Iceland, You're Lucky That Bergamot Oil is an Upper.

Once upon a time, a volcano blew its roof in Iceland, spewing ash over Western Europe and meanly preventing every plane from flying. All the travellers of the land were stranded, and a certain group of UNISG students had to drive, rather than fly, to a far and distant place they call Calabria.

In the wee hours of the morning they set forth, ipods and pillows a-ready, only to have their steed break down after an hour. They loitered at a gas station while waiting to see if the mechanic would be victorious. Thankfully he was and they continued forth, feasting on Autogrill meals along the way. Twenty hours later, they finally arrived at the southern-most tip of Italy’s boot. Fortunately, all of the students managed to retain their sense of humour, and their time in the south proved the road-trip had been worth it.

So there you have it, our Calabria trip began with a few volcano-induced bumps in the road, but the following three days were outstanding. Our second day was my favourite; up and up and up into the mountains we drove, finally arriving at a farm that produces olive oil and sheep cheese. Greeted by a toothless and very sweet Nonna, we were taken to the dairy by her son and shown how they make their pecorino and ricotta. We then moved onto the sheep themselves, which thankfully didn't involve herding. We did, however, get to try milking a few poor ewes held back from the rest of the grazing flock; one at a time, twenty-six inexperienced sets of hands descended upon three helpless pairs of udders. I managed to produce a few good streams of milk, though had some trouble aiming south and hit my leg more often than the bucket.

We ate a big lunch then headed to Il Bergamotto, the prettiest-smelling place on earth. Our lovely, soft-spoken host walked us down to the grove and spoke of the Bergamot fruit's mysterious origins, the use of its essential oil in perfumes/tea/cuisine, and his father’s refusal to give up his farm when synthetic scents began to threaten the demand for Bergamot in the 60’s and 70’s. I mentally began making plans to return when we heard that at harvest time, near Christmas, the heavily-laden trees actually glow at night from the fruit's potent oil.

After our meander through the grove, our host pointed up – waaaay up – to the remains of an 11th century Norman castle on the peak of a nearby mountain. To my exercise-deprived-body’s delight, he told us that that was where we’d be going next. The site had been occupied consistently until 1951, when a flood finally forced the last residents to abandon it. At the top I arrived breathless, sweaty, and completely thrilled to wander through such a beautiful maze of ruins.

Our first trip was a success, and I can't wait until we leave for the next one. On a plane.

I Can't Think of a Bike Pun.

I haven’t owned a bike since I was about ten. I have borrowed many, for entire semesters even, but have not had one of my own for quite some time. That all changed two weeks ago, when I purchased “Run and Bike” from a used bike shop in Parma. Most bikes in Europe are lovely, in that old-fashioned, Dutch style, rust-is-cute kind of way. They are the types of bikes that stylish women in heels ride around with flower-filled wicker baskets in the front. I, of course, had to go and find myself a practical, wannabe-sporty bike that would fit right into Canada but is out of place in Italy. It can’t be outfitted for a front basket, so instead I have two bungee cords to strap down my pack over the back wheel. This is effective, but not for flowers. Unless you want squishy flowers. Glamour will never be my middle name and I’m just going to have to accept that. Sigh.

R&B has so far gotten me everywhere I need to go, but she’s rather talkative in transit. I haven’t yet figured out what the symphony of clickety- clacks mean, and they’re a touch concerning, but I do appreciate the fact that she’s at least chosen jazz-like rhythms in her deterioration (which are also appropriate considering her name). I bought this particular bike because, in my terribly broken Italian, I managed to communicate to the men at the bike shop that I needed something that would get me to and from Colorno each day for school. Out came R&B and her solid sporty frame, and for the first time last week, get me to Colorno and back she did. My friend Emily and I took one route there, and another one back. This was so we could:

a) See which one was quicker.
b) Make sure our bikes could make it.
c) Make sure we could make it.

I’m happy to report that the second route proved itself direct and safe and all bikes/riders survived, though going up the stairs to my apartment that evening was how I’ve always imagined climbing Everest would feel. I am confident that in a week or two our stamina will be better, the gams will be looking great, and any money I have saved by not be taking the bus will have gone straight into my growing appetite. I took R&B out again today, and I think we are going to be good friends. I’ll forgive the noise if she’ll forgive me for calling her……..not Sophia Loren. Ah well, that makes two of us.

Here are a few photos of R&B, and some others from Easter break. The weather has been great so we've been picnic-ing, day-tripping, and attended Vinitaly in Verona, Italy's largest wine show.

I Speak So Good at Languages.

