Fun Facts

A lively brain is often misunderstood.

~ Alessandra
Credit: Vector Sketch

Like you might have gathered from my August 20th and October 22nd posts (‘He’ll be a President‘ and ‘Mesopotamia‘), there were recurrent misunderstandings between my darling little boy and his teachers. One day I was told, again, by one of his grade school teachers that the boy was fast as a bullet but interested in everything except the standard required school proceedings. I called his father at the office and unleashed my frustration about his son‘s shortcomings, and the fact that I and I only had to keep dealing with the teacher’s many grumbles! My husband understood my pain, or most probably just wanted to shut me up, and left everything at the office to rush home and have a serious talk with his first borne once and for all! Only…when he got home he found his son head to head with his mom at the kitchen table; after her kid had told her his side of the story, mom was soothingly stating something of the sort, ‘don’t fret Topino (little mouse), lively brains are most often misunderstood…’ Obviously, the teacher did not understand the intrigued ways of my kid’s tireless curiosity and the Lioness, always extremely protective, was sweetly reassuring her Cub‘s sensitivity! To this day my husband reminds me of the unbelievably maddening scene he found in the kitchen after leaving his busy day at work behind in a hurry, and of the fact that he wasn’t sure who to strangle first, his boy or his wife!

Fun Fact:

When I complained with my mother in law about her grandson‘s school shortcomings she rolled her eyes telling me that she was called by my husband’s teachers every other week all the way up to the 12th grade. Every week she would try and guess the teacher of which subject she would have the pleasure to confer with. My husband eventually proceeded to complete college in 2 and 1/2 years and went to Warthon for a master where, btw, our little bundle of apprehension was born.

Reflections:

I often say to my successful son that many of the lines on my face have little to do with age; we truly appreciated (and still do!) his out of the box personality but it certainly contributed to his parents’… seasoning. On the other hand, probably because of the lack of brute pressures in our Italian upbringing, our kids enjoyed their childhood to the fullest. They are cosmopolitan, well rounded kids who have chosen to do what they loved and did it well, not simply for a college application. Children are robbed of an already short childhood in order to get into this or that university; by the time they graduate high school they already are worn-out by the constant pressure to outdo themselves and the fact that they didn’t enjoy the carefree childhood they should have been entitled to. I was appalled when, while still living in the City, my husband too was required to participate to our toddler’s interview for next year’s nursery school! Oh, he got in, but we thankfully then moved to suburbia. I have always believed that a name school, especially nowadays, doesn’t vouch for the wit of a kid’s brain or the capability to deal with the rest of the world once that kid gets out of the school’s protective walls. And it is plainly obvious in real life!

Typical Tuscan castagnaccio.

~ Alessandra

Ottobre e’ tempo di castagne (October is chestnuts’ time).

Here is a typical ancient recipe originated in the Tuscan country side; like most, as simple as it is delicious! Leave it to the Tuscan people to maximize enjoyment from the humblest of ingredients joined together in the simplest, fastest and most no-fuss way!

Ingredients for a 12.5 inches diameter baking tin:

1 pound chestnut flour*

3.5 ounces pine nuts

3.5 ounces walnut kernels

1/3 cup raisins

23 ounces water

1 fresh rosemary sprig

extra virgin olive oil

1 tsp salt

What to do:

Soak the raisins for about 10 minutes to rehydrate them.

Mince the walnut kernels and leaf the rosemary.

In a large bowl sieve the chestnut flour adding the water little at a time while blending with a hand whisk. When the mix is smooth add the minced walnuts and whole pine nuts, keeping aside a small quantity to scatter on the top of the castagnaccio before you put it into the oven.

After about 10 minutes squeeze and dry the raisins and, leaving a few aside, add them to the mixture, blending well and adding the salt.

Brush with olive oil a shallow** round baking tin and pour the mix into it leveling with a wooden spatula. Scatter evenly on top the saved aside pine nuts, walnuts and raisins.

Top with fresh rosemary needles, drops of olive oil and cook in the oven preheat at 380 degrees Fahrenheit for about 35 minutes, until the surface will show cracks and the raisins will look golden.

Take out of the oven and let cool dow. Serve and enjoy your Tuscan castagnaccio!

*The chestnut flour should be of top quality and very fine to better release its sweetness; in fact, there is no sugar amongst the recipe’s ingredients.

**As for the antique recipe, to obtain the best castagnaccio the baking tin should be shallow.

Fun fact:

According to an old legend the fresh rosemary needles used to flavor the castagnaccio were thought to be a love elixir and have the power of making a young man who ate it fall in love with and ask in marriage the girl who had offered the cake to him.

