Coffee

Some people have a palate refined for the taste of good foods or fine wines. Me, I have a hard time distinguishing a cabernet from a pinot noir, and my vocabulary for describing such is limited to good, great, and more, please. You'd think two and a half years in one of the world's premier wine producing countries would have taught me a thing or two about the art, but alas, it's had the opposite effect. Because good wine is plentiful, I've rarely had to use any discrimination when selecting exactly what 4 euro bottle would be the perfect end to a long day. Before you think, however, that I have completely squandered my Italian experience, I can claim to have spent many a morning perfecting the fine art of consuming Italy's other beverage of choice: coffee. I'm not speaking of that watered down drip of a brew I enjoyed back home, but a hearty, viscous, foamy mouthful of smoky espresso. I do have to admit that it has been a morally compromising process. I have had to say arrivederci to my organically shade-grown fair-trade beans, but the perfected taste is worth it. I figure that living without air-conditioning and growing my own tomatoes counts as its own version of fair-trade, right?

When first having arrived in country, I was astonished at the frequency with which Italians drained those tiny little cups. It is true that after an early morning cappuccino, espresso is enjoyed on many occasions throughout the day. It is the signature ending to a leisurely meal, including those that conclude after the sun has set. In my efforts to embrace the local culture, I tried, but Coffee Mate is a hard habit to break. I now had to own coffee as its own beverage and determine whether or not I liked it. It turns out that, in the end, I do. Immensely. So much so, in fact, that we spent a serious amount of hard-earned cash on a machine that would deliver my new found love in exactly the form I craved within the comfort of my own kitchen. It is a tidy little metallic box that grinds, presses, and spits out a perfect espresso. We have a slightly one-sided friendship, but the bond is strong, and my machine is one of my first cognizant thoughts each day. After juice has been poured, bananas peeled and Sesame Street located, I retreat to the kitchen where I flip the switch and wait while my Saeco comes to life. Then, I hear the familiar hiss and stand, salivating, while the chocolaty liquid fills my cup and signals the start to another day in the life for me here in Italy. And so, not for the caffeinated punch it delivers, but for the five minutes of peace, the strong, smooth mouthful, and mostly for the pleasant reminder of the change in me this time abroad has brought about, lo amo mia espresso.

Full Disclosure

Before you begin, you should be cautioned that the following post is not in keeping with the style and context of previous entries. It is a deviation from the norm and my attempt at, well, I don't know, something or other. I figure that filed somewhere between my grocery list and thoughts on how to trick my four year old into liking peas, is a genuine, honest to goodness, original thought. Tis a scary idea for us both, dear reader, so be assured that I bear you no ill will for signing off now and returning at a later date for the safety of a story about how Max currently favors wearing his underwear outside of his clothing in true Superman fashion, or how Cal used the word "p*nis" when telling his teachers and class about our recent day at the beach. Did I mention, too, the fight in the grocery store over whose nuts were bigger? We're speaking bags of pistacios and peanuts, of course, but should you have been shopping one aisle over, you'd never have known.

I recognize that I have been a derelict blogger as of late and can offer no excuse but to throw myself at my the feet of my readership and beg for mercy. You are a forgiving bunch, I should hope, seeing as how we are related, and I am in possession of your grandchildren and nephews. Truth is, I've been stalling. I like to write, but I fear I lack originality or at the very least, a thought worth sharing. However, I do have them; real, honest to goodness thoughts (from time to time, that is). And yesterday, when I threw my back out doing yoga, I figure that I am a big enough (and apparently old enough) person to claim them. So, here goes the risk of a little exposure...of the writing kind.

Owning one's thoughts and opinions is a risky move for someone like me who favors the peace and security that referring or defaulting to others can bring. When your standard for yourself is perfection, you tend to figure that any effort or display of lesser proportion is invaluable and should remain under lock and key lest anyone discover your dirty little secret of imperfection. I know several brave souls who parade through this life with their own brightly-colored flags flying at full mast. I envy them. What am I afraid of, really? A raised eyebrow? A differing opinion? Offending someone? I'm beginning to think that there really is no recourse consequential enough to justify falling into step in someone else's parade. So, as a new chapter in this life begins for me, so does a march in the direction of ownership and full disclosure. Cue the band.

Iron Man

We're big into superheros around here. The boys have never seen any cartoons and/or movies on the subject, so we're not really sure how they became quite such avid fans. We've concluded that it must be encoded in their DNA. The latest fascination is Iron Man. Apparently, the fact that fire comes out of his boots is what makes him particularly special. Cal loves to pretend to have his powers, however the story took a turn for the worse tonight before bed. As we were sitting down to say our prayers, Cal said, "I'm Iron Man. If you push the button on my head, fire comes out my bottom. It makes me run really fast. Want to push it, Mom?" Um, no thanks.

My Mother Hen

We walked down to the river today, and while perched along the edge, I picked a stalk of grass, and just like my roots taught me, stuck the end in my mouth. When Max looked up, he said, "Hey! Take that out! We don't put weeds in our mouths! That's yucky! What were you thinking?" Without so much as a thought, he grabbed it and hurled it into the river. There are times I've heard myself in the boys, but that reprimand had to be the best impersonation to date!