Buona Pasqua! After three weeks of school we were given two weeks off to celebrate Easter (thank you religious holidays in Italy). Myself and two friends, Emily and Suzie, decided to spend part of it wwoofing, both to improve our Italian language skills and be kind to our budgets. A week ago we left Parma to join two young families at their isolated farm an hour from Bologna, and we are now very glad we came, and very ready for a break.

Over the past four days we have helped with a number of tasks, some of which were backbreaking and others quite lovely. One day we took down a fence that was not only partially covered in barbed wire, but bordered a steep, raspberry-brambled slope (backbreaking). Another day, in the late-afternoon sun, we gathered wildflowers to dry for tea (lovely). Today we helped plant a vineyard. Sounds romantic, I know, but did large amounts of mud, manure, and rain ever factor into your vision of Italian wine production? My jeans and gumboots can attest to the fact that cow poop is in fact a very important part of the process.

On our very first day, Emily and Suzie generously allowed me the opportunity to stay back at the house and help two of our hosts make bread, pizza, cookies, and cakes in their wood-burning oven. Not only was it all organic, but the flour was freshly ground from grains they grew themselves. The honey we put on the bread? From their bees. The jam on our morning toast? From red-currants picked on the property. This work, in addition to the orchard, garden, animals, chestnut forest, and plans for cereal/legume/vine cultivation, amounts to a truly astonishing amount of labour for these farmers; I finished each day utterly exhausted, famished, and wondering how they manage to live this as a full-time life.

Aside from my general appreciation for small-producers, my language skills have also been growing. I am not even close to successfully carrying on a conversation, but some of my second-language nerves have been calmed and I’m bolder in my attempts to communicate. What comes out of my mouth is often neither English nor Italian, but sometimes it manages to be the latter and therefore I feel somewhat better about myself. I can string together basic sentences and understand what is being said to me, so long as I’m spoken to as if I'm a voice-activated telephone directory.

The learning process is not without its constant failures, of course. The other day, while looking at the shelf of cookbooks, Suzie and I accidentally translated a book called “Il Cucchiaio Verde” as “The Green Cook.” That evening I said “Sono cucchiaio,” to my hosts, in an attempt to explain that I had cooked for treeplanters. Later in Bologna, we discovered that cucchiaio does not mean cook, but spoon. I had told them “I am spoon.” Because all nouns in Italian are gendered and I had lazily dropped the definite article, what I had really said was “I am male spoon,” followed by “por albero” in a failed attempt to relay the concept of a treeplanter. So there you have it:

“I am male spoon for tree.”

Improved communication skills indeed.


The Farm, by Emily.




Emily's awesome shot of the preserves pantry.











Gumboots, muddy gumboots.

Just Call Me Dr. Chocolate

What? Lindsay’s in a program that contains “Communications” in its title, and yet she is so bad at communicating!? I have tried to write this blog again and again, but each time become overwhelmed with the amount of things I want to say and given up. This time, however, I shall succeed. Or, you will be reading something very poorly written, but a blog nonetheless.

The snow has melted and school has begun. On the 11th I was introduced to my twenty-four classmates and discovered that we hold the record as the university’s most diverse group ever, representing sixteen different countries. Everyone seems to be settling into their niche and we are continually learning more and more about each other and where we come from. With them I laugh hard and laugh often, so I couldn’t ask for much more.

Classes are now in full swing and I’m enjoying each day. My nine-year hiatus from anything non-arts-related came to an abrupt end on our first full day at UNISG, when we were lectured on molecular science. ME, learning SCI-ENCE. Fortunately, our professor understood her students so well that not only did she make frequent analogies to butter, but compared micelle cells to Ferrero Roche. What a clever, clever lady.

For me, the best class to date was on the history of chocolate, followed by a tasting of nineteen different varieties. My favourite was made from a rare cocoa bean variety called criollo; smooth and nutty and unlike anything I’ve tried. By the end of those two hours I had pretty much convinced myself that this is my calling; I’ll keep you updated on how exactly I plan to receive my Ph.D in chocolate, but don’t you doubt even for a second that I couldn’t find a way.

I’ll tell you what is not my calling: pig farming. Yesterday we visited a farm that breeds thousands of pigs for prosciutto, and it was like walking into the bowels of hell. The smell was so strong it permeated not only my clothing but my camera too, and now every time I take a picture I am treated to the nearly-palpable stench all over again. We followed this with lunch at a restaurant, which served each of us a large plate of you-know-what. Seeing pigs alive in boxes then pigs on your plate within hours of each other gives one a lot to think about.

I have certainly not wanted for good food since arriving here; only two weeks have passed and I’ve already played host and guest to numerous meals with fellow food-loving students. This is undoubtedly one of my favourite parts of life here, and I’ve learned so much already; how to dissect an artichoke, for example, which we put into a tart with zucchini and four different kinds of cheese. Share this with friends, wine, a lot of chatter, and there it is: my idea of happiness.