Have you ever heard of Mesopotamia?

~ Alessandra ~ 1 Comment

My little boy was in the third grade when there was some big family gathering in Italy for a special occasion. We let the school know that we were going to take the children away for a week; given the grades they where in, you would think it wasn’t a big deal. Wrong! My third grader’s teacher chased me down the hallway to tell me, “Mrs B, you can’t do that to me!” Do what to him?! Apparently the teacher was of the opinion that my little boy should’t miss a second of school, let alone a week. I informed him that we were going to Florence, not exactly a remote deserted Pacific island.

Not a remote deserted Pacific island?!

After an eventful week in my beautiful native Florence we went back home to the U.S. and the kids went back to school. In the third grade they had just started History and the teacher was talking about American Indians. During our week abroad, between festivities my children had been at the Ufizzi Gallery and the Stibbert Museum. My little fellow let the teacher go on for a while about the American Indians after which, perplexed, he raised his hand and asked, “Have you ever heard of Mesopotamia?”

The Ufizzi Gallery seen from the Ponte Vecchio.

The Big Red Ball.

~ Alessandra

Here I am, in my native Firenze!

I was born and raised in this magnificent city; yearn for it when away, delight on its unequaled beauty when here and, like any Florentine D.O.C. (Controlled Denomination of Origin), feel so very proud of the ancient blood that runs in my veins. Like we, Florentines, like to state, Fiorentini si nasce, non is diventa. (Florentines we are born, we don’t become.)

Also my children, born and raised in the U.S., although not Florentines by birth feel a special bond with the land of their ancestors. They have visited Florence since they were weeks old and live the city like locals at their nonna’s (Italian grandmother’s), a stroll away from il centro (the city’s center) along the Arno river, and with their extended Italian family. They have been exposed to the art, architectural and natural wonders of Florence and Tuscany at large from the very beginning of their lives.

The Big Red Ball is visible from many locations in and around the city and as such is often a point of reference for directions. How proud would Brunelleschi be knowing that his masterpiece would eventually get such a practical, no-nonsense name?

Although the kids feel comfortably at home in the city and are well aware of living and breathing art while there, Art History hasn’t always been ingrained in their thoughts (Gelato artigianale and focaccia all’olio d’oliva are and will always be some of the most treasured pleasures Florence has to offer. Obviously?!) One of the first times my young guy went on his own to meet friends in centro, when asked if he was sure he knew how to make it back to nonna’s his reassuring answer was, “Of course! I’ll just have to see where the Big Red Ball is!”

Did you get a lollipop?!

~ Alessandra

With three children born in less than four years I often felt that I was entitled to a group discount at the pediatrician’s office; one kid would get sick, the week after it would be a second one, then it was the third one’s turn. At times the doctor felt so sorry for me (for my sanity, that is!) that he would ask the nurse to give me extra meds for free!

The kids had very diverse reactions to their pediatrician’s visit; our little boy would start screaming his head off, and obliterate mine, while still across the street from the office’s door. Our no nonsense May girl accepted the annoying visit with a stoic, lofty demeanor. She was surely thinking, “I am here to shut mommy up although I had better things to do with my time! Let’s get it over with!” I can’t recall her crying at any time. Goldilocks was something in between; she would get inside the office without needing to be dragged but if she eyed needles…Apriti cielo! Spalancati terra! (Litterally, Open up heaven! Open wide earth! In short, The Apocalypse!)

In those days to sugar coat (literally) the often stressful visits Saint Sue, the pediatrician’s nurse, was promising a lollipop from a large glass jar in the entrance to any child who would behave (then giving them out wether one had or not…). I would always remind the children about that treat, trying to divert their attention to, “What color would you like?” Never holding my breath!

Also mommy had to go to her doctor occasionally and my children (my darling girls seldom missed an occasion to monitor and reproach mommy’s behavior) demanded a concrete proof that I had courageously endured MY visit, especially when I was coming back with a bandaid on my arm. SO?! I resolved to keep a stash of lollipops hidden it in my bathroom; every time I had a doctor’s visit I brought four with me (obviously if I had been really good my doc would give me lollipops also for the three of them?! DAH!) As soon as I got back home from my visit my children would run towards me and enquire, “Did you get a lollipop?!”

Fun fact.

One time I absentmindedly went and came back from the doctor’s office without my bounty; the children caught me before I could sneak up to get some of the lollipops I kept hidden; boy was I in trouble! I couldn’t say the doctor’s stash had run out, could I? That meant the alternative reason for coming back without lollipops could be one and one only; I must have behaved really poorly! Mommy?! REALLY?!!!!!

