good thought: how much do we really see?

The newest installment of my everyday life.

As a being who is forever questioning life, and my pupils, through methods perfected by Socrates, I often stumble upon the pensive learner’s observations and perceptions; notions I support, generally, but more importantly, slices of wisdom that remind me why my job is worth every single moment. I cherish the moments, even when fleeting, when students of mine render me speechless. I grin, gleefully. It’s a feeling that, no matter how often it occurs, paralyzes me with intense joy.

Then, without further ado, here is the first of many wonderfully inspiring, thoughtful, humorous, pragmatic, and surprising morsels of everyday American life. And, for the copyright owners, well, you know who you are, thank you for continuing to inspire me.

Here goes:

You drive your car down the same roads every day, but if you were to walk those roads you would realize that you've never actually been there before.

good eat: banana whoopie pies

Generally speaking, I am far from embracing the junk food-junkie lifestyle, nor do I migrate toward the sweetness of cookie or candy aisles in the supermarket; rather, I am most likely to be found licking salt off the side of a building. Okay. That’s somewhat of an inadequate exaggeration (is that even possible?). However, I tend to embrace treats of the saltier genre, occasionally finding delicious concoctions of salty-sweet goodies. Pickles, along with honey wheat pretzels dunked in raspberry yogurt, are a weakness, although pickles certainly deserve their own host of ramblings, so without further ado I must retrieve my digression.

Onward!

It was ere that I committed to the familial duties required as the eldest sibling, stopping by to offer brief guidance, more laughter and name calling, and the fundamental discourse that would ensue betwixt the professorial type in her mid twenties and two of her adolescent siblings. As the lad retreated to the garage to perfect his tricked-out skateboarding dexterities, the young lady, the sort that (at an early age) is quite maternal, empathetic, yet oddly embraces an air of warranted highfalutin antics, led me to the kitchen where she was experimenting with this lady’s newest delectable formula.

Intrigued, I inquired if I might help—wrecking havoc in another’s kitchen or infringing on one’s personal bake time unannounced or uninvited is a grandly erroneous act. Obliging my request, my kin permitted me to take charge with a pastry bag (these are so cool, by the way) and extrude the batter onto parchment.

A mere twenty minutes later, perfecting the assembling process, we had a platter occupied with delicate, sweet indulgences.

A gentle sprinkle of 10x on top. Say no more. I was a goner.

Four banana whoopie pies later, I journeyed across the city to my home a gleeful twenty-something-year-old foodie, who, for the time being, had overlooked her aforementioned lack of interest of all entities sweet.

good idea: celebrating punctuation.

To all grammarians, and editorial pirates and misfits alike, today is a day to rejoice! “Why?” you ask: because one brilliant lone man braved humiliation from the masses of the illiterate and the ungrammarfied—yes, I made that word up—on behalf of all punctuation marks, sophisticated and primitive, underused and overused, dominant on the keyboard and secondary on the keyboard (requiring the use of the shift key to unlock its rule), to proclaim today National Punctuation Day.

Hallelujah!

At last, a day—no, a holiday—honoring the diligent and absolute attributes to some of the most underrated finites. Go ahead, go out and tell your friends, your colleagues, your students, your boss, your parents, and your next-door neighbor; hell, go out and tell your enemies (it’ll make you look smarter than them . . . again). And if that isn’t enough [for you], well, go get yourself a copy of the ever-essential, pocket-sized, classically written, how-to paperback. And who said Charlotte’s Web was his finest work? (I do admit, I certainly maintain a veiled affection for Fern and Wilbur).

Alas, for those who simply can’t, won’t, or don’t give a damn, well, here are my parting thoughts: Wherever there’s a comma splice, a gorge of semi-colons, a misplaced colon, a perfunctory exclamation, a ridiculous question, a misrepresentation of hyphens as em dashes, an unwarranted bracket, quotation mark, or parentheses, there is an army of angry red-penned editors, proofreaders, copy editors, and grammar fanatics waiting for your very next move. Edit your act, damn it!




P.S. If you’re a glutton for punishment, want to sharpen your skills, or might like to try something for kicks, put yourself to the test, and enjoy. I certainly did.

good eat: rice balls

Buon giorno, amici! Now is one of those times where I long to embrace the qualities of my Italian heritage. Why? Well, just like everyone else, I find myself slipping into mini-bouts of nostalgia based on my seasonal likes and dislikes, and something—perhaps the faint crispness that takes over the soft summer haze—about the embark of Autumn releases my strong desire to be one with the rolling hills and vineyards of Tuscany. In reality, the longing for my native land is only partially what brings me to such conclusions—the other, simply put, is food.

Now, ever since I was a young bambina I have dreamed of whisking away to Tuscany, where I would live in a clay house adorned with flowers, artwork, and other such wonderful embellishments and ornaments. I imagine two floors, very spacious and inviting, with guest bedrooms and amenities. I wish for a medium-sized backyard where I can scrub the laundry clean, in an old washbasin, using a handcrafted washboard, and then drape the newly fresh adornments and linens on clotheslines to dry. In the meantime, supper would be cooking—for I will have guests at my house ogni notte. And, without a doubt, each and every meal will be homemade, from scratch—I buy only what I couldn’t grow myself at the local mercato. This dream continues as I slosh around my personal vineyard in an oversized pair of yellow rubber boots. I harvest grapes of deep violets and crimson for delicious reds and whites, looking for new creations to please my guests.

Once dinner settles, guests saunter around my dimly lit house, chatting and sipping wine, or they might be found lolling on the back portico, gazing up at the star-studded sky. In the background, faint sounds of old famous Italian opera singers are heard—Cuzzoni and Pavarotti. Me, well, I’m likely to be discovered coiled up in a little ball on the strato quietly digesting a new novel. Sigh. One day.


You’ve probably decided that now you need to understand how food gets me on a rant about my intense desire to escape to a foreign country in hopes of one day calling it my home. Well, food, by nature, has the potential to be nostalgic. My obsession with Tuscany is somewhat unaccounted for since my heritage proves I am a well-balanced combination of Neapolitan and Sicilian. (I wouldn’t worry too much about the latter, since I am clearly a romantic at heart). Food. Inspiring. My favorite little Sicilian treat is a delicious and hearty nibble classified as arancine con ragù, more commonly known as rice balls. Arancine is from the Sicilian word meaning “little orange.” And, I understand this to be a relative term, since the rice balls do in fact resemble a perfectly round orange. A delicious combination of rice (or leftover risotto), peas, and mozzarella are rolled into a sphere that is then turned over in a bath of breadcrumbs. After a quick dip into a hot well of oil, smash in the center with a fork and top it off with a scrumptious homemade meat sauce (you know, what us Italians call gravy) and a sprinkle (or smatter) of fresh parmigiana reggiano.

Okay, so where can you find one of these amazing snacks? Well, the best locale to grab one is in Boston’s North End on the last weekend in August, when fellow WOPs celebrate the Feast of Saint Anthony. If you suffer from social anxiety, and aren’t really a people-person, well, I know a hole-in-the-wall establishment that is nothing less than utterly satisfying. Dom’s is the place to go, if you have the time, and while you’re there pick up a cannoli or two. On the other hand, if you dare attempt a homemade version of this tasty bite, experiment and make it your own. If you need guidance, well, just follow Giada’s recipe. Mangi!