Eating Like an Italian

Basically, there are two different Italian cuisines. The authentic, traditional cooking one finds in Italy is one, and what is called Italian food in the rest of the world is the other. Each can be tasty and worthwhile but they are different. There are, of course, many regional variations on cooking within Italy. But here I'm comparing basic cooking on and beyond the Italian peninsula. 

As I write this, I'm not sure what I'm about to say regarding traditional Italian cooking is still as true as it was in the past. This blog is my own observations. I do not troll the Web for information and then regurgitate it for my readers. So I'm not sure how much things have changed since I was last in Italy, the fall of 2008. 

Traditional meals in Italy involve a number of courses, four or sometimes five. To begin there's antipasto. Pasta, soup, or maybe risotto or polenta follows. The main dish is meat or fish with one vegetable, and then maybe a salad. To finish, there's cheese and/or a dessert. If that sounds like too much food, it's really not. It's not because each course is smaller and simpler than what you'll find at Italian restaurants in New York, London, Berlin, or Beijing, or anywhere outside of Italy. I've given up on looking for traditional Italian cooking outside of Italy. It's a thankless task. 

A Caprese Salad is usually served as an antipasto. Here, a New York restaurant 

added sundried tomatoes and olives which totally ruined the subtlety of the dish.

Outside of Italy, fast food and one-dish meals have become the norm, so portions are larger and extra items are added to the mix. 

Around the globe, pizza and pasta are the most popular Italian dishes. Internationally, Spaghetti Bolognese is number one in pasta popularity. This puts a small, snobbish smile on my face because to order Spaghetti Bolognese in Bologna, the city of origin, is a no-no; they insist that the proper pasta to go with their famous ragù is tagliatelli. 

Bolognese is yummy regardless of the pasta type. 

Pizza? When I lived in Rome in the '60s, the city had just three pizzerias. Now, every Roman restaurant serves pizza. Tourists 
demand it. 

The modern pizza was created in Naples. At the end of the 19th century, Neapolitan immigrants brought pizza to New York, and then in the '50s, it spread like a doughy fungus across America. It would be hard today to find any place in the world that does not do pizza.  

Tiramisu (lift me up) is a newish dessert in Italy. Most Italians
finish their meal with an espresso. Cappuccino is for mornings.

Buon appetito!

Equestrians

“Say hello to George,” Mr. Rafferty, the chief trainer at Paddington Stables told me. George was enormous, a tall brown gelding with one ear that flopped over like a cocker spaniel. He was fitted with the classic English saddle. I had specifically told my mother I wanted a western saddle, either in gold or silver, like the ones Roy Rogers and Gene Autry used on their horses.

“Hello, George,” I said to the horse. He totally ignored me.

“You and George are going to be great friends,” Mr. Rafferty told me confidently. “He’s one of our friendliest mounts.” I reached out to pet the animal.

“Don’t touch him!” Mr. Rafferty hissed. “He doesn’t like that.”

He doesn’t like to be touched? How was I going to get up in the saddle without touching him? I voiced my concern to Mr. Rafferty.

“Oh, we’ll get you up on him, Laddie. Don’t you be worrying about that.”

My sister Mary Ann was standing with Buck, Mr. Rafferty’s assistant, on the other side of the ring next to her horse, Miss Grumble. Miss Grumble looked even bigger than George. I hoped the mare was more tolerant about being touched. Mary Ann was a toucher. She petted everything and everybody. She even petted dogs while they were growling at her.

This is not my sister Mary Ann or Miss Grumble.

Without warning, Mr. Rafferty reached down and lifted me up in one smooth move and placed me in the saddle. George moved nervously from side to side, blowing air out of his nostrils like a fire-breathing dragon. Mr. Rafferty inserted my boots in the stirrups, one by one, carefully moving around the front of the horse to get to my other leg. He told me to take hold of the reins.

“Don’t pull on the reins or slap George on the neck with them!” he said. Yeah, right. Friendly George doesn’t like being touched, I thought.

