while away the time, leafing through fashion magazines or reading my beloved Agatha Christie mysteries. And waiting for my mother to finish frying up that eggplant. Sizzling hot, golden, crispy/tender nuggets, their irresistible aroma escaping from the kitchen window below, up into the air of our terrace. Ecco, she’d say, cominciate a mangiare, sono più buone appena fatte. No need for much encouragement, of course it was better when freshly made, we knew that…And she’d leave the platter with us, sparkling with sea salt under the fading light of a sleepy sun. It didn’t take more than a few minutes for it to disappear, as we pounced on it with the heightened appetite of youth and brisk mountain air. So I’m chopping now (without peeling) little cubes of deep-maroon and creamy flesh, which I sprinkle with salt that will do its job of releasing the excess moisture. My children love the little fried chunks just as much. Though it’s a different view they gaze upon - a more subdued, comforting, suburban backyard, no soft peaks painted in the sky but only some floating clouds spotting the baby blue. Or the stimulating TV screen, lively with Nickelodeon’s sharp sitcoms. History repeating itself on the other side of the world. A good thing. More eggplants are glistening on the counter and a Scapece comes to mind. Yes, easy and long-lasting, these marinated slices of eggplant make a savory side dish and a great addition to a sandwich (for those who love them), tangy and aromatic on top of some good salame and real provolone. I’ve boiled the sectioned eggplant (unpeeled) for 20 minutes, then I squeeze out the water, slice it into thick wedges, cool it a bit. A drizzle of extra-virgin olive oil, a dash of wine vinegar, salt, a clove of garlic cut in two, simply tossed in with a small hot pepper. I mix it all up and set it aside to “cook” some more. Perfect tomorrow, sour, supple, timeless ancient flavor. Eggplant season will be over when I go home to Italy in a few days. But the terrace on the mountains will be waiting for me, the gray slate still warm under the gentler October sun. And I’ll hear it clearly, I’m sure, my mother’s voice – tired but content - offering that plate of fried eggplant. Grazie, mamma, per la dolcezza dei ricordi.

September 11, 2011 Yes, Our Flag is Still There

It was ten years ago. But it was yesterday. Still I tend to avert my eyes, steel my feelings when I see an image of the Towers. Can’t go there, or I’ll suffocate in the avalanche of despair that still seizes my heart when I think of my day that will live in infamy. But I hear you, sense you, the angels who were born on that day, testing your new wings away from the fallen towers, the exploding planes, the somber chambers of the Pentagon. I remember, we remember, when death came upon us to erase the sun from our beautiful day. Always with us, you are, never forgotten, your sacrifice is our incentive to persevere in our great love and fierce protection of our magnificent country. May you all smile upon us from above and be proud. God bless America!

September 5, 2011 Summer Days in September, Swiss Hotels and Green Soup

September used to be still summer vacation in the once upon a time of my life. When I was living in Italian, school would trickle to an end at the beginning of June (sometimes even end of May, if there were elections planned) and re-open on October firstish. That is, the first was the official date, but that never happened. More like the 14^th, or the 20^th …No, no kidding. The administration, in those days, used to be very relaxed about these formalities, like having an exact date for the actual opening to students. Sure, the teachers (my mother being one) and the principals (my father among them), were ready at the trenches earlier, setting up, having meetings, arguments, the usual beginning of the year’s school politics, but kicked up a few notches, since that was Naples, my friends, and running things (anything) in an orderly manner was next to impossible. The bane of my poor molisano father’s existence, a man of great integrity, precision and discipline. But eventually, all the pieces fell into their proper places and the confusion became easy to comprehend, accept and move along smoothly with. So September was actually a good travel month for the Di Sandro family, and my father would take out his maps and start marking routes. Like the year we headed north from Colli (my father’s village in Molise, where we had our summer house), thinking Tuscany, maybe a side trip into the Marche…but ended up in Switzerland! Oh, how I loved that trip to a foreign country, my first. Okay, it didn’t feel much like it, in a way, because we crossed the border from Lombardy into the Cantone Ticino, which is the Italian-speaking district of Switzerland, so no language-related culture shock. But there sure was a culture shock. First of all, in September school was in full session in super-organized Switzerland, and there were no kids to be seen. Anywhere. At any time. Well, we were perplexed and even uneasy, but my mother’s theory was that they were all locked up in boarding schools. You see, Switzerland has always had a reputation for austere boarding and finishing schools, and I was often threatened that I might end up in one of them if I didn’t stop my antics (like going out with boys, coming home late - 8pm…). Oh, I was scared, believe me. And I must say that those few days spent in Lugano - the capital, a quaint city on a lake by the same name - were somewhat stilted. We were a noisy bunch, especially my brother, and our loud enthusiasm (okay, bickering) in the hotel’s lobby didn’t go down well. Eyebrows were raised, and icy looks lasered us, and I’m sure many Oh Italians what do you expect comments were mumbled by guests and staff alike. Then there was the food. Now, I’m talking from the point of view of a young teen with hardly a sophisticated palate. But that green soup, good God! A dimly-lit dining room, as quiet as a tomb, stiff, formal waiters who spoke Italian with a German accent, the terror of spilling water on the tablecloth (ok, done - by my brother), the unfamiliar smells that weren’t very promising…and then the green soup. When the bowls trembling with the thick, sort of bumpy, concoction were placed in front of us, I’m sure our eyes bulged out like in a cartoon. Che meraviglia, my father was saying, optimistic, eager to savor local dishes, bella verde, tanta verdura, fa bene…Yeah, because we really wanted a bowl of hideous green mud made with unrecognizable vegetables because it’d be good for us…We rebelled, demanded pasta and got it. Big mistake. It wasn’t green, but the mushy, limp spaghetti swimming for their life in an Olympic-size pool of watery sauce weren’t an improvement. While my father continued digging into his soup with apparent enjoyment and satisfaction, or at least a good imitation of it. My mother just rolled her eyes (at him) and insisted that we ‘retire’ early. Before the other diners incinerated us with their barely disguised disapproval. Naturally this hasty retreat brought on an uncontrollable laughing fit, and we had to practically be dragged out of the dining room by our mortified parents. So, the trip to Switzerland. All in all, a good memory - a beautiful boat ride on the lake, tranquil drives on winding mountain roads, through Alpine villages, straight out of Heidi (with only a couple of stops for fresh air, yeah, my car sickness problem). And a trunkful of Lindt chocolate to take home. Though the border guards objected at first, you know there’s a limit, only for personal use, etc, etc. But then they glanced at our license plate, oh that’s fine then, you’re going all the way down to Naples, that’s practically Africa, you’ll need it…Sure, Swiss border guard, exactly. Oh, that chocolate lasted a long time, as my father rationed it out daily. And we got a lovely cuckoo clock from that trip, stationed on a wall in my father’s studio in Portici till the house was sold. Swiss days, childhood days. September vacations. Oh, I wish…I just wish.