Thankfully they still didn’t know about impeachment… PFEEEW!

Is Bau-Bau (Woof-Woof) coming to school today?

~ Alessandra

Our first born was around eight months old when he was gifted the adorable plush dog, Bau–Bau, that was to become his inseparable security blanket. Bau-Bau was always with the baby and the baby always with Bau-Bau!

A few years later, when he reached grade school, our little boy would agree to separate himself from Bau-Bau for the duration of the school day. Until one day, in the second grade, he left to school grabbing Bau-Bau under his arm. I thought he might have show and tell that day but what I learned was a heartbreaking discovery. My little boy matter of factly declared, “I am taking Bau-Bau with me so I can play with him if nobody wants to play with me.” WHAT? Not only I hadn’t heard of bullying, yet, but could it start as early as the second grade?

In my little fellow’s case the bullying was never physical, it was psychological. The other kids would purposely mispronounce his Italian first and last name in order to make him feel different; even suggesting that his English had a funny accent (he was born and raised in the U.S), which most probably was a result of hearing his mom’s funny accent. My very sensitive little boy wasn’t a large or tall kid at the time, but didn’t cowardly retreat and endured those hurtful days with an unexpected aplomb, conscious of the fierce love and support of his family and, obviously, Bau-Bau’s backing.

The years have gone by but nobody has had the heart to dispose of the lump of mesh and plush Bau-Bau has become after much intercontinental loving. Although it doesn’t even remotely remind you of the cute plush dog it used to be, it still is stashed in a closet’s corner; you just can’t get rid of a loyal paladin!

Fun Fact...

By the age of 14 my guy shot up and surpassed most of his peers by at least half a head. About his funny accent? He fluently speaks three languages and can manage anywhere he chooses to go in the world. He recently came back from a 5 days/10 men bachelor party in Cartagena, Colombia, where he was the voice of the group, translating back and forth for guests and hosts to be able to comfortably manage a great time. There is a saying in Italy, “Ride ben chi ride ultimo!” “Laughs best he who laughs last!”

Yellow Hair.

~ Alessandra

I picked up my baby girl from nursery school one day and on our way home she asked me, “Mommy am I dopted?” I wasn’t sure I had understood her question and asked, “Why Topino?” (Little Mouse) “Because only I have yellow hair!” Amongst the five of us our Goldilocks was and is the only one with yellow hair; both her siblings and her parents have different shades of brown hair.

That day at school they must have talked about adopted children since there were a few in her year’s class. It must be a difficult concept to understand for a four years old, and observing the uniqueness of her hair color our Brainy Blonde (she was born and is one!) must have concluded she too was adopted. “I seem to remember somebody kicking in my tummy at all hours.” I told her. “I thought the little baby inside me was practicing to become a great soccer player one day*. Then I went to the hospital and came back with the most beautiful baby I could wish for!”

I proceeded to show her pictures of her American grandmother and Italian nonna, both true blondes, and pictures of her nonna as a child and young woman; whom to these days she resembles in an astounding way!

I wanted her to understand that adopted children are adored by their parents; I didn’t want her to think that her adopted little friends were less precious to their adoptive family than she was to hers. I explained that people adopt children for multiple reasons but they choose to do it and to give a loving home and upbringing to a child who otherwise might not have one. She seemed to be reassured; probably also by the fact that she, with her unique yellow hair, had come from where her darker hair siblings did, but surely her very caring little heart was satisfied to know that her adopted friends were loved and cherished as much as she was!

The playful beginning of what became magical years as a dedicated, very talented classical ballerina.

*The baby in my tummy was not kicking to practice soccer but to rehearse pirouettes, grand jetés and become a beautifully talented performer.

Goldilocks (center) in Medea at one of the Lincoln Center Theaters.

They do it with Barbie in TV!

~ Alessandra

My May girl was about four years old when it became clear to me that if or when children are too quiet there is a disaster looming!

The nonni (grandparents) from Florence were about to come for a visit and I had planned to finish the stenciling I was working on in the entrance hall before their arrival. One afternoon my May girl had a playdate with a little nursery school classmate and they were playing in the garden, just outside the open door near me.

I had been concentrating on my painting progress when I heard…silence! It hit me that there was no noise or girls’ chatter coming from outside.

My little May girl with her somewhat salvaged hairdo, finally asleep after an interesting afternoon.

