Thursday
A morning spent finalizing the upcoming Mexico Adventure (check, and check!), trying to book a gift certificate (wtf, Ryanair?!?) for Vincenzo and Mariella, looking at more Thailand options, and trying to find a hotel near Catania Airport with way too early in the morning shuttle service. Although the Rapisardas would take us in a heartbeat, it means leaving Biancavilla around 3:45 am. Why even go to bed!
I then spent a good amount of time making my favorite Mollie Katzen (The Moosewood Cookbook (or, Bible, as fans say), The Enchanted Broccoli Forest, Still Life With Menu author) cookies. They're a chunky, chewy, satisfying oatmeal chocolate chip that tastes good enough to seem bad for you, but the recipe is pretty healthy, as far as cookies go.
Soon after I took the last batch from the oven, Ettore arrived. I had set out big squares on the floor, trying to combine the idea of an escape room with the game "the floor is lava," by having him find objects in the room from my clues. Ettore made it onto the second square before being done with it. I had him lie down on rolled-out paper, traced his shape, and had him color it in. Shortly following that, Matteo and Rodi arrived. Matteo wanted his shape traced, absolutely loving the process.
Things get crazy, with brothers these ages. And everything seems to get dragged out of that damn storage attic. Before I knew it, I was pulling kids for rides on roller suitcases, with Rodi helping. She likes my cookies.
Now we're shuttling to Mariella's, meeting her in the elevator. She said it's time for her and I to go to her friend Maria's for tea. She mentioned this tea earlier, but I thought it was the usual casual get together at her house. I ran upstairs to get two little packages of confections I had bought at Decò a few days ago. Don't arrive with mani vuoti!
I whipped on a shirt and vest, and added earrings and a necklace, meeting Mariella back at her place.
We careened off to Maria's.
"Che strada è questo?," I asked, wondering the street name. It looked unfamiliar. "Via Gemma," Mariella answered.
Hmmm. When I began the house search, I saw a ton of homes for sale on via Gemma, which is, at least in the US, a realty kiss of death. Why are they all for sale, and how run down will Maria's place be?"
We tend to put COVID in the rear view mirror, forgetting that Italy was hit first and hardest, especially with the elderly. That means homes are available, and Biancavilla isn't exactly a relocation hub. That's now changing somewhat, with the nearby military base, Sigonella, and busy cities on either side of us pulling people through Biancavilla.
Maria's place is a lot of what I'm looking for. Not too big, but certainly roomy; clean and outfitted with conveniences, but not "mod," in the heart of the city, but on a quiet street. Not for sale, of course, but it gives me hope for the search. I'd like something without this boring square grid beige floor that looks like a public school's kitchen, but, as I've suggested before, there are area rugs.
We sat around, Maria bustling to make te verde for everyone but Mela and I, who asked for tisane, since we didn't want caffeine. Graziella brought another of her homemade creations, this time, a torta di mele with a lattice top. There is apricot marmalade in this?, I asked after a bite. Yes! Spread on the bottom crust before adding the apples. Please tell me you don't make your own marmalade, I joked. Her head tilted back as she literally looked down her nose at me. "Certo," she said, assuring me it was biologic (organic; here, organico means food garbage, so they say bio). It was really, really good, and I said so. But I still dream about your torta caprese. She laughed, acknowledging she noticed how much I liked that the other night.
Mariella ripped open the chocolate-covered orange slices I brought. Her favorite.
Have another piece, Marisa was cutting another wedge of torta and Graziella was ready to push it toward me. No, no; too many sweets! One is enough! Marisa shook her head. You can say no after you've been served two. Not before. I stared, realizing there was a rare silence. Marisa laughed, putting the torta in front of me, saying they all call me grissino behind my back. Ummm; should I be offended? Grissino? Marisa put up one finger, explaining I look like one thin breadstick. Ahhh! Grissini! Grissino is the singular for those often pre-packaged skinny breadsticks, sometimes served in a basket with sliced bread. And sometimes they have sesame, Marisa added, somewhat randomly.
Mariella had to leave to relieve Rodi, whose car we took since it was blocking the garage. She said I'll ride home with Marisa.
The women went on to talk in waves of ascending and descending volumes; Marisa caught me laughing, and I explained that, as a foreigner, it was the audio version of a rollercoaster.
Marisa was on a roll, talking about a famous female singer, who got some seeds from London. After a minute, I understood that this singer wants a baby, is in her 30s, and went to London to be artificially inseminated. Graziella was put off, saying that a family is a family; a child needs to at least start with two parents!
This put a hair up on my neck. I offered that she's probably rich, and can afford all the help this child needs, but do you think gay couples shouldn't adopt? What! No! We'd never say that! Good. Ok. How is Italy, in general, when it comes to trans people? Look, said Marisa. When you have a child, you love your child. Sometimes who they are changes. That's just another type of change. They're still your child; we're all someone's child.
I have to say, this group of women continue to endear themselves to me. I've also learned that there is a small gay community here, now that the old ways of thinking get shoved further in the past, and it's not expected to be hidden anymore.
Then Maria, who has a large flat TV in the kitchen, currently displaying a blazing fireplace, switched the scene to four mariachi players in Mexican hats. Well that's a little strange!
But she and Marisa started dancing, separately, then together. I called out for a tango dip.
The women agreed with me that it would be the least disruptive thing, to book a Catania Airport hotel. It's a 40-munute drive one way for someone to make in the wee hours.
We wrapped things up a little after seven, as we all had to get home to cook. Marisa drove us all home. Whatever trepidation I have when riding with Mariella at the wheel now seems like a VTech Turn n Learn toy. I shut my eyes a couple of times on the way home.
Tonight, I'm lucky, because Joe's the chef. One last round of those good pork chops from the butcher before we leave, with long red peppers and an incredibly lovely "hooded" Nerello Cappuccio wine.
Dinner was delicious, and we still can't figure out the Ryanair gift certificate, or find a Catania Airport hotel with shuttle service before 5:00 am. But there's always tomorrow.
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