MIDGE’S HOLIDAY PANETONE RISES TO THE OCCASION!
NEW ENGLAND— Christmas Eve Dinner was an eclectic success. Classic American Fare? Classic Italian Fare? Some of both. With a large dollop of Southern Food thrown in for grins. We opened with Proseccos, and followed up with eggplant Parmesan and then moved to the piece de resistance, the mail-order, deep-fried turkey. Tacchino Fritto? Chi lo sai. It was all aces, but we had to feel Wicked Proud of the Panetone. Who knew you could actually make that at home? Could. And did. To be on theme, (and because we did not have many of the prescribed ramekins) we baked the cakes in oversized cappuccino cups. Worked like a charm. And the homemade Panettone was much moister and fresher tasting than the store-bought ones we have had in the past. Another benefit was that our whole house was redolent with the perfume of the little Panettones for the whole evening.
The next morning, Christmas Day, we had those Panetones, again. This time, for a late brunch: Omelet’s to order, Panettone with blackberry jam, and of course Cheesy Grits. True Multi-cultural Christmas Joy!
Speaking of things Italian and American Brunch: One of our life goals is to do our version of Brunch for our Italians friends sometime soon. The concept of eating Non Italian food will probably initially scare them half to death I’m sure, ma va le la pena (worth the pain). When pressed, most Italians will admit that they have heard Americans skip plates and eat straight out of cans that we buy in the SuperMart. And that we have only recently tumbled to the idea of using a fork to extract the food from the can. Well! Don’t they know we have moved up to Microwave Food? No matter. I have a secret weapon in mind to help win them over to our evil ways. As conservative and xenophobic in taste as Italians are about food, I have a way to help take away some of the fear: Maple syrup. Strange, but true. We have used it as a regional Maine Pride present to many of our Italian friends and so far, over the years, the reaction has been universal: cosmic, undying, How Have I Lived My Life Without This? So, my plan is that if I lead with Maine Maple Syrup and pancakes on the menu, I may be able to segue into Cheese Grits when our friends’ guard is down.
In the meantime, Happy San Stefano’s Day You do know that today, the day after Christmas, is a holiday of sorts in Italy? San Stefano’s Day is like Boxing Day in the British Empire. But rather than being all about presents etc. in Umbria it is all about Tombola! It is like Bingo. But it has more personality. Every number has a nickname and story to go with it. The Tombola games themselves are fun trip souvenirs, not to mention that they are a good way to motivate yourself to learn Italian numbers and counting. And it is a pressure-packed learning device, as you have to be quick with yelling those numbers out and getting them right. Playing in a town-wide Tombola is exciting. If you find yourself in Italy over the holidays, ask around and chances are good there will be a game and it will surely be open to the public. Well, that is what we did one year. And I won a Hair Dryer. Now, if I only had enough hair to need said hair dryer. Sigh. Oh, well, the girls in the family were impressed. And isn’t that what Christmas is supposed to be all about?
Allora, Buona Stagione a Tutti!
WINTERWONDERLAND, MAINE— Where am I? Really. Good question. Where haven’t we been this month? Everywhere but putting up blog stories, it appears. Gathering Material. Yes. That’s it. You know, just like Hemmingway fighting the matador’s bulls or wrestling mutant Marlins into his fishing boat. Or not. But in the last thirty days time we have spent some long, fun weekends in NYC, London and Limestone, Maine. More on the London to Limestone sagas coming up. And Wiley has a big blog backlog direct from Italy that she is polishing up in Harold Wood outside London right now. But for today, we are grateful to have most of our family sitting right here at the dining room table. Zak, of NYC, bent over a growing chart, pen in hand, doing NYC Dutch ancestory genealogy, Midge in her “OLIO” cooking apron talking to the missing Wiley in London, and baby Grayson holding a bag of frozen peas on her jaw where her wisdom teeth came out yesterday. Poverina, figlia minora. She’s in good spirits and ready for whatever the holiday and Babbo Natale is about to bring her. 
First off, driving the three hours back from Rome by myself, with my father’s words firmly in my head ”When you pull out onto a road you are not pulling out onto a road in Maine, you’re pulling out into OMIGOD! ” Well, lucky for me I avoided all ’omigod’ situations on the way back, and only had a little bit of traffic and rainfall! And I have to say, it felt good, pulling into Panicale in my little car, heading to my little house, and knowing I got there on my own. I came in and made myself a big celebration dinner– pasta with pesto (and Italian gods don’t kill me– but I put a little Tabasco sauce in it too– my version of something old, something new,?!) also had some of the great farm fresh ricotta that the 
It’s Orfeo that’ll do it every time. After a brief hello, Celia told him about her quest for a particular hand cream made from bee products – that quickly led to Orfeo running into his house, grabbing his car keys, and leading us down the hill to his friends ”they have the best honey– you don’t need to go to Chiusi! You come to them”!
Later, as we strolled back to the car, more likely waddled, I noticed a very interesting difference between Chiusi and Panicale– In Chiusi all the benches and door stoops were filled with women, all sitting and chatting, fanning themselves and petting cats, well, as anyone’s who’s visited Panicale knows, in our town this sight is very unusual, it’s the men who take up the benches– but in Chiusi no men were to be seen– am I seeing a dating show? Umbrian Bench Dating, I really think I’m onto something here!
He plays at being shocking to nose-tweak some of the more conservative factions in this fairly traditional part of Italy. He is Danish but speaks perfect American English (he was Born in the USA. In the state of Springstein) and was raised eventually in Panicale. He starts rolling his own cigarettes as soon as he sits down but first asks waitress if its ok and she says no because there little kids at the next table and he pushes the tobacco gear back and sweet as a kitten says but of course, totally fine, I understand. Everyone assumes Eric has brought his own beer into the restaurant to tweak our collective conservative noses a bit. Wiley harassed him about it the next day and sure enough we’d all unjustly put him in that place. He’d bought the bottle from the waitress before he came to the table so it wouldn’t end up on our table’s bill. OK, we all got burnt judging a book by its cover. Typical day in the neighborhood when dad goes dating with daughter. 
But I digress. Why am I sawing up a branch of our tree? It spreads its branches up and out to the street above us to share with the people passing by. Bus loads of them are now almost tearing it apart in a fig feeding frenzy. Even when we are in the garden. Turning the other cheek, Wiley will often gather a hand fulls of figs and take them up to the people on the street, just to get them to back off a bit. But still, would you believe the biggest branch was ripped right off the trunk? Weird, but true. Sweet older Italians of all stripes flocking to the tree to relieve some inborn fig deficiency. In the crowd of bus tourists, two old dears waved to us. We could just see their tiny bird like hands and their faces from the noses up above our garden wall. In trembling old-people voices they asked ”dove siamo”? I have days when I wonder what I’m doing, but usually I’m set on where I’m doing it. Afraid that the question is too easy I had to answer a bit tentatively ”Panicale?”no, no they mutter over the top of the wall, Che Provincia? They were in a state, they just didn’t know which one. Heck of bus trip. 
So. . . Big and soft. But not split open. Bring them to the chopping board and merrily hack to pieces. Skin and all. Smaller the pieces, the smaller pieces in final product. Carla like them cut in only 3-4 pieces each. I like much smaller bits I’ve decided. 
Wiley calls to tell me she is on her way home as she does everyday when she starts her inter-town hilltop hike. On the way back, she finds black berries on the side of the road and knows all their berry names now because she has a page of hand written school notes about just that subject. She takes that page out of her notebook and folds it up into a basket and gathers the berries to bring home. Berry poetic Wiley. She learned the basket-folding trick on Italian Kid Tv the other day.