I poked my head out and, WHAT?! Locks and wisps of my May girl’s shoulder length hair were spread out on the grass and she was sporting a spiky hairdo about a couple of inches from her scalp. Her playdate had brought with her the new ‘cut and style’ Barbie doll and had proceeded to ‘cut and style’ my May girl’s hair with the little pink scissors that came with it; I have to believe with my little girl’s blessing.*

When I finally regained my breath I incredulously asked, “What is going on here?!” “I saw it on TV!” The little girl boldly informed me. “She is NOT a Barbie doll, is she?!!” I exasperatedly answered. “But, the hair grows back! I saw it on TV!”

Silly me! I had forgotten to ask the factory my baby came from to provide hair refills for her like the ones Barbie comes with!

*My little girl didn’t have a mirror while she was being so glamorously ‘styled’; when she finally saw herself you could hear her screams blocks away from us. I thought that either the Police or Fire Department, or both, would show up and I would end up behind bars for child abuse**. I run my little girl to my hairdresser to try and re-arrange her hairdo… as much as it was humanly possible under the circumstances. Don’t forget, her Italian nonni, who hadn’t seen their American nipotini (little grandchildren) for months, where about to visit.

Lesson learn! From then on I wouldn’t stop fidgeting unless there was a ruckus wherever the children were playing, whether it was with playdates or between themselves!

**Now that I re-think about it, a quiet prison cell with a nice book might not have been such a bad alternative to the craziness of that afternoon, and a few others that come to mind…Where is the Police when you need it?!

He’ll be President. Or Pope!

~ Alessandra

We are nearing the 2020 Presidential election and in case you are confused or disenchanted breath easier; I’ve got the perfect candidate for you!

I was seven months pregnant with my first child when I went to visit the White House with my suocera. We didn’t know what sex the baby was going to be, but my American mom in law, always light years ahead of her time, declared, “This child will live in the White House!”

A few years later my little boy and I were in the mommy and me program when the teacher asked me if he was born in the U.S. “Yes!” I replied. “He will be President!”

Our busy wana be candidate granted the press a brief interview while getting ready to tend to his mommy (his campaign manager) and me constituency.

Fast forward a few years and my little boy was, in fact, building his resume to become a formidable presidential candidate one day.

In the third grade he would be asked by the teacher to go from A to B to collect and deliver an eraser to him; he would eventually go back to the teacher with the eraser, but only after taking his time to visit H, J, W and Z to make sure his constituency was taken care of. “How are you doing?”, he would cheerfully ask his potential future voters around the classroom. Very politically savvy! (That filled me with pride, I am sure!)

He was always very in sinc with the environment; while his soccer team run the ball towards the opponents’ goal, he would make sure butterflies wouldn’t get caught in the frenzy by chasing them the opposite way. So brave I could cry! (Most probably did!)

His commitment to seniors had no parallel; after his group tennis lessons I would be called by ladies I didn’t know who would ask me if I was the lucky mother of such a considerate little boy, who gallantly made sure he chased and took back to them all the balls they flew into some bush or other outside the courts. “You should be proud of your son!” Of course I am! His unselfishness and community organizational skills were taking over his own personal gain. Truly commendable! (…still crying.)

There is only a glitch about his candidacy to the Presidency; his Italian nonna, with high hierarchy prelates somewhere or other in her ancient family tree, had plans of her own concerning our young fellow’s promising future: “Sara’ Papa!” “He’ll be Pope!”

NO PRESSURE AT ALL!

Lines and poke dots.

~ Alessandra ~ 1 Comment

After the all male deliveries in my husband family, and our own beautiful little boy, we had managed to brake with tradition and got two baby girls. By the time the first one was in nursery school her brother was dropped off at the big kids school around 8:15 am, while the nursery school’s doors didn’t open until 8:45. We usually spent that lass of time with a special cookie at the bakery and chatting between us girls in the car parked near the nursery school entrance. Once, while waiting in the car my darling May girl declared, “Mommy you have lines on your face!” REALLY?! I was in my mid thirties and until then had never bothered checking my face for lines. My darling daughter must have noticed the shock in my expression because she sweetly added, “Don’t worry mommy, you don’t have as many as grandmother!” PFEW!

The look in those eyes…
So sweet when they sleep!

Then, while both her older siblings were in the big kids school, it was our third child’s turn to wait in the car with mommy until the nursery school’s doors opened. We were looking at our faces on the rearview mirror once, and I was pointing to her the similarities between the two of us, “The same eyes, the same nose…” “But, mommy, not the same skin!” WHAT?! “Why?” I asked her. “Because you have poke dots on your face!”

My bicycle…

In a family of repeatedly just boys I had desired to also have girls. What is it that they say? “Careful what you wish for!” Or, like we say in Italy, “You did want that bicycle, now pedal!“