August 30, 2011 The Unbearable Lightness of Relief

It’s over. Darling Irene, ‘the mother of all hurricanes’. Yes, of course I was anxious, people, I’m only human. If you’re on Facebook, you’ll also know that I made a confession, in light of the approaching doomsday - that I, well, am not a natural blonde! Indeed, I go to my wonderful hairdresser in Eastchester three times a year and get honey-blond highlights…So, now the secret is out. Silliness aside, natural disasters are not something we should take lightly, and we don’t. I know that so many of you had a ghastly experience with flooding, fallen trees, loss of power, and perhaps you’re still awaiting the return to normality, and my heart goes out to you. We were luckier here in my Westchester town - little damage, floods came and receded. My basement was inundated also, but, thanks to a new sump pump, the mess was left to a minimum, and it’s all dry now (I highly recommend it: works like a charm!). After, when the title ‘hurricane’ was downgraded to a less intimidating ‘tropical storm’, and Irene was heading north of us, we took a tentative look out the door, then decided to take a spin around town on the jeep. All in all, we survived this thing okay, much better than anticipated. Naturally, I headed for the waterfront, to observe my beloved river. Oh, it was angry, the Hudson, gray and frothy, turbulent, aggressive, combative. The sky matched its dismal color and the clouds - many! - were zipping by, swept by strong, whistling winds. Took some photos and here they are. Then home again, relieved and grateful that all was well; I turned on the oven and set up to bake. A new recipe, never made before, but I had all the ingredients on hand so…Well, it turned out to be one of the most delectable cakes I ever had, this Sour Cream -Apricot Jam Pound Cake, made in one of my treasured decorative Bundt pans. A velvety consistency, a buttery, smooth, heavenly flavor and, of course, a stunning appearance. I offer you the recipe, my dear readers - it’s easy and quick, but you’d never guess it. I’m now calling it “Hurricane Irene Cake”, because, well, that’s when I made it, acutely appreciative of the calm after the storm. A tender, sweet cake. But life is sweeter. Viva la vita!

August 16, 2011 Another story has been told

Well, the deed is done! I’ve completed another novel, just typed The End on my computer screen. Sure, I’ve got to polish, delete, re-phrase, look up, find the right accents for those French words, and maybe even change somebody’s name. But that’s all fun stuff: the labor-intensive, agonizing, can’t-take-it-anymore, I-hate-writing, process is over. Have a great title, too. No, I can’t divulge it yet; you never know, I might change that also, I’ve done it before. Though this one is intriguing and enticing in its simplicity. That is, the name of the novel itself would make me want to read it because, as minimalist as it is, it implies a story that is powerful and exciting. And so it is. A sudden friendship between two women who never met before, begun under dramatic circumstances. Two men who enter their lives, also unexpectedly, both laden with unusual back-stories, both captivating and disturbing, in very different ways. The beginning is subdued, perhaps a bit dark, because, well, that’s where Cassandra is at this point, struggling through an uncomfortable, dismal life leading to a darker place still. While Natalie is in a kind of limbo: a writer…waiting to write; seeking the elements for a story that will completely absorb her and transform her into a real writer. The characters are several and varied, from an alcoholic train-wreck of a lawyer, to a gentle pianist who looks like Johnny Depp; to a really-nice-guy school teacher who just doesn’t have what it takes to capture the heart of complex, passionate Natalie; to a mysterious, tortured foreigner, an artist who seeks inspiration on deserted beaches. Plus a confused teenage boy, a shallow rich neighbor, a jaded English woman…And, yes, once again, beautiful Westchester County is the backdrop of my story, from the serene beauty of Lasdon Park in Somers to the Ossining waterfront, the river shimmering and calm, keeper of everyone’s secrets. And of secrets, there are many. Coming up soon, my friends. I’ll keep you posted.

August 14, 2011 I’ve Fallen in Love Again

With New York City. Not that I ever lost the feeling, mind you. But it had, well, waned a bit, you know the usual factors that turn any kind of relationship dull – familiarity, routine, lack of excitement, life’s general drudgery, wet towels on the bathroom floor, that annoying way of holding the fork, wondering what happened to your life…Okay, sorry, getting carried away, never mind that, back on track now. Yes, New York! The one and only. The big apple, which I never understood what the heck it means, what’s with an apple and a big city? Anyway, in recent days, very dear relatives from Italy have come to visit, and landed in an elegant apartment on 57^th Street, right in the middle of things. Definitely not a bad beginning to one’s exploration of the city that never sleeps. So I found myself trekking the avenues paved with gold, or at least slathered with the luxurious shadows of the Trump Tower, The Empire and the like. As I walked along with the visitors who strode with the energy and exhilaration of motivated, open-minded tourists, well, I also started, to experience the thrills of (re)discovering the spectacular, super-awesome metropolis I live so close to. Yes, a real case of seeing it again through his/her/their eyes, that is the eyes of someone who’s falling in love. Being on Fifth, people! Yes, stepping on those wide, crowded sidewalks of Fifth! The avenue of dreams, la Quinta strada, with all those people walking fast just like you see in movies, because all movies take place in New York, or all the good ones anyway, what else would we wish to see on the big screen but the city where everything that matters happens? Open wide and emotional, the eyes of my tourists, looking up, always up, because it never seems to end, that real estate climb toward the heavens, and in always more creative, spectacular and awe-inspiring ways. Glass and metal, sharp edges and gentle curves, slanted roofs, edgy designs that defy styles and fashions, black-and silver-faceted diamonds, vertical jewels for us all to own. I sense tears trembling beneath eyelashes, as my visitors take it all in, eager, deliciously overwhelmed and craving more. The unadulterated elation of being part of all of this – the electrifying bedlam of glorious images and sounds, because you’re young and alive and the world is yours to conquer. So was I, then, fresh and yet untouched by disillusion, my heart, my entire body, absorbing the newness of my environment, living New York through every pore. Am I really here, I thought, are these my legs walking – fast, strong – on American sidewalks? Is my city on the Mediterranean truly thousands of miles away from where I now stand? Oh, the glory, the adventure, the memories being created to last a lifetime…No, I didn’t lose it, the thrill is still there somewhere, breaking though my skin, exultant with every skyscraper that slashes the blueness of the sky, with every screen change on the digital billboards, with the exhilaration of the throngs of people from every corner of the globe, with the enticing aroma of honey-roasted peanuts, with the glittery call of the Starbucks-at-every-corner. So, I look at you, young and hopeful and eager, and rekindle my feelings for this city, the ones of long ago. It just took a whisper, your whisper, to revive them. Oh, yes, my friends, I so love New York.

August 8, 2011 And so it is

Flimsy, fragile, voluble. Relationships. Oh, all of them, in every possible form. When they say that nothing lasts forever, and we battle it (or did, in more naive times) - not true! not when the tie is strong and real and meaningful, etc, etc - we are the ones who don’t get it. Nothing lasts forever. Of course we all knew about love and its elusive quality, as most of us have given up on that unrealistic dream many moons ago (it only takes a few grown-up years behind you to do the trick), but then we tend to cling to others, usually friends, convincing our hungry little hearts that, now, that is a bond without time, built to withstand disappointments, harsh words, betrayals and even a stab in the back or two. Not so, people. Once cut, you can wrap all the gold bandages in the world around that wound, slather it with Neosporin, but it will refuse to heal, festering even, behind the layer of calm acceptance. Because acceptance it’s not. It might transmute into a sort of emotional apathy called let’s-put-that-behind-us-and-move-on, but the moving on won’t really happen. Impossible. Not in the makeup of human nature. Even though you, and you, and you, will say (defiant!) that’s in the past, not important any more…it never is. But. Not all hope is lost. We have ourselves; and our own strength is the only factor we can always count on. Even when we stumble, slide down a cliff, get lost in the woods. We get up, eventually. All by our sturdy little selves. Belief in oneself, you the one and only. Look inside for support. Do your crying alone in the dark, then peek at the sun starting to build another day. You’re still there. So is your writing. That’s all you need. E così è.