Mr. Rafferty was speaking softly into George’s ear, feeding him a lump of sugar, calling him “Old Fella.” When he thought he’d won the horse’s confidence, he took hold of a short piece of rope attached to the bit and began to lead George and me around the ring.

“Here we go,” he said as if we were about to embark on some great odyssey. The whole thing seemed ridiculous—me sitting on George’s back, passive, helpless, walking around this dark, dreary ring of dirt. Was this horseback riding? Was this supposed to be fun? 

I've never seen a white horse in this bar, but Dylan Thomas and Jack Kerouac used to drink there.

As near as I can remember, the whole horseback-riding adventure was my mother’s idea, a misdirected attempt by her to prepare her children for a rapid ascent up the social ladder. She never said anything to me personally about it, but it was rumored that Mom had been a devoted equestrian herself in earlier days. Looking back now, I doubt that there’s any truth in that. The one time I recall her coming with us to the stables, she seemed anything but comfortable around the horses. Mary Ann and Miss Grumble and George and I were walking around the ring, side by side, when Miss Grumble turned her head and leaned over and nipped me on my leg. My mother was furious. In the scene that followed, she cross-examined Mr. Rafferty about the culinary habits of his four-legged friends.

“Why did that animal bite young Edward’s leg?” she demanded. “I thought horses were vegetarians.”

Eventually, Mary Ann and I and the four other children in our class were taken out of the stables and across Parkside Avenue into Brooklyn's Prospect Park.

Crossing the avenue was a harrowing experience for both horse and rider. We would bunch up at the light, waiting for it to turn green, then dash across before the traffic started up again. When I say “dash,” I don’t mean we galloped or cantered or even broke into a trot. Dashing for George meant walking just a little bit faster. (Did I mention that George was a somewhat elderly horse?) Nevertheless, for me, crossing Parkside Avenue was always a heart-rending dash, with the sound of horse-shoed hoofs clattering on asphalt mixed with the growl of idling engines and blaring horns. I didn’t like any of it and neither did George.

Finally, somehow, we would make it into the park. Buck would be in the lead atop Lightning, a spirited pinto no one else could ride. Once or twice, Mr. Rafferty himself came along as our chaperone. On those rare occasions, he would ride the stable’s only Arabian, Ali Baba, a glossy-black stallion who liked to shake his head from side to side as if he was saying no to all of Mr. Rafferty commands.

Once we were in the park, the situation improved, at least temporarily. Our family’s equestrian activities were reserved for spring and summer, and the fresh, green foliage of the park helped to lift our spirits. It wasn’t exactly Big Sky Country or the Red River Valley, but Prospect Park was the closest thing to them that Brooklyn kids knew. So we walked our horses along the path, beginning to relax, becoming one with our mounts and the great outdoors, almost enjoying ourselves. Almost.

We couldn’t actually see the Prospect Park Zoo from the riding path, but when we were downwind, the horses could smell the animals. And they didn’t like what they smelled. As far as their olfactory glands could tell, George and the other horses knew that there were predators—wolves, lions, tigers, and bears—over there just behind the trees, ready to pounce. So every time the horses would reach a certain point in the ride when the wind was right (or wrong), they spooked.

Most of them just turned around and headed back to the stables, and there was little we junior riders could do about it. This was when Buck would earn his pay, riding ahead of the herd, or pack, or whatever you call a bunch of scared horses, and corralling the escaping mounts, turning them back around on the path. George had a somewhat different reaction to the wild animal threat he perceived. He would roll.

Looking back, I see the logic in George’s behavior. As slow as he was, he must have figured he didn’t need any extra weight on his back while he was fleeing from a wild horse-meat eating predator. Fortunately for me, it took George a good long time to get down on his knees and roll over, so I was always able to get out of the saddle and clear of him without being hurt.

The first time George rolled on me, we were walking along the path alongside Miss Grumble and Mary Ann. I turned to see how my sister was doing, and instead of her face, I found myself staring at one of her boots. It took me a second to figure out what was happening. Buck yelled, “Rooney, quick! Get off that horse!”

I slipped my feet out of the stirrups and swung around and jumped clear. I ran twenty feet away from George and turned to see him on his back, thrashing around in a cloud of dust. He struggled to his feet and immediately set off in the direction of the stables, with Buck in hot pursuit.