The Prince of Egypt

Saturday Morning

I love to cook, but never to bake. I'm not big into sweets, but really, who can resist homemade cinnamon rolls? Meet our weekend tradition. I'm hoping it will continue to lure my boys to my kitchen table for many years to come. So far, so good.

An Astute Observation

A few days ago, Cal asked to see my belly button. I was slightly nervous as there appeared to be an agenda in the way the question was posed. "Huh," he concluded. "Yours is open." For comparison purposes, he lifted his shirt and said, "See, mine is closed." Cal is indeed the proud owner of an outie, aka a "closed" belly button.

T-Ball

Max is enjoying t-ball season and seems to have found his sport. He loves game night when his friends all pass through 3rd base (his most frequent position) and pay him a little visit. It is always such a disappointment when they have to run home. The photo above is Max and his friend, Jacob, wearing their very best game faces. We're not exactly sure where Cal and his buddy, Nicolas, found that bag of Cheetos and it shows on their faces, doesn't it?

Sagra Season

The much anticipated summer sagra season in Italy is upon us. It began for us with a kick-off in our little town, Quinto, and will keep the Pasho family entertained through the month of September. A sagra is an outdoor fair and village feast where families of all shapes and sizes gather for a weekend of good food, great fun, and all the local flavor each little town can muster. There are live bands and food tents where all sorts of traditional (and occasionally questionable) delicacies are served followed by a variety of rides and amusement park themed activities for children. The serious amount of money lost to tokens is recovered in happy faces and sticky fingers, and the memories made are always worth it. Good thing the food is cheap. Here is a sampling of this week's fun.

Just For You, Uncle Bear

Cal's new sneakers arrived in the mail yesterday. When I pulled them out of the box, he said, "Oh, cool! Now Uncle Barrett has running shoes just like me!"

The Gift

It always seems that no matter how prepared I am for an on-time departure, I wind up 5 minutes late to everything. I had a board meeting at 10:00am this morning, and so without good reason, I again found myself rushing everyone out the door, into their car seats, and in Cal's case, out of the car seat, into the bathroom, and then back to the car. When we arrived, I unbuckled the boys, and with as much patience and geniality as I could muster, I herded and shooed them in the general direction of my friend Marie's home. Deaf to my prodding, Cal stopped to examine something in the grass along the sidewalk. As I was just about to implode with impatience, I realized that he had found some dandelions, and my heart softened. (Reference previous entry.) He was not only stopping to smell the "roses" but was reaching down to pick me one. "Cal," I said. "What a sweet boy you are. You picked Mommy a flower!" I instantly began to feel bad for placing my timeliness - in this case, an absurd five minutes - above the things in life that really matter. My life lesson lasted a mere few seconds, however, until Cal said "No, it's not for you. It's for Mrs. Marie." I think I could actually hear the heavens laughing.

The Instigator

I've been noticing a trend this week in nap irregularities. I've now discovered why. Unaware that I was upstairs, I heard Cal say in his best whisper voice, "Max, let's sneak out of our beds." Then a little louder, "Max, let's sneak out of our beds!" And finally, "MAX, LET'S SNEAK OUT OF OUR BEDS!!!" With no response, I finally hear the patter of little feet down the hall followed by the following attempt to wake his brother: "Max, wake up! The sun is up. Let's be bad guys. We'll fight monsters. Monsters usually like you." And so begins the second half of my day.

A Rose By Another Name

I love that Cal thinks a Dandelion is my favorite flower. Tonight, at t-ball practice, he handed me one he had picked and said, "Here, Mom. It's your favorite." And you know what? These days, it most definitely is.

Harvard, Here We Come!

Last night at the dinner table, we somehow landed on the subject of math. The question was posed: "So, Max...if you have three, and I take one away, how many will you have left?" (And then there is the same blank stare we always get.) "Look at my fingers. Three, minus one equals...?" The light comes on. "Two?" YES!! Luck? Let's try that again. "That's right!" I say. "What about if I have five and take two away?" Out come five of his fingers. He puts away two and then says, "Three?" He then went on to add two plus one. It was one of those "aha moments" as we teachers like to call them, or to a momma, it could better be described as a "my kid is a genius moment."