July 29, 2011 Eggplant Tian: Easy and Delicious Summer Dish

Take a look at this video and you'll learn a new ,wonderful, super-easy eggplant dish for your summer dinners. It's called a Tian and it comes from the south of France. I make it often during the summer, when fresh tomatoes and basil are abundant. Read the blog and here's the recipe. Bon appétit!

July 27, 2011 Jazz on the Patio

Every summer, actually July. I discovered it ten years ago, when a woman whom I’d just met (another interesting story) asked me if I knew of the wonderful jazz lunches at Lasdon Park, a stunning, formerly private estate in Somers. Years of spending every Friday afternoon in this little oasis, with my young daughters who ran up and down the gentle hill to the big house, chasing balls, Frisbees and each other. Peanut butter on whole wheat and cherry Juicy Juice, lavishly applied sunblock, pastel hats and please-don’t-be-too-noisy whispered at the beginning of the concert. Then I could sit back on the metal chair in the shade of the sun umbrella and absorb the sophisticated atmosphere. Which seemed so far removed from my daily life to the point that, at times, I almost believed I was on vacation. The Kevin Callaghan Quartet was the only performer in those days, Friday after Friday through the month, sometimes even hopping into the first week in August. A group of talented musicians led by Kevin Callaghan who is at bass, including a soulful saxophonist, a guitarist and a drummer. Easy cool jazz that flows smoothly through the audience, imperceptibly erasing tensions and anxieties. Even I – the super-hyper multi-tasker - was able to unwind and simply allow the music to unleash the magic. Which sometimes surprised me by becoming flirtatious, languid Bossa Nova that warmed my skin and soul, as the subdued samba beat teased my feet to tap to the irresistible rhythm. So many Friday lunches with friends, their children and their playmates, comforting memories of summers now faded away. But there I was last Friday, on the un-crowded patio, at my place under the sun umbrella, listening to Kevin Callaghan’s only performance this season, grateful for the shade that relieved the infinite heat that dissolved make-up and willpower. On my own, for the first time. Imagining the characters of my new novel – Cassandra, Natalie, Neil, Gabriel - living their personal dramas in this environment, as their tales unwound effortlessly among the scents of flowers and venerable trees, in the shadow of the mansion, electric with the ghosts of an opulent, perhaps romantic, past. Certainly inspiring, this serene place, but brought to life by the music which creates the indefinable mood that permeates your heart and stirs memories. I closed my eyes, living the moment, sipping icy water to fend off the fiery heat that was beginning to claim my shoulders, then adjusted my wide-brimmed straw hat, rested my arm on the supple leather of my red Italian bag and allowed the melody to lure me away. Yes, a good place to launch a story – unfolding complex and touching – of fragile friendships, uncertain allegiances and, of course, the exuberance of love. Coming up.

July 15, 2011 My Book is on iTunes!

Yes, my friends, my novel Dreams, Lies and a Touch of Smoke is now in the iTunes store! So, if you'd rather go digital, or can't carry all those books to the beach or in the plane, download my story now on your iPad, iPhone or iPhoneTouch and get ready for some excitement. Look up Diana, follow her story: it's going to be hard to put it down, I assure you. As simple as downloading the latest song by Adele (love her!). Here's the link http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/dreams-lies-touch-smoke/id443808469?mt=11 Happy reading!

July 15, 2011 Another Glorious Day in Westchester

I’m sizzling with energy today. I think the flawless turquoise of my New York sky has injected me with a burst of joie de vivre that I hadn’t experienced in a long while. And the sun. I’m a child of the sun, people, born on Mediterranean shores in the midst of the August fever. Give me a luminous summer day (and a shot of espresso, no, two) and I’ll take off with a roar. All right, so I clicked on a ticket to Italy on Orbitz today, sure, that might add an extra kick. Of course it does. The rush of the anticipation : I can feel the caress of the breeze in Portici already (though that’s rare…). I power-walk on my Westchester paths, zipping across the streets, beating the pedestrian countdown by several seconds. The smell of exhaust fuels my soul, because I was reared in the traffic jams of Naples where drivers kept their frustrated fists pressed on the horn non-stop as if that gesture would unclog the gridlock. There’s major construction at one of the corners in my town, ongoing since last year. No idea what they’re doing, but I stride under the scaffolding and think of the streets of Naples where eternal scaffolding is just another part of the cityscape. It feels like home. Yet I’m anxious. True, I’m skipping heartbeats from excitement, but a tinge of fear, insecurity, uneasiness mars the exuberance of my beautiful day. Don’t know what it is, this displaced distress. But I have a suspicion: it has the discomforting taste of guilt. Damn it, we’re born with it, we women, that feeling of not deserving the good things in life, of expecting trouble ahead simply because, well, we are a little happy. Still, I allow the summer to whirl around me and abandon my contemplations to its vortex.

June 30, 2011 Let me tell you about my novel, Dreams, Lies and a Touch of Smoke...

June 29, 2011 Wine Memories (but not what you think)

So I was decanting extra-virgin olive oil from a just-purchased bottle into my skinny, every-day-use, drizzle bottle, closely monitoring the level, when a memory, ancient (of course), shot through my brain and my hand trembled slightly as I poured. The wine ritual. Which happened every year. Okay, my father had been abstemious for a long time (didn’t believe in the ‘vices’ – drinking, smoking and gambling), but at some point during my formative years - in the course of one of our Sunday excursions - he discovered a local wine. And fell in love. The wine was the Solopaca, if I remember correctly, and he became obsessed with it, hastily making arrangements with the small, rustic winery to pick up a couple of damigiane, which is a kind of a mini barrel in the shape of a fat, tall bottle firmly inserted in a straw basket with a handle on each side. Hence the necessary transfer of the powerful, deep red liquid into a battery of dark-green bottles he had collected. That’s when I came in. Now, he’d say, Mara, I’m going to transfer the wine from the damigiana into the wine bottles. Dimmi quando è piena, va bene? Sure I’d tell him when the bottle was full, you can trust me. Okay, the damigiana was large and bulky, very difficult for the pourer to aim (and see clearly) into the small funnel inside the wine bottle getting filled, so I had to keep a sharp eye for the level reached so it wouldn’t overflow. And I tried, people, I did. But. My mind wandered, I was a teenager after all, constantly in and out of love, moody, absent-minded, limited attention span for practical (boring) things…So very soon a burgundy-hued puddle would be enlarging by the second on the newspaper-lined kitchen table, soaking the paper, rushing toward the edge and dripping insistently on my father’s shoes…Yeah, not good. Accidenti! he shouted, clumsily getting a better grip on the damigiana to place it on the floor and tend to his shoes and the flood, ma non ce l’hai la testa?! No, evidently my head wasn’t functioning properly during these occasions, mostly due to my absolute lack of desire to help with this tedious task. I don’t know, perhaps those powerful fumes were sort of making me somewhat tipsy…Fact is that it usually took a very long time to get that job done, and at the end, both my father and I - worn out and cranky from the effort - would not be on speaking terms. There went my evening out with friends. Who had the guts to bring up the subject when my father was fuming from every pore? A different perspective on the hazards of alcohol, no? But I shall add that, later, while sitting at dinner with a (moderate) glass of smooth, rich Solopaca in his hand, his mood vastly improved and he would even laugh about the wine-bottling misadventure. Until the next time.