I don’t think George was trying to hurt me with his rolling routine, and after the second time he rolled, I was ready for him. In fact, I began to look forward to George’s zoo rolls. Looking back now, I see them as my favorite part of the entire equestrian experience.

This is not my sister Mary Ann either. It's Queen Victoria.

The Liverpool Lockdown So Far

Okay, I get it—there are no other subjects under discussion worldwide right now. It's the COVID-19 pandemic and nothing else. So I shall tell you what I think in an interview with myself.

Edo, are you following all the needed steps to avoid getting COVID-19? 

   I think so. I hope so.

Are you in fear of contracting this deadly virus?

   Yes, but I'm in fear of a lot of things. Right now I'm worried about an ingrown toenail on my right foot. 

Do you understand all the various symptoms and warning signs of COVID-19? 

   What?

Do you understand all the symptoms and warning signs of COVID-19—the coronavirus! 

   Maybe.

Have you tried to get a test?

   Nope.

Do you think you need a test?

   Nope.

Do you take your temperature every day to see if you are running a fever?

   Nope. I broke my thermometer. But I have no fever. And I have masks.

Are you enjoying all the relaxing leisure time at home you have now? 

   Nope.

Have you done anything useful with the extra time at home? 

   Nope. Wait! I'm saving money by not eating out for one thing. Is that what you mean by useful?

Nope.

* * *

As you see, I have nothing much to say about this life-changing situation that involves all of us. You see that I have a box of Hong Kong virus masks that a friend here gave me—thanks, Ariel—and both the M&S Foodhall and Tesco Express near me are open and the shelves are full . . . or nearly full. I walk the empty streets for an hour most days and stay well away from others. 

My pictures will show you what Liverpool City Centre has been like this last mount. Remember, in the '60s, the Beatles turned this port city into a busy UK tourist town, and the hotels fill up with visiting fans whenever there's a football match. Now the city is empty and almost all of the hotels are closed.  

Liverpool Town Hall on a deserted Castle Street

Cilla Black statue on the left facing an empty Mathew Street

The Cavern Club is shuttered like all bars and music clubs

Even the McDs are shut

An empty Liverpool ONE shopping center

A City Centre supermarket closed and boarded up

Stay safe, people.

The Volunteer

The pandemic lockdown continues here and everywhere. I have nothing in the way of worthwhile speculation to offer about that. 

Someone asked me to republish the memoria about my very brief military career, so here it is again.


After my freshman year at Catholic University, living with my father and stepmother had become impossible. So, with $24 dollars in my pocket, I left the combined misery and relative security of my family home in Washington, DC, and hitchhiked north to New York City. I’d taken just a few changes of clothes and my trumpet with me. At first, I was able to stay with my older sister. 

I had two crummy, low-paying jobs for a while, one as an usher at the Palace Theatre on Broadway and the other selling records at a music store in Harlem. After a time, those jobs disappeared and others replaced them. 

It 1953 the Korean War was ending, but we still had the draft for military service. If you were drafted you served two years, but if you volunteered it was a three-year commitment. However, there was a third way to enter the military. You could volunteer for the draft. That way you only served two years, but since you were moving your name to the top of the list, you had to leave for boot camp immediately—the very day you signed up. 

Since my life was a total mess and going nowhere, I decided to escape into the military. I volunteered for the draft. 

Early one summer morning I rode the subway downtown to the United States Army Induction Center to go through what I expected to be only the first of many military adventures. 

There was much confusion, noise, and the smell of young, nervous men. I remember standing in line waiting to get some kind of shot. The guy in front of me fainted at the sight of the needle. The guy behind me fainted, too. 

I then remember sitting at a small table filling out a questionnaire. Did I ever have typhoid, they wanted to know. Did I ever have smallpox, gonorrhea, malaria? Did I ever break any bones? The list was endless. I kept checking no, no, no, no. 