The one thing that displeases me is my Italian, or lack there-of. I attend school each day in a familiar, English-speaking bubble, then seize when I return to Italian-speaking Italy and attempt to talk. My comprehension is enough to get by, but my heart longs to be able to stop apologizing for my ignorance and instead converse with people. Luckily the man at Grom, an artisanal gelateria, is more than happy to indulge us in our broken conversation. For this reason, and this reason alone, I will be visiting the shop on a regular basis. Learning the phrase “I would like your largest cone and most magnificently rich gelato, please” will be useful to me in achieving my chocolate phD. I just know it.

Below are some photos of our school (in the Reggia di Colorno, a building of buttery-yellow magnificence), my classmates, and pigs, amongst others.

First Impressions of Parma

On my way to Italy I've had a fantastic month of surfing various friends’ couches.  Highlights and low-lights include:

-Catching up with friend after friend in Victoria/Vancouver/Norwich/London/Milan, often over a wickedly good meal/brownie
-Spending two weeks in Vancouver during the Olympics, which was indescribably fun
-Paying $100 for $400 seats at a hockey game, then realizing we were sitting behind Cuba Gooding Jr.
-Having “EXPLOSIVES DETECTED” on my hands at the San Francisco airport, resulting in me being forced into a glass cube, where I was sprayed down with something that has probably made me radioactive.
-Having my toiletry bag fall from my backpack in London and get demolished by a fleet of vehicles while I, oblivious, continued to run to the Canadian Embassy to see if they would let us into their Gold Medal Game party. They didn’t, and shortly after I discovered the bag, including glasses, on the road and in approximately 10,000 pieces. Good thing we won that game.
-Went to a club called Toilet in Milan (this lies somewhere in between)

After these and several more adventures I finally made it to Parma, which wore its finest for my arrival. Sky blue and sun shining, I made one last haul with my luggage to the town of Colorno, just north of Parma and home to the University of Gastronomic Sciences. I fetched my key, returned to Parma, and found my new home in the very centre of town, on Borgo San Biagio. This location perk was nothing compared to meeting my new roommates, however. I received hugs upon arrival by the nicest German and South Korean you could ever meet, was fed, and immediately given maps/any information I could possibly need. I am the only one in my program who is living with students in the other masters program, which started in November, and I think in many ways this is to my advantage. Our apartment is large, lovely, and feels like home. My own room is about twice the size of any room I’ve ever lived in, and I don’t think I could own enough clothes in my entire lifetime to fill the wardrobe. From my window I look down into a narrow lane, and up to the tower of the Duomo (cathedral), which would be a literal stones throw away if I had a better arm.

And what do I think of Parma? Despite the last 24 hours of snow (yes, snow), I think quite highly of it so far. It is pretty, not too large, hosts many cyclists, and of course has food on offer in every second shop window. I am looking forward to exploring all of the cafes, bakeries, specialty stores, theatres, and parks, so many of which are at my doorstep.

I find that as long as I try to speak Italian, the people are generally quite gracious. The exception here is bus drivers, who I think may ignore everyone’s questions, not just foreigners. For me, each successful venture in this new language is a small victory, whether it be asking for a residence document from the post office or a loaf of whole-wheat bread at the bakery. I continue to get asked for directions, so if I keep my mouth shut I at least look Italian.

We were meant to start school yesterday, but the snow postponed our orientation until today. Myself and three other students didn’t receive the email in time, however, and so found ourselves together in Colorno nonetheless. I don’t regret this one bit, because I got to meet some of my lovely class-mates and am looking forward to my program now more than ever!

Below are some hastily-edited photos of Parma, my apartment, and my yet-to-be-decorated room. The IKEA (in italiano, “ee-kay-ah”) trip is on Saturday!

Martha's Never Coming to Dinner.

January 16th
Some recipes utilize ingredients we are likely to have on-hand and therefore get made regularly. For me this is cornbread, which takes 10 minutes to make and tastes oh-so-good with anything; I say hello to fresh batches of cornbread more often than I say hi to many of my friends (which is regrettable and purely geographic, however. I do love my friends more than cornbread).

Then there are the recipes you've always looked at, salivated over, and imagined making yet never have. These are Occasion Recipes, far too elaborate to be made on just any day and which have only ever seemed appropriate to make if Martha Stewart called to say she was coming to dinner.

For me, one such recipe is found within the pages of the Rebar Cookbook, a fantastic compilation of best-loved dishes from the Rebar restaurant in Victoria, BC. Along with many other great eats, the authors share the secrets to their chocolate cake, an imposing tower of deliciousness cut into large wedges and served up daily. Trust me, as soon as my friend Lindsay and I discovered this, the best chocolate cake we had ever had, a good many of those wedges were sent in our direction during our University of Victoria years.