June 25, 2011 Carlo Cassola and Apricot Jam Crostata: A Great Combination!

Nothing like discussing Italian literature with a group of people who are fluent in my native language. And so it was, at the Eastchester Italian Club where I conducted a very interactive talk about some of the modern Italian writers, with a focus on Carlo Cassola and his classic novel La Ragazza di Bube. I had read this book when I was still living in Naples, and it’s amazing how differently one views prose when a few (okay, several and several) years older. Fascinating how the mind’s process evolves in such a drastic manner. Anyway, this was my first time ever doing a talk exclusively in Italian in the US. Loved it! Made me proud, it touched me tremendously, it encouraged me to pursue my dream of involving everyone in the ancient, extraordinary Italian culture. I’m particularly grateful to Enzo Salvo, the group’s organizer, for his deep understanding (and affection) of all things Italian. It was an honor, my friends, to share that time with you, discussing the narrative I love with such a knowledgeable audience. (And the robust, intensely-flavored espresso served in the tiny exquisite ceramic tazzine was superb! Perfect accompaniment to the Apricot Jam Crostata I made for the occasion.) Can’t wait to meet with you all again! Oh, so much to talk about, signori…

June 13, 2011 Woody Allen’s Paris and Pizzaiola Sauce (no, no connection)

Just random thoughts. It should have been me. To write this story. Oh well. Clever, hilarious, sarcastic, intelligent, brilliant. The new movie by Woody Allen, Midnight in Paris, is certainly one of his best works. Okay, I’m a sucker for stories that take place in Paris, true, but though the scenery was stunning, seriously pulling me into the screen as I yearned to lose myself in that city, it was the characters who mesmerized me, so easily becoming real even in their outrageous situations. Especially Owen Wilson, whom I could actually refer to as endearing, a term that would never enter my mind to use to describe him. But so he was. A kinder, gentler (more attractive) impersonation of Woody Allen himself, he made the famous gestures and stuttering responses, well, funny again. Time-traveling, one of my favorite fantasies - well, really, what writer wouldn’t wish to be living in Montmartre in the twenties, hanging out with the likes of Hemingway and Fitzgerald, in Bohemian salons electric with sophisticated conversation, superb food and sexual tension? Exactly. So, lacking Paris, I’m cooking Italian in my American kitchen. A simple dish, Pizzaiola, which my mother made often, taking thin veal steaks and cooking them on the stove with her tomato conserve, partially covered, keeping a sharp eye on it. I make it differently, because I found an easier recipe, my mother-in-law’s. Making good use of the oven, my greatest kitchen ally. So, I can fantasize about the boulevards of Paris, Gertrude Stein’s intellectual soirées, and meanwhile chop some garlic and parsley, then pour some good extra-virgin over tomato purée, crush some oregano (dried, always dried! Italians never use fresh oregano, the only herb preferred that way), and throw it in with the rest of the stuff. Cover with foil and bake. Done, pretty much. Just have the water boiling, toss in a pound of pasta of your choice (short, though, don’t care for spaghetti with this sauce), mix it with the rich, fragrant sugo your oven just made, then serve the meat (beef) as a second dish, the Italian way. Or not, your choice. A green salad with homemade vinaigrette will follow, and my Sunday dinner is served. Here’s the recipe, my friends, more or less (nothing precise here). So, go see Midnight in Paris, sigh a little, then cook Italian.

June 7, 2011 Complete Video Class: La Crostata di frutta

Okay, here it is, my friends. A complete baking class, where I'm making one of my favorite desserts, Italian Jam Tart. For those of you who cannot attend my Baking Classes in Italiano, I'm offering you a virtual one. Watch me prepare this traditional, scrumptious Italian crostata, from the mixing of the dough to the finished, glistening tart. Get yourself a cup of coffee or a glass of wine, sit back and relax. Welcome to my kitchen! For the memoir-blog on Jam Crostata, click here. Then get the recipe and have some fun!

May 31, 2011 My Kind of Breakfast: Italian Olive Oil Cake

Okay, another cake. What can I tell you, I’m so passionate about baking, that I feel the blood sizzle through my body when I read (ingest) a new recipe. One that grabs me immediately, seduces me with an exciting list of ingredients. That I already have at home. Yes, always fabulous this last bit: love to simply reach for one of my cherished baking pans (okay, I do have a super-extensive collection that would make a French pâtissier envious), grab flour and eggs, and get to work. This one, dear readers, is a pound cake. Unlike any other. The ‘pound’ quality of this dense, moist loaf cake is provided by extra-virgin olive oil. You can have a golden, rich, satisfying to the bite and the soul country-style Italian cake, and dip it in your caffelatte. Or espresso (me). Just add some good Dutch cocoa and turn it marble and divine. That slight lemon flavor with chocolate? Amazing. So Italian. My mother used to make a similar cake, called Marmor dolce, where dark patches of cocoa batter mingled with the soft yellow, and there were bursts of fragrant lemon zest in every bite, sometimes intense, others mild, depending on each individual delectable morsel. But she used butter. Well, here I am, surrounded by my music, Sognami di Biagio Antonacci, which slides gently over my senses like the most seductive silken scarf. The sensual lyrics mingle with the scrumptious aroma that seeps though the oven’s vent, and I’m lost again. In the past, in those yet unbroken dreams, in the passion that drives your instincts. In a good way. Well, them watch the video, and here’s the recipe, dearest readers. Have it for breakfast tomorrow morning, dip it in that good espresso. Let your day begin in Italian.

May 27, 2011

Creative Writing with an Italian Touch: A Cultural Evening in Pleasantville

Once again we did it! I had the honor and joy of presenting my novel Dreams, Lies and a Touch of Smoke at the Mount Pleasant Public Library, in Pleasantville, NY. Okay, you all know how much I love to talk (on and on…) about all things Italian, and when I can combine it with my other great love - writing – then all is well with the world. As I prepared to introduce my book, a member of the audience brought up the subject of the famous literary classic, I Promessi sposi (“The Betrothed”), the masterpiece of the great 19^th century writer Alessandro Manzoni, and I was happy to discuss it with this obviously very knowledgeable group. An exciting start for my presentation indeed. As I explained the process of writing – my process – I was touched and thrilled by the emotional involvement of everyone listening, by the depth of their observations, and the genuine interest in the evolution of this process, both intellectual and practical. I’d like to thank you all for coming to see me, for transforming this evening into an intimate and magical conversation/discussion among friends. Thank you also to Deborah Jordon, the events coordinator at the Mount Pleasant Library, a gracious, encouraging, sharply efficient lady who made this exciting evening possible. We ended our little workshop with a book signing and reception, with coffee and tea compliments of the library, and desserts – Crostata di albicocche (Apricot Tart) and Tarte fine aux pommes (French Apple Tart made with puff pastry), lovingly baked by yours truly. Thank you, dear readers: I feel truly blessed.

May 23, 2011 Meet MaraWriter!