Then I came to the question: did I ever attempt suicide. I checked yes. I have no idea why I did that, no idea then, and no idea now. I wasn’t trying to get out of the Army. I was trying to get in. And I had never attempted suicide, although I’d thought about it a few times. 

The next thing I knew they had separated me from the larger group and a sergeant escorted me and a few others to a different floor. We entered a large room with several benches in the center. On the edge of the room were a half dozen open cubicles. Three of them had men in them who were interviewing the suicidal recruits. 

My name was called and I went into one of the cubicles. I noticed that I had drawn the top guy, a man somewhat older than the other interviewers. He was calm and pleasant and asked me to sit down. 

“I see you’re unemployed, Edward. Do you live at home?”

“No. I’m staying with my sister at the moment.”  

“Have you ever had a job?” he asked.

“Yes, I had a job until last week. But I got fired.”

He asked and I explained what had happened. I was going to work, was on the street where I worked at yet another record store, but I didn’t go in. I passed it by and instead I went to Central Park for the day. When I went back to the store a few days later, the owner let me go.

“Have you ever lost a job this way before,” the interviewer asked. 

“I’ve lost pretty much every job I’ve ever had in more or less the same way,” I told him. His soothing manner made me want to be honest.

The man was writing something on my papers. I looked at his name on the desk in front of me. Ludwig Eidelberg. It looked familiar.

“Did you write Take Off Your Mask?” I asked him. 

For just a second he looked startled. “Yes, I did,” he answered. 

“I read it; it was very interesting,” I told him. 

He looked at me for a moment as if I were some unanswered puzzle, then he nodded his head and continued writing. After a few minutes, he put down paper and pen. 

“Edward, it might be better if you did not have to go into the military.” 

I smiled and laughed lightly. “Yeah, I know,” I said. “But we all have to go. I just want to get it done with.” 

Then I realized that he was not just making a comment. He had made a decision, a decision that was his to make. I was shocked and I told him so. I was not fit to go into the Army? Why I asked.

“If we were at war, we’d probably take you. But the military is winding down now that things in Korea seem settled. I think you would be unhappy in the military, and that would not be a good thing for anyone. There is no point in putting it to the test. Give this paper to the sergeant at the desk where you came in. Good luck.”

And that was that. My entire military career had lasted just over an hour. No, I don’t think it had anything to do with the fact that I’d read Dr. Eidelberg's book. 

Yesterday's Problems

I hope I’m not being obsessive, but I want to say a few more words about changing fashions. Here’s me in the elevator yesterday. 

The only color is the blue in that Hong Kong face mask. I guess you could say I dress in the style of that big fashion change that came just before heavy tattooing, piercing, and bright customs. That change, about 25 years ago, was when hipsters abandoned suits and ties and dresses and went super casual. How casual was that? They looked as if they’d slept in their clothes. 

I embraced that look. At one point I was looking so disheveled that when I went into a barbershop in New York's Chinatown they refused to cut my hair and asked me to leave. They were right, my Asian neighbors. I had started to look like a bum. And speaking of change, they don’t use the term "bum" anymore, do they? Now they are referred to as homeless ladies or gentlemen.

When I do street photography, I don't want to call attention to myself, so colorless is good. My goal is to be invisible. I see myself as The Shadow, able to cloud men’s minds so they cannot see me. (How many of you remember that old radio show where for a time a young Orson Wells played The Shadow, Lamont Cranston, wealthy young man about town?) The street images I capture are street for editorial stock—not fine art photography or live news. 

Seville

When I went to work for American Airlines in the 1980s, I had to buy three suits. AA was a conservative company where male employees were required to wear a suit and tie. Slacks and a sports jacket were fine for dressing up when I was freelancing, but they were not permitted at American’s headquarters. The thing I found most odd about that was when men came into the office they would remove and hang up the jacket and they didn’t put it on again until they left the building at the end of the day.

Speaking of sleeping in your clothes, or looking like you do, I don’t. In fact, I bought myself some stylish sleepwear at the John Lewis winter clearance sale. At night now, I look like I’m about to attend a Sunday brunch or a slumber party at some chic villa on the southern California coast.  

Remember when there were lots of people in the streets and parks having fun, getting close? 

