When I woke this morning I knew this was no ordinary day. April 25th is the feast of St Mark, patron saint of Venice. The tradition is that every male capable of tottering to the flower market buys a red rose bud for his innamorata. This means bonanza earnings for the flower vendors because normal Italian men have at least three innamorate: Mama, Wife, and Lover, this last known colloquially as the 5-7, the hours within which she may expect a visit.
I always tell Mr F not to bother. I hate the rip-off prices and anyway, he buys me flowers every week of the year. Also, I know he doesn't have a 5-7 because I can vouch for his whereabouts during those hours: he's in the kitchen making dinner.
So today was a normal business day for us, with the continuing paperchase around Italian bureaucracy. We had to drive 40 km to another town to organise some documents. But wait...

As we drove into San Donà it was clear something was up. Shops were still shuttered. The government office we went to was closed. Market stalls were being set up selling things no one needs. Helium balloons, dried flower arrangements, meat-type products made out of unthinkable parts of the pig. It was a holiday.
What I couldn't work out was why they were celebrating St Mark in the city of St Donato. Then we heard the distant hrrrumpapa of a marching band and the daylight dawned. IT'S LIBERATION DAY!
The day when every right thinking Italian should give thanks to those Allied Forces who freed them at such high personal cost. Yeah. Right.

I saw no American or British flags. I heard only the Italian national anthem. Let me see, how does it go... 'Running, gotta keep on running...' But we watched the local great and good parade down to the war memorial. The Suits from the Town Hall, and the... ahem... military, in their operetta uniforms. No one does dumb-looking uniforms better than the Italians. They are fearless as lions when it comes to satin ribbon. The Alpinisti veterans were there in their cardigans and their jaunty little mountain-shaped hats. There were some dudes in rather fascist-looking high boots, a lot of Nikes, several token foulards in the national colours. The best though, no question, were the Bersaglieri. They are the guys who look as though a dead raven landed on their head. And now here's the thing. It turns out that those feathers are not dead raven at all. They are capercaillie feathers. So there.

See? On this blog you get information as well as fulmination.

Posted by Laurie Graham at 07:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

The season of lizard issues is upon us. We have quite a community of lizards around our little terrace. I like them.
They don't give me the screaming hoohas unlike slugs or millipedes or Paris Hilton. They perform useful ant-devouring services, they have a cute way of running away whilst pretending to make a leisurely exit, and the have benign-looking eyes. And so, I repeat, I like them. But not as much as Mr F likes them.
'Yey, lizards!' he cries. 'Let's feed them.'
Yesterday he gave them grissini, but he has been known to share his bacon and eggs with them. This cannot be a good thing. It must have a deleterious effect on lizard cholesterol levels, plus it throws out of balance the appropriate Reptile/Human relationship. Get too familiar with them, they start dropping by. Then they move in. This happened last summer. The terrace doors were left open all day and before we knew it we had tiny gecko paws pattering across our floors. And these guys are highly-strung. A sudden noise and they skitter under the cooker, you turn on the oven to make dinner and voila! Frittered Lizard.
So it has to stop. Do you hear me, Mr 'Talk to the Animals' Fitzpatrick? No more lizard snacks. No running buffet. Let them eat ants.

After last week's post about my mother's declining health several readers wrote to sympathise. Thank you. I greatly appreciated your messages. And on we shuffle.

Posted by Laurie Graham at 12:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Rifling through my mother's kitchen cupboards this week I came upon a poignant sight. Her preserving pan, still in its packaging from last year's house move, proudly labelled CUCINA in her Grade 1 Italian. Usually by now that pan would have had its first airing and the whole family would have enough marmalade to last them the year.

Two weeks ago my mother could still visit her kitchen. It was on her daily exercise circuit but fortunately she didn't pay much attention to what's been going on in there recently. Tea towels a little grubby. Dishes still unwashed an hour after lunch. She was too busy giving orders to her unresponsive limbs to notice a slide in housekeeping standards. But at least she passed through. Now the kitchen has become a distant country. Her laboured circuit has shrunk to Sitting Room, Bedroom, Bathroom and can only get smaller. I wonder if she remembers she hasn't made marmalade this spring. I hope not.

There's a reasonable symmetry to her shrinking world, of course. We start off life knowing only the inside of a cradle and many of us are doomed to end the same way. I just always hoped my mother would go in flagrante, scything down waist-high weeds or storming home, weighed down by shopping bags for some needy neighbour she didn't even particularly like.
'I wouldn't mind,' she used to say, 'but those turkey doodahs she puts on her list are nothing but floor sweepings. She might as well eat cardboard and save me the carrying.'
A fury-powered exit. Way to go!

Posted by Laurie Graham at 02:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I'm especially delighted by the middle egg, top row, which I achieved using Welch's Grape Juice. Little things.

Posted by Laurie Graham at 12:57 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

A rather tardy entry in Laurie's absence. It's Saturday, after a light rain over night. A drop in the bucket, really. With the lack of rain this winter, the southern part of the state never got out of Fire Season. January wildfires fueled by the Santa Ana winds off the desert. We are in for one long hot summer out here on the Left Coast.

If there is any complaint about living here, it's distance. Too far from Europe, from friends and evenings walking the deserted 3am Venetian streets. Too far from research in the British Library and strolling among standing stones on a winter's afternoon. Too far from lingering over late night dinners, hanging "signs" at 5am, taking a boat to the Lido for beachcombing after a winter storm. Too much distance between the coasts which must be travelled before crossing the pond.

I'm spending my evenings creating a hand embroidered quilt and last night, around midnight, I heard coyotes and an owl in the vineyards. Today we cleaned up the firepit in preparation for after Easter dinner, when we'll gather around a bonfire and tell stories, maybe sing a song or two. These days in Paradise are numbered - it's stolen time, I know. My leaving here is inevitable. I left my heart in a Roman ruin somewhere and I am destined to continue what will be a lifetime dig in order to find it. But for now, I am content.

Posted by Laurie Graham at 07:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)