Come and meet me tomorrow! I'm presenting my novel "Dreams, Lies and a Touch of Smoke" at the Mount Pleasant Public Library (350 Bedford Road, Pleasantville, NY 914-769-0548) on Tuesday, May 24, at 7 pm. Let's talk writing, creating characters and also all things Italian. With my homemade desserts.

www.mountpleasantlibrary.org

May 16, 2011 British Heart Throbs and Teenage Dreams

Okay, didn’t expect it, but suddenly I was dropped off on Memory Lane. While watching RAI Italia. It’s called Ciak, si canta, it’s a singing competition where famous singers and emerging artists alike perform for a panel of celebrity judges. Entertaining enough. Then Mal dei Primitives showed up and I was quickly shocked out of my semi-dozing relaxation (late, late television, people, duly recorded by my trusty DVR). Allora, backing up. A few decades. Shy, introverted, romantic young teen, hopelessly in love with love, experiencing the usual Prince Charming dreams (il Principe Azzurro in Italian, cultural tip for you). Well, he sort of fit the mold. That is, Mal, handsome English boy, with those enticing blue eyes, dark longish hair (so edgy then), pale perfect face, a powerful voice, and that British accent that colored his Italian lyrics. A newcomer on the Italian music scene, Mal and his group The Primitives were setting hearts on fire all over the country. I read everything I found about him in my mother’s magazines, knew about his blond and super-pretty Italian girlfriend (hated her), the location of his singing engagements, yearned to go to the Piper, the ultra-famous night club that hosted the latest singing sensations, the hottest club, the place to be if you lived that kind of glamorous life. I didn’t, needless to say. But one can dream, no? And so I did, cutting out photos of my idol and gazing at them whenever I felt down or uncool. Sure, it would have been nice if I could have posted them all over my room like a normal teenager, but no, my mother wouldn’t allow anything other than some classic paintings to be strategically hung on the elaborately papered walls, a pink and gold 18^th centurish flowers and festoons motif. Anyway there was especially one that I adored, a close-up of his beautiful face, his intense gaze on me (really!) as I held the photo in my trembling hands (a full page of a magazine, and in black and white, too). However my (mild) obsession with Mal caught my father’s attention, and not in a good way. He began preaching about the evil influence of his sort on young, inexperienced girls (okay, there circulated gossip that pretty blond girlfriend was pregnant…), and what kind of example, etc, etc…I naturally blanked out during the predica, and kept hoping for the miracle of someone like him noticing me…Then a big argument with babbo, about what not a clue, probably the usual generation gap stuff, but all I remember in the most vivid way is that my father somehow unearthed my small poster of Mal…and tore it up in a thousand pieces. Yeah. Devastated, furious, temporarily hopeless and lost. But that, too, passed with time. Never thought about Mal again. Till he shook me awake from my television in New York, and the floods of the past washed away my sleep. He still looks good, Mal dei Primitives, his tall black-clad body a little fuller and his hair white, but the aura that enchanted me in my wonder years is just slightly weaker (well, sex appeal a bit lacking also). Oh, babbo, what unnecessary heartbreak he caused, over such silliness…Was he afraid I would run off with an Englishman? Well, close, it turned out.

May 11, 2011 My Novel is on Sale on Kindle!

Yes, my dear friends, Dreams, Lies and a Touch of Smoke is on sale for Amazon's Kindle. So, if you have the gadget of the future, you can download my book right now, this very second...and might even have read the whole thing by the time you come to my presentation at the Mount Pleasant Library on May 24th! That would be fabulous, so we could even discuss some parts (with caution! can't give away the story...) when we meet. Follow Diana around our familiar Westchester places - restaurants, shops, parks, even churches...You see, you will understand her, she's one of us. But a little gutsier. And crazier. Follow the link to the book (above, in the banner), choose the Kindle version, if you like your books digital, and grab it on sale! Then, come and meet me at the Mount Pleasant Public Library (350 Bedford Road, Pleasantville, NY) on Tuesday, May 24, at 7 pm ( www.mountpleasantlibrary.org ) I'm even bringing dessert!

May 4, 2011 “You make the sauce today”, said my mother: A Memoir

Actually what she said was Oggi lo fai tu il sugo. What? Is she mad? I thought, appalled. Okay, let me clarify a little known fact for you, dear readers. If you assumed that I grew up watching my mother cook, precariously standing on a kitchen chair next to the stove, eager and involved, well, you’d be totally mistaken. It is a general misconception, gathered in my many, many years in the US, that all Italian girls were born with a thorough knowledge of the cooking arts, destined to become accomplished cooks. Not so. Sure, some, of course, probably many, but not all. Not me. Once I graduated from the childish fantasy games I played with my sister (and, sometimes, brother), and often also with my cousin, my interest took the drastic, though natural, swing toward all things boys. That is, shopping for clothes that would entice boys, ditto for shoes; reading romantic novels that involved the usual tall, dark and handsome boys with names like Darcy, Vincenzo, and such. And slowly dying to excruciatingly sad songs performed by pop star boys, thinking about the ones (boys) who colored my teenage dreams. And that’s about it. Thus, when my mother, on a bright late spring day, demanded (out of the blue!) that I make the sauce for the pasta that day, I was horrified. Fact is, she was rushing off to an after-school workshop, having been home from teaching only half an hour or so, time promptly used up by the daily food shopping at the fresh market. So she emptied her shopping satchel on the Formica kitchen table and ran off. I can’t cook! I was screaming after her, already out the front door. Sure you can, you’ve seen me make sauce all your life, she shrugged, impatient. Seen: key word. I had also seen my favorite singer play flawless guitar on stage…However, I had no choice. Pasta had to appear on the table fairly soon, when my siblings checked in for lunch, and my father would arrive shortly after. Okay, I knew she used a pot. I grabbed the small, dented tegamino that looked pretty familiar, placed it on the stove, and started looking around. Well, yes, of course, tomatoes, like the bottled ones she had had the country women prepare for us last summer (always one hundred bottles, that I remembered well, because we had to schlepp the damn things up to the fifth floor, a few at a time, and the tiny, temperamental elevator wasn’t always available). So pour in, what, half a bottle? Yeah, that looked about the right amount. Next, splash in some extra-virgin olive oil, good pinch of salt. Now the odori, the flavorings. I gingerly grabbed an onion from the freshly bought ones, clumsily (disgusted!) cut it in half (that’s right) and dropped it in the tomato passato. Rummaging through the groceries, I found the mazzetto – the string-tied bundle of vegetables and herbs prepared by the fruttivendolo specifically to make sauces and soups - extracted parsley, celery, a carrot, a tiny branch of fresh rosemary, and added them (as is) to the sauce. Then I remembered the basil growing in a small vase out on the kitchen balcony, tore off a couple of bright green, wonderfully aromatic leaves (yes, always loved basil), dropped them in, a quick stir, turn on the flame, partially cover it. Done. Off again to my fantasy world. Sort of forgot about the sauce, but, you know what? We had pasta (cooked less than perfectly al dente by yours truly) with tomato sauce for lunch that day and…nobody said a word. Which probably meant it was as usual - acceptable (not much the complimenting kind, the members of my family, me included). Yes, I did feel a sense of accomplishment, but mostly of relief - not an experience I wished to repeat any time soon. Well, such is life, and here I am, at home today, chopping onions for dinner, putting together a ground meat dish with a white wine and rosemary sauce, based on a recipe from my mother-in-law, but seriously tweaked, as I’m prone to do with almost anything (those creative juices…), listening to RAI Italia in the background (TV in the living room), and thinking about those Italian days of long ago. And, once again, I see her, my mother, stirring, salting, rushing, slicing, eyeing the pile of ironing in the corner, sighing, grating Parmigiano, rushing, stirring…I wish she were still there, in her yellow kitchen in Portici, waiting. For me. Yeah. A nasty beast, ‘sta lontananza. Auguri, mamma. Happy Mother’s Day to all of you, beautiful mothers!