San Miguel de Allende

Rome

Galway

Sometimes It's the Little Things

I think I may have painted myself into a corner with the title of my blog. I've cast myself as a confused complainer, bitching about this and that, always finding fault when the true fault could well be with me. Hmm. Maybe? Well . . . here I go again.

Who was it that convinced otherwise sensible women to walk around in 6-inch heels? In general, I've always thought that women were wiser than men in practical matters. But not when it comes to fashion (And not when dealing with men either). 

When I lived in Texas and worked for American Airlines, I bought myself a pair of cowboy boots, had them custom made at a place in Fort Worth. I guess I kind of went native. I wore a Dallas Cowboy's cap too and listened to a lot of Willie Nelson. My reward (and the heels on those boots were probably no more than 2" high) was trouble with the calf muscle in my right leg for the next five years. Maybe a guy from Brooklyn should not be trying to look like a cowboy? 

While I'm on the subject of modern fashion, I might as well say what else I don't like or understand about recent trends. 

Tattoos! A couple of artfully done, nicely placed tattoos can look good. But why are so many people getting tattooed from head to toe? It's scary. What are they hiding from? And in case the tattoos aren't enough, they add wild colored hair, ripped-up jeans, and bizarre costumes! I should mention piercing but maybe I've already gone too far.

Have you seen the singer Christina Aguilera lately? She used to go around in elaborate makeup dressed like a female Elton John. She's now scrubbed down to the basic Christina. And she looks totally yummy. 



A lot more serious than changes in fashion is the total emptiness of the streets that the coronavirus has brought to major cities around the world. Above is Mathew Street here in Liverpool. All the bars and music clubs are closed including the famous Cavern Club. And there's not a single Beatles fan insight. 

People Pictures

The pandemic has put most of us in self-isolation. Hello out there! I'm here in this little studio flat all by myself, but that's okay. I'm not uncomfortable spending time in solitude. 

If you are self-isolating with a partner or in a family group and you have a camera handy, perhaps this would be a good time to try some serious portraiture. And maybe I can help with a few tips.

A good portrait has nothing false in it. We don't need to see another empty smile. Of course, some people smile a lot. If a smile is real and natural, and if you can encourage and capture that with your camera, great. 

In the long-ago, I did hundreds of portraits of actors. I've not done any in a very long time but I will try to find my way through the cobwebs of a faulty, aging memory to tell you how I used to work. 

I was lucky to have an apartment with great natural light from two sets of windows, one with north light, the other with unhindered light from the West. And my building was just a short walk from Central Park, where I would often take my subjects to do the second half of a portrait session. The Upper Westside was an affordable, pleasant place to live back then. 



To begin, I would have the subjects sit on a cushioned stool and coach them to sit up straight and be comfortable doing it. I wanted a relaxed long-body look. 

I used a Nikon F 35mm SLR with Kodak Plus-X or Tri-X. Tri-X was my go-to Street film, which I developed myself in Acufine (without pushing) and rated it at ASA 800. Acufine produced a tighter, more even grain than Kodak D-76. I would shoot 3 or 4 rolls of 36 exposures. At one point, I switched to Ilford's medium speed film of the time.

I found a 105mm lens best for headshots. Sometimes I would go a bit longer with women, 135mm or even 180mm. Bright, soft open-shade lighting works best with most women. A more dramatic crosslight is better for men. Usually. But each person, each subject, is a different judgment call. 



If this old-timey tech info confuses you, don't worry about it; it's all in the past now. Irrelevant. You'll be shooting with a digital camera or your smartphone, right? 

A trick that works well is to have the subject look to the left or right and then turn back to look directly at me. That simple move puts life in the body and lessens stiffness. 



Being an actor myself helped when directing actors, I think. An important acting tip is—don't act. Listen and react. I would ask the subject what he or she had for dinner the night before. Then I'd ask them what they had for breakfast. 

"But," I would say, "this time say nothing. Don't speak. Just think the thought as if I can read your mind. Please don't act, and don't put any expression on your face. Just look at me and let me read the thought in your mind." It works! It's magic.