The Diego Egg

Against my own better judgement, I decided that since both boys had been excellent errand runners, we would peruse the toy section at the PX as a reward. This has worked well for me in the past, and we've only ever escaped with the occasional attachment to a toy that could be coaxed out of grabby hands with a little sweet talking on my part. However, this last visit proved to be the point at which toys ascended from a "want" to a "need." Cal is a big fan of our favorite adventure-seeking, animal-rescuing, spanish-speaking amigo, Diego. In fact, next time you visit, you can expect to hear such terms as "Arriba!" and "Vamanos!" and "Freeze, Bobos!" although I'm pretty sure that the latter will not translate to anything beyond a 30 minute window on Nickelodeon. Our PX has a toy department the size of the toothbrush selection at Target, so Diego toys are in short supply. It just so happened, though, that Cal's particularly well-trained eyes honed in on something Diego related and despite my best efforts, I could discern nothing beyond the wail of, "I WANT THAT DIEGO EGG!" Um, egg? Where? It could not be found a second time; besides, I had no intention of making the purchase of anything cheap and plastic. So, I continued to push the stroller away from the toys, and Cal continued to make a scene that elicited stares, jaw-drops, and wincing from bystanders. I consoled, I lectured, I was firm, but I had to check out. At last, I gave an ultimatum: stop or you will get a spanking when we return to the car. Not to be deterred, Cal apparently decided that a spanking was well worth his freedom of speech, so I made good on my promise. Afterwards, I explained to Cal that it is good to express one's thoughts and feelings, but that it needs to be done so in the form of a discussion and not a temper-tantrum. With one more stop on my list of things to do, Cal "discussed" with me up and down each aisle of the grocery store that he wanted, neigh, NEEDED, that Diego egg. I listened, I affirmed, I ignored. "I hear you, Cal. I understand you want that toy. I know. I hear you telling me that you love that egg." He was relentless. 25 minutes later, this two year old had done his very best to convince this resolute mommy that life would come to a screeching halt unless that toy found its way into his toy basket. There was no giving in now. I loaded the groceries and the boys, and we finally headed for home. Desperation began to set in, so Cal again switched tactics. He was no sooner buckled in as he began to pray, very loudly, I might add, from the backseat, "Dear Jesus, I want that Diego egg. Heavenly Father, I reeeeeaaaaallly need that egg. I love that egg. Dear Jesus, please give me that egg." Over and over and over and over Cal petitioned God with persistence and devotion. My nerves were frayed and I was literally on the brink of tears, when sweet, quiet, patient Max, totally and completely lost it. He turned to Cal and shouted at maximum volume, "HE HEARS YOU, CAL!!" Apparently, He did, because a week later, with Cal still talking about that egg, we walked by a clearance rack at the PX, and low and behold, there, slashed by 50% was a blue Diego egg with Tapir on top and a whistle inside. I figured $1.27 was a small price to pay for peace and answered prayers.

Not It!

I feel bad that every morning on our way to take Max to the bus, Cal says "Hel-lo, Kitty!" to a dead cat just over the fence on our neighbor's property. I tell Cal that the cat has died and gone to heaven, but he continues to assure me that it is just sleeping. I am pretty sure it was pitched there after making contact with a set of car tires, but since my spoken Italian limits me to pleasantries and restaurants, I am not sure how to translate "Gross dead cat in your field" to the friendly old folks next door. I think Brad and I are going to have to throw a little "Rock, Paper, Scissors" for that one.

I Should Have Guessed

Cal has a flair for the dramatic and some very strong opinions of how things ought to play out. I wasn't surprised then the other day when he asked me to pretend with him, handed me a blanket (which he tied around my waist) and told me I was Joseph. "Oh. Ok. Well, then, who does that make you?" I asked. He gave me that "Duh, Mom" look and said, "God." Silly me.

Christmas in Germany

We had high hopes for our holiday in our favorite corner of the world. Garmisch is a charming little town nestled in the Alps, and we make frequent pilgrimages there for the charm and the quiet. A person can really catch their breath in a place so beautiful and full of crisp mountain air. With all of the travel options within arms reach, we have been loyal to this particular spot. However, our city, she turned a cold, cold hand to us. Day two dawned with me unable to remove myself from the bathroom floor. One brot too many was my first thought, but 22 rounds and three days later, I am now pretty sure German sausages were not to blame. The boys watched a persistent cold rain fall out on the patio erasing the snow and their dreams of sledding and frolicking, so when we could no longer take the cabin fever, and I was finally able to upright myself, we cut our losses and headed home early. After throwing our bags into the back of the car, we headed back to Italy in search of reprieve from our vacation. But before leaving town, insult was added to injury when we skidded right into the back of some poor, unsuspecting, albeit gracious, German. Fortunately, his car was fine, ours now needs a new bumper. Sigh. There were moments, though, we do wish to remember. They all happened in the first day, but here they are. In retrospect, I'm thinking the Kriskindlmarkt in downtown Munich was almost worth it. Almost.

Dora No More

Yesterday morning was a cartoon morning. I had things to do and the boys had been doing too many things and needed a break. Fortunately for Cal, one of his favorite shows, Dora, promptly came on. I heard singular cheers in the other room, and then noticed that Max slowly migrated into the kitchen. I was singing along with the theme song and got to the chorus (which I'm particularly good at) "Da-da-da-da-da Dora!" Without pause, Max chimed in, "Na-na-na-na-na No Dora!" And that is the end of his interest in all things girly.

A Real Class Act

I desperately needed to get out of the house and figured a trip to the PX was in order. 4 trips to the potty, two Taco Bell quesadillas, and three bags of stuff I don't need later, I loaded the boys in the car and discovered as I buckled Max in that he was browsing a National Enquirer he found somewhere along the way. I'm thinkin' maybe I should have just stayed in!