May 1, 2011 My Book Presentation on May 24th!

Come and meet me! I'm presenting my novel "Dreams, Lies and a Touch of Smoke" at the Mount Pleasant Public Library (350 Bedford Rd., Pleasantville, NY, 914-769-0548) on Tuesday, May 24, at 7 pm. We'll talk about writing - how to come up with a plot, a story, how to create realistic, exciting characters - writing in English as a second language (since I'm sure you all know by now that I was born and raised in Italy), plus all things Italian, including balancing my deep love for both my countries. My book will be available for sale, so you won't even have to order online. Come and see me, let's talk, let's share stories...It's very exciting and I can't wait to meet all of you! And I'm bringing my homemade desserts! www.mountpleasantlibrary.org

April 29, 2011 Italian Television…all day long

Ok, so I was walking and writing this morning, as I often do. Meaning, of course, that my mind creates/digs out/mulls emerging ideas Whirling by, a burst of red trench, focused, fueled by the passion and creative fury that are my driving forces, I had Italian television in my thoughts. Rai Italia, that is. Crossing streets quickly, and, yes, carefully, though some drivers might not be very willing to yield to pedestrians, since I was rudely cut off by a car driven by a person I happen to know (barely), and wonder if she felt her trademark organic hair adornment burst into flames, ignited as it was by my smoldering look. Anyway. So, what happened is that I suddenly lost my free Italian programs, last week. Saying that I was irritated is putting it (very) mildly. I had been counting on those couple of hours of news and interesting TV dramas, to keep in touch with my native country, and also updated on the changes in the spoken language. What does one do, right? Grin and…pay. Yes, I ended up purchasing the cable access to Italian television, at a reasonable fee, granted, but who wants to pay for something you can get gratis, right? Well, people, a whole new world has opened up and pulled me in! Twenty-four/seven of Italian programs, new and fresh, today’s shows, sizzling and vibrant with news and culture! My DVR has been whizzing for days, since I can’t yet make up my mind as to what I want/need to watch. Never mind that the timing is based on Italian programming and the shows might be 1 hour…and 15 minutes long. Or 1 hour and 45. Approximately. And that to record the end of one program, you need to tape the next one because that’s where it will be, the end, inexplicably cut off. What can I tell you, that’s the way it is, and one must be flexible with her patience. I am, really (no choice). Allora, it’s Ballando con le stelle that I watched instead of Dancing with the Stars (on at the same time! How cool is that?), though after about 1 hour, I called it quits because, do I really care that deeply, especially when it lasts for 3 hours straight? But the language, my friends! Live and current and mine! Complete immersion, leaving on the TV when I’m doing things around the house, hearing it all loud and clear, pretending I’m in Portici, maybe at my sister’s, feeling like I’m living there again…For a while anyway. I love the lame game shows, like Affari Tuoi, Italy’s version of Deal or No Deal, less glitzy - no models in skimpy dresses, and the host, well, a very ordinary-looking guy with zero sex appeal. And the controversial dramas like Bianco e Nero, sputtering with sinful liaisons between members of the new African community trying to assimilate into the Italian lifestyle. Juicy stuff, guys. Not to mention the frenzied coverage of the mother of all weddings, happening in English and duly dubbed in Italian by enthusiastic reporters. Watching this major historical/ pop culture event through the eyes of my people: Fascinating. Moral of the story: I LOVE IT! So glad I lost it, just to find it again, better and grander. Do I recommend it? Yes. If you understand Italian fairly well. Otherwise it might be frustrating to watch those exciting images unroll on the screen and barely comprehend il principe William e la fidanzata Kate Middleton. However it offers the unnerving pleasure of total immersion, and you might want to give it a try. Or take up Italian lessons first…Così, I’ll carry the next to the last ricotta, parmigiano and prosciutto/salame laden rustico (photo included) to my favorite seat and click on channel 1772. Allora, che si vede stasera?

April 22, 2011 Pastiera, Easter, Rebirth and all of that...

Slowly stirring the creamy concoction of wheat, milk and orange peel, catching the ancient aroma as it rises in a cloud of perfumed steam from the pan. The ‘soul’ of the Pastiera I call it, the dense, traditional base of the filling of the classic Neapolitan Easter Cake. Yes, of course, I’m immersed in music as I cook, dreaming with Fantine, trembling with unfortunate Èponine, letting Jean Valjean’s tender voice slide over my heart. Yes, Les Miserables is playing in the theater of my kitchen, powerful and emotional, while I direct the action. Easter prepping, living the past as it melds into the present, remembrances of clear, sun-drenched April mornings in Portici, the cheerful light bringing to life my mothers’ kitchen, all hues of yellow, light green and beautifully patterned majolica tiles. Yes, it was spring then, there, for Easter. The damp harshness of the winter had been swept away with spring cleaning, the churches’ front doors were still closed half-way through somber Lent, and gold/red/turquoise-clad chocolate eggs glittered in the windows of the pasticcerie. And so it is still. Here in Westchester, my eggs are standing proud in the dining room, a brilliant red and blue, concealing their precious little surprise, tiny plastic trinket that it might be. My pasta frolla is tender and supple – I know it will easily yield to the rolling pin and expand, soft and silky as cloth, to the large circle that will completely cover my shallow pastiera pan purchased on the market street of Portici several years ago, a couple of children and dreams ago. The fresh ricotta has been draining overnight just to make sure it’s firm and dry when I blend it with egg yolks, spices, orange flower water, into a velvety fragrant cream. My pastry cutter is on the marble board, besides the flour, my red French silpin and the bench knife - the tools of the trade, my friends, the makers of delectable pastries. It will bake slowly and for quite a while, all those carefully chosen components blending together to produce the one and only Pastiera, stunning and aristocratic, the queen of the Neapolitan Easter. Voilà, the yearly feat has been accomplished once again, as the music guided my hands and caressed my soul. The house now smells like Easter. All is well. Let peace sweep over you, at least for a bit. Happy Easter, Buona Pasqua to you all, amici!