I have since moved from Victoria and miss the cake sorely (though Lindsay more, of course), yet keep the recipe tucked away with the rest of my Martha's-coming-to-dinner projects. Several days ago I decided, enough. I am tired of waiting for Martha. Truth be told, she may never come. I am going to make an occasion and make this cake, darnit.

The occasion? This Friday. It's January 22nd......the fourth Friday of 2010......and therefore this decade, which is remarkable, really.......not to mention that there has never before been a January 22nd, 2010, nor will there ever be one again. When you think about it, it's a pretty big deal. How will you be celebrating?


January 26th
I wrote that ten days ago. You may wonder, was the National Lindsay Makes a Cake Day a success? It was. It totally, chocolately was.

I invited two friends over for dinner, though that really took a backseat to dessert and involved strategizing over which pre-cake-eating foods would be best. This turned out to be chicken, roasted squash, beet and apple salad, and organic sourdough. Did the trick. But it was about the cake, the cake people, which was dark, rich, smooth, and sat-is-fy-ing.

After several previous layered cake attempts, none of which had turned out like the picture in my mind, I finally had success with the Rebar chocolate cake, and I'll share the reasons for this with the recipe. Come up with your own excuse to make this or any other recipe you've been wanting to try. Life's too short to wait for Martha, plus she probably wouldn't eat much anyway.

How about celebrating the fact that Saturday only comes once every seven days? National Saturday Day deserves a treat, so get on it.



Rebar Chocolate Cake

1 ½ cups light brown sugar
1 ½ cups unbleached flour
½ cup Dutch process cocoa
1 ½ tsp baking soda
¾ tsp baking powder
¼ tsp salt
¾ cup strong coffee
¾ cup buttermilk
1/3 cup + 2 Tbsp vegetable oil
2 eggs (1 whole egg + 1 egg yolk)
1 tsp vanilla

Cake Filling
5 oz (150g) milk chocolate (fair trade chocolate, preferably, for a cake with a conscience)
5 oz (150g) dark chocolate
½ lb (225g) unsalted butter, softened
¼ lb (112g) cream cheese, spreadable (about half of a normal sized container of Philly)
1 tsp vanilla

Ganache
½ cup heavy cream
1 Tbsp unsalted butter
5 oz (150g) semi-sweet chocolate

1. Pre-heat oven to 350 degree F. Prepare three 8” cake pans with oiled parchment paper cut to fit the bottom of the pans. Set aside.

2. Combine the sugar, flour, cocoa, baking powder, soda, and salt in the bowl of a mixer and whisk on low to combine, making sure it's lump free (or just use a whisk). Add the coffee, buttermilk, oil, eggs, and vanilla and mix on medium-low for 2 minutes, stopping to scrape down the sides. The batter will be pourable.

3. Divide the batter among the prepared pans and bake for 15 minutes, until an inserted toothpick comes out clean. Let the cakes cool completely before removing them from the pans and cool completely on a wire rack. Remove parchment papers before assembling.*

4. Next, prepare the cake filling. Melt the milk and dark chocolates in a double boiler and stir until smooth. Cool 10 minutes. Cream together the butter, cream cheese and vanilla. Mix the cooled chocolate into the creamed mixture. Next, prepare the ganache by heating the cream and butter to just before the scalding point (just below the boiling point). Pour the cream over the chopped chocolate and let rest for 3 minutes, then whisk gently (to avoid incorporating air) until melted and smooth. Cool slightly.

5. To assemble the cake, place one of the cake layers on a cooling rack with a large baking sheet underneath to catch drips. Evenly spread almost half of the filling over the layer, then position a second layer on top. Save a small amount to thinly spread over the top and to fill in the sides to make it smooth.** Position the top cake layer over the filling. Chill 10 minutes. Next, slowly pour the warm ganache over the entire cake while carefully spreading it with a large metal icing spatula to make a smooth surface. Carefully transfer the cake to a plate and into the fridge to set. Bring to room temperature before serving.

*I made the three cakes on Thursday, then the next day made the filling and ganache and assembled it all. The cake was easier to work with cold and, in my opinion, gets more delicious after sitting well wrapped in the fridge for 24 hours.

**Cakes never bake with sides that meet the top at perfect right angles. This means there are always gaps between the layers which have to be filled in, or else the sides of the cake will look rippled. You can horizontally slice the uneven parts off the top, but then you end up losing half the cake. Instead, with the metal spatula I spread a thin layer of filling over the whole thing, then filled a plastic baggie with more filling and snipped off a corner to make an icing bag. I used the tip to completely fill in the gaps, then re-spread the whole thing with the spatula so I had entirely smooth sides before pouring over the ganache.