April 17, 2011 Easter Confession

Didn’t care much for confession. Okay, not at all actually. A long time ago, when I was growing up in Italy. Not that I’m fond of it these days, but then it isn't something you’re supposed to look forward to. Easter, many years ago, in Portici. Avanti, ragazzi, my mother would say, andate a confessarvi. Go to confession. Holy Saturday (or any Saturday), the dreaded walk down the ten flights of stairs, up the block to the neighborhood church, dark and smelling of incense and gladioli. The ornate wooden confessional on the right of the aisle, toward the altar, where Padre A. would be waiting. He was a short, hyper little priest with a very high-pitched voice which was often the cause of great amusement for us kids during those endless homilies at Sunday mass. A good, decent man certainly, but a little intense, way too eager to turn rambunctious children into quiet, devout little angels. But I suppose that’s what priests ought to do, so just doing his job, old Padre A. If my parents (not great church-goers themselves) accompanied us to the church, we would have to head straight to the line at the confessional and await patiently our turn. But, if we were sent off on our own, I would direct my brother and sister toward the pews on the left side of the church, way in the the back, as far away from the confessional as possible. The queue would be quite long and we were waiting for an eternity with no chance of approaching the good Father, then we started getting hungry…That would be my tale to my mother, and it usually worked. But sometimes not. When Padre A. noticed the mischievous Di Sandro children across the aisle and would catch my eye, as I peeked furtively, and freeze me in place. Then he slowly lifted his hand and summoned me with his index finger. Yeah, sure, I quickly twisted my neck searching for someone else who might be the object of his interest, but no, it never was. Dobbiamo andare, I would whisper to my siblings, ci ha visto. Yes, no way out, he had noticed us. It was indeed a long, painful walk across the aisle, to kneel in front of the priest (no, no anonymous screened side window for us, we were just children, so he just waved us down right in front of him, with no cover of any kind, our shameful sins potentially overheard by some of the other expectants faithful). Darn it! Allora , after the embarrassment was over, the penance (Two Hail Mary’s, Two Our Father’s) piously recited immediately, we would head home, yes, lighter, relieved, another confession over with. The only difficulty: having to act politely toward each other until after communion the day after, with not even a stupido, cretino or ritardato whispered under our breath, or our confession would become void and we’d have to face Padre A. again! Per carità!

April 8, 2011 So I write...

Because I’m a woman I feel with the intensity that is our gift and our downfall. Because I’m a writer, those emotions transmute effortlessly into electronic scribbles, as my fingers tremble in furious flight over the keyboard, coaxing words from the tumultuous thoughts. Because I’m a writer, I see. No, not better, but differently. I hear what I see, even if the sound is oh so feeble to be almost inexistent. I read a half smile, grasp the avalanche of sentiments concealed behind its timid grimace. Because I’m a woman I burn inside, and, as you add Italian to that noun, well, sometimes the flames are too intense to contain, and will burst into a shower of fire that might or might not scorch anyone who’s not prepared. But it will pass over you, a storm of passion that will soon be boxed again. Because I’m a writer. I melt into the page, not surrender to meltdowns. But my characters are not as strong. Diana, Serena, Sophia, Cassandra, Natalie, the women of my imagination who are as real as you and me. I’m plotting sequels, twists to their tentative tales, and men…dare I say it? New men insinuating their irresistible presence into their lives. Have they learned their lesson, my cautious yet still tenderly susceptible heroines? You tell me because they are you…More to come indeed.

March 30, 2011 Here we go again...

Let’s talk shoes. Yes, they can buy you happiness. All right, for about five minutes, but, God, those five minutes sizzle! Dragging today, overwhelmed even. By what? Well, everything, life in all its most convoluted twists of seemingly ordinary events that hold the power to drown you even though you might have had well ready your survival swimming skills. Sometimes, they ain’t good enough. To survive. So you dive into the abyss, absorb the impact, allow all your frustrations and vicious jabs (administered by whoever it is who’s got you now) to run amok, and even unleash your tear ducts for a bit. Then, because you’re a woman, you peel yourself off the cement, dust off those Italian suede boots, and shout I’m back, didn’t crush me yet. That’s when DSW comes in. Or Marshall’s Mega Shoe Shop, or Annie Sez, or Lord and Taylor brimming with clearance sales. Evict the demons that corrode your soul, sweep them out swiftly and forcefully: enter the shoe-shopping mode. Feeling calmer? Of course. Think soft, sexy leather that reminds you of that charming little boutique in Florence, near the Ponte Vecchio, where the air itself was infused with the scent of fine, luxurious items. Eyes darting greedily from display to display – bags in a Crayola box of spring color, Michael Kors discounted, people, and look, is that a buttery, malleable, straw-yellow bag by Bottega Veneta? I’ll just feel it, sink my fingers into the tender calfskin, squeeze the supple shoulder strap for a moment, then let it go back to its happy little place. Still a bit pricey: drenched in desire, but beyond reality. Moving on. So shoes. Focus here, that was the original call. Well, strappy is always right. Ever exciting, hot, flattering and, in general, fairly comfortable (for those of us who are quite accustomed to be on the sharp edge of ‘comfortable’ when it comes to footwear), multi-strap heels are always a show-stopper. So, little side-zipper, easy to undo, and the leather yields when you insert your foot into their welcoming embrace, quickly tightening its grip as you stand up tall. And I mean tall. A moderate platform softens the incline, so your step is balanced by the adjustment, and you need not suffer as much. Or at all, really. They look unforgiving, these super gorgeous gladiators, but they’re kinder than you’d expect. You can doubtlessly put in a couple of hours at work, especially if you have the opportunity to take several sitting breaks…Hey, all in the name of trendy fashion, temporary euphoria and coveting looks from all. Worth it, right? I’ll let you know. Viva le scarpe!

March 19, 2011 San Giuseppe: viva le zeppole!

Yes, March 19 is St. Joseph’s Day. As I previously mentioned, saints’ days are a big deal in Italy, a great celebration, sometimes even more important than your birthday (sounds good to me!), and the biggest saint day of them all is St. Joseph’s Day. So if your name is Giuseppe (Joseph) or Giuseppina (Josephine), get ready to enjoy festivities and delightful sweets. I mean zeppole. Of course you don’t have to have a Joseph in the household to partake of these traditional pastries. Growing up in Naples and surroundings, I always looked forward to when my father would take the little pilgrimage to one of the numerous pasticcerie in the neighborhood, and return bearing an elegantly wrapped tray of zeppole di San Giuseppe. Which are slightly different from regular fried zeppole, a more opulent version, fit for the beloved saint. These particular zeppole are larger, filled with the richest, most delicious yellow pastry cream which peeks through the opening in the scalloped dough shell, and decorated with a shiny red preserved cherry. Extraordinary! Besides, March 19^th is also very important for another (related) reason: it’s the time Italy celebrates Father’s Day. So all the proud dads get their fill of this favorite sweet, especially if their name also happens to be Giuseppe – double the party! I’ve never made these pastries at home, and must admit that I’ve had great difficulty, through my many years in America, finding some really good ones. I’ve had decent Sfingi, the Sicilian pastry traditional for this day, which is the same dough filled with a delectable ricotta cream, but never authentic, scrumptious zeppole. Oh, well, I suppose I have to go to Italy to get the real thing. The ones in the photo were purchased in a local pasty shop and aren’t too bad. Happy St. Joseph’s Day everyone!

March 17, 2011 A Delectable Irish Rice Pudding

Yes, of course I celebrate St. Patrick’s Day! I wear green, and turn into an Irish cook for a day, brogue and all (no, just kidding here). I’ve got to be honest though: not crazy about corned beef, cabbage and boiled potatoes. Even though the horseradish sauce I quickly whip up to accompany the meat is quite good, as it gives an otherwise slightly under-flavored meal a serious kick. But certainly the fabulous Soda Bread makes up for a lot, especially freshly made, rich with currants and slathered with softened butter...(recipe). Not too fond of Guinness either (no hate mail, please my Irish friends!), I find it too bitter and heavy. But then, I’m no connoisseur of beer of any kind, and never really liked it much. However, I LOVE Irish coffee! Of course, what’s not to love, it’s a liquid dessert that gives you that warm fuzzy feeling, as you feel the smooth creaminess slide down your throat with just a hint of fire from good Irish whiskey. The point is, all of this just to approach the subject of my very favorite part of this Irish meal: dessert. And for me it is a super-creamy, rich, vanilly, sexy rice pudding. Irish rice pudding, that is. Probably the best I’ve ever had. I think the recipe comes from someone I heard on a radio show I used to listen to years ago, which naturally I tweaked here and there. It makes a very generous amount (about 2 ½ qts), and it smells like cream and cinnamon, a pristine white bowl of luscious culinary happiness, dotted with reddish-brown sparkles of the exotic flavor of my special, freshly ground Cassia cinnamon from Penzey’s, spice purveyors par excellence. Easy to make, people, sure, it takes a while to simmer slowly on the stove, and you must watch it with a hawk’s eye, but just put on some good music, Celtic Woman http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DquA6KyHTos perhaps (or Michael Bublè, who goes with everything, believe me), and lose yourself in those melodies as you stir (no, not continuously, don’t worry). Enjoy the recipe, and have a fabulous St. Patrick’s Day!

March 15, 2011 Trying to understand (and failing)

I can’t think of anything else. The beast that has assaulted Japan has managed to infiltrate my heart, and the horror leaves me inundated with extreme sorrow and anger. How could this be? Echoes of 9/11. Lost and speechless, I watch the stories unfold, many of strength; too many of horrifying desperation. When you hang on to a pole, while the winds from hell whip your face, and a wall of water batters your body, but your grip is tight on your child’s wrist, and I won’t let her go, you swear, the evil nature won’t take her from me…But it does. Where is the incentive to continue, when your heart has been ripped from your chest, and only a miserable hollowness remains? The earth has deconstructed and swallowed a country, while the cruel ocean fills the open wounds, and the fires from the inferno in disguise that are nuclear plants advance to invisibly pummel your fragile body. A tragedy of apocalyptic dimension. You look up at the sky for a moment, fury mounting rapidly, and you question everything. Is anyone minding the store? No, I don’t think so, not now, maybe not ever. My heart bleeds profusely for the people of Japan, as I take in those surreal images, helpless and disillusioned.

March 7, 2011 Edgar Allan Poe by the fire

I don’t know why, but as I put on my freshly-laundered cotton pajamas, soft and comforting, I’m assaulted by memories of my long-ago childhood, particularly the few November days I spent in Colli. It was only once a year that the great stone and marble fireplace in the house in Colli would be lit. All Souls’ Day break, in November. In Italy, November 1^st is a religious holiday (All Saints’ Day), followed by All Souls, a sacrosanct observance, when everyone is expected to go to the cemetery to visit their dead. We did that too, of course, when I was growing up in Italy. Since it was a school holiday, early in the morning, we would pack up the green Simca and get on the highway to Molise, to my father’s hometown, the tiny mountain village of Colli al Volturno. There stood his two-hundred-year-old ancestral home (aka our August vacation home), and the country cemetery where the tall, melancholy cypresses cast long shadows on my grandparents’ tombs, in the little private chapel that my father had had built for them. Where now both he and my mother also repose in peace. Allora. So, bearing hefty bouquets of chrysanthemums (in Italy, the official flower of the dead), we would perform our dutiful pilgrimage to the silent, well-tended cemetery. Then back to the old, bitterly cold house that smelled of dust and loneliness. In those days, the house didn’t have such amenities as central heating (this happened much, much later, during a renovation, when I was already living an ocean away). The only source of warmth was the great fireplace located in the kitchen, white and solemn, with my grandfather’s initial carved above the opening, which, when not in use, was blocked by a panel of wood. Actually, we never stayed at the house during the cold months, specifically because it was unheated and Colli’s weather is very much unlike the mild, pleasant one of Naples, and the winters are rather harsh. So my father would unplug the fireplace, clean it up and promise us a nice cozy fire for the evening. Well, there was no TV in the old house, as it conflicted with my father’s idea of what a vacation/ancestral home should be like. No, we didn’t like it, but there was little we could do about it. But my father did provide entertainment for us, on those chilly, dreary late-autumn nights. A writer and poet, my father was also an engaging story-teller, often creating his compelling tales as he recounted them, many times in parts (to be continued tomorrow and so on…). He also was a lover of great literature of every genre, and Edgar Allan Poe was one of his favorite authors. So, on those cold nights in the big house, we children would place our unfolded flannel pajamas on the back of chairs and allow them to warm up by the lively fire my father had carefully built in the fireplace. Then - my mother’s scrumptious, dense hot chocolate waiting enticingly nearby - we would quickly slip on our warmed up pj’s, and wait. Wait for him to pick his precious volume of the Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe (in Italian of course) and offer us one or two of those inimitably, deliciously frightening tales. He read clearly and a little histrionically, involved and excited about the story as if he had written it himself, transforming the characters into living, breathing beings creepily lurking behind every door in the hushed house. The chilling story of the gatto nero (The Black Cat) is the one I recall most vividly, and I’ll tell you that it was a long, uneasy climb up those dimly lit steps, to my bedroom, where I buried myself in blankets, trying to ignore the eerie persistent scratching of that unfortunate animal gasping for air behind the thick wall, as real as if I had seen it myself. Which I did in a way, through my father’s skillful interpretation of Poe’s prose, and still do to this day. Indeed, sometimes, when my American suburban house is shrouded in the gray-purple veil of twilight, and the rain beats against the windows, I feel the chill of those November nights, as my nerves are strained by the persistent, regular pattern of the dripping from the gutters, in the unrelenting mode of a pendulum. But that is a whole other tale.

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The writing life

It happens when I walk. Most of the time. Meaning, that’s my creative time, when I process the ideas that bombard me when I’m at work or at home doing ordinary stuff, or grocery shopping. I walk up that hill in my new “real” sneakers and start writing on my tabula rasa that is often quite rasa Then, when I get home, if I can, if I’m not immediately sucked in by life’s minutiae (but urgent minutiae), I’ll write a couple of notes – on paper or go pc and open Word. Jotting down, that’s all. At the end of the day, before my imminent collapse, I’ll gather my thoughts, arrange them in a somewhat orderly manner and produce my piece, be it a chapter of a novel, a short story or a blog entry. That’s how it works for me anyway. But I also collect numerous ideas on my uphill walk back home. ‘Beginnings’ are everywhere. The woman I meet everyday, all bundled up in winter gear, hat, shades, smoking a cigarette, walking fast down the hill…well, what’s her story? Or take my red trench, for example. Bought it because I love the color red. It looks good on me, I feel glamorous and a little mysterious. Should I add dark glasses and an exotic place, like, say, Barajas Airport in Madrid? Thus a character is born, the blonde in red, an intriguing woman wandering around the Spanish airport, stealthily followed by a man who believes to have met her before. And so it goes, an interesting short story is created (coming up at some point in a collection of short stories I’ve been working on). Or, what about Diana Harrison? The main character of my new novel Dreams, Lies and a Touch of Smoke. An ordinary suburban woman, living right here in my neck of the woods, Westchester County, NY, who goes out to the mall one mild September day, unaware that her life would be changed forever. She could be you - Diana - she could be me, or your neighbor, or your sister. Fascinating what riveting secret stories go on behind those quaint red doors on our quiet suburban streets. The writing life. The only one for me, really. I wouldn't want to do anything else.
Written on December 20, 2009