Italian Is the Rodney Dangerfield of Languages

It Don't Get No Respect

I don't get it. I just don't get it. Italian is the Rodney Dangerfield of languages: it don't get no respect. And I simply don't understand why.

Of course “Italian language” is a lot like “Italian cooking” in that it's hard to define. There are twenty regions on the Italian peninsula and there are at least twenty different dialects. A simple pasta dish can be called a dozen different things in different parts of the country even though the ingredients are all the same. “Official” Italian, the language people speak, hear, and are most familiar with, is based on the Tuscan dialect, the language of Dante. Italian is lyrical, sensuous, rhythmic, and undoubtedly one of the most beautiful languages on earth. It is the language of music, opera, poetry, art, and love. And non-Italians tear it into little bitty pieces and stomp on it every day.

Italian really is a simple language. It's phonetic. You say it like you see it. All you need to know are a few vowel sounds and a few consonant rules and you've got a good start. There are five vowels in Italian and only seven vowel sounds. Compare that to English, which also has five vowels, but has fifteen vowel sounds! And yet English speakers constantly butcher Italian by trying to make it sound like English. They put an English spin on Italian pronunciations. If the final “e” is silent in English, it should be silent in Italian, too. “Well, that's the way we say it in America.” Okay. Fine. But it's still wrong! French author Anatole France said it best: “If fifty million people say a foolish thing, it is still a foolish thing.”

I was watching “Top Chef.” The contestants were cooking in Mexico and they were cooking with classic Mexican ingredients. One of them was actually Mexican. A couple were of Asian parentage and the rest were just plain ol' Americans from places like New York, Georgia, Texas and Michigan.

Now here's what I want to know: how can trained chefs – people who supposedly know everything there is to know about every cuisine on the planet – effortlessly rattle off Spanish words like “huitlacoche” and “escamoles” and “xoconostle” and “escabeche,” “chimichurri” and “queso fresco” and “guacamole” – and then stumble all over their tongues when saying “marinara” and “agnolotti”?

Read my lips: It....is....NOT....pronounced....“mare-uh-NARE-uh.” It is “mah-ree-NAH-rah.” And roll those “r”s. If you can correctly say “hwahk-ah-MOH-lay” rather than the common Americanized “gwahk-ah-MOLE-ee,” why the hell can't you properly say “mah-ree-NAH-rah”? And please tell me why you can make a Spanish-Italian fusion dish, ““huitlacoche agnolotti,” perfectly pronouncing “huitlacoche” and then embarrass yourself by murdering “agnolotti”? Please! It's not “ag-nuh-LOT-ee.” That makes me cringe. Just like when I hear not so learned chefs say “tag-lee-uh-TELL-ee.” (Tagliatelle.) It's “ah-nyoh-LAWT-tee” and “tahl-yah-TAYL-lay.” (Even that's not perfect. I can say it better than I can write it.) And to all you clueless servers in faux-Italian restaurants, don't even get me started on “broo-SKET-uh”.

What really twists my knickers is the fact that Italian is the only language that gets the casual treatment. Do you order a “kwes-uh-DILL-uh” at “Tack-oh Bell”? Of course not. If you asked for a “bur-IT-oh” instead of a “boo-REE-toh,” you would be laughed at. And do you get “BAYG-nets” at “kaffee du MON-dee” in New Orleans. No? Then why do you insist on asking for “broo-SKET-uh” with “mare-uh-NARE-uh” at Olive Garden? Why do you feel obliged to use proper Spanish and correct French, but you can't spare a thought for good Italian? Why is that?

Somebody once tried to sell me the old “accepted through common usage” plow horse. Go back to my Anatole France quote: “If fifty million people say a foolish thing, it is still a foolish thing.” No matter how often they say it.

And even if your Mama got off the boat straight from the Old Country, you don't get a pass on using final vowels. There's an “o” at the end of “prosciutto” and an “a” at the end of “mozzarella.” They are there because in proper Italian, you pronounce every letter. “Pro-ZHOOT” and “mootz-uh-RELL” may sound Italian to you, but to Italians, it just sounds ignorant. I heard somebody from New York talking about using “ruh-GOT” in a recipe. I had no idea what the hell they were saying. I had to look it up. How does a person mangle “ricotta” that badly?

Speaking of ignorant, is it ignorance or just stupidity when someone corrects you and you refuse to be corrected? Back to “Top Chef,” at least three of the diners correctly pronounced “agnolotti” in front of the chef who prepared the dish and slaughtered the word. And she still persisted in saying it her way. I guess it's true that ignorance is curable but stupid is forever.

And it's not just Americans. The British totally befuddle me. How can a people who commonly say “cAHn't” and “shAHn't” and “fAHst” then turn around and say “PASS-tuh”? I don't get that one at all.

The biggest part of the problem is Italians themselves. They are just too polite to correct people. The French will bite your head off and stuff your tongue down your throat if you screw with their precious language. But Italians just take it with big smiles, even as the hair raises on the backs of their necks. Take my word for it, it aggravates the hell out of most of them, but they just grin and bear it. Well, folks, I'm part Italian but I'm also part French, so I don't do a lot of grinning and bearing when it comes to that sort of thing. I may grin while I correct you, but that's about it. I know a lot of servers think I'm un stronzo (run it through Google Translate), but I'll keep right on correcting them, regardless, because I respect the language. I think at the very least if you're going to serve me something, you should be able to pronounce it.

Okay. (pant, pant) I feel (huff, huff) much better now. I'm going to drag the soapbox back up under the porch and go lie down. I think we're going to an “Italian” place tonight and I really need to rest up.

How To Break An Egg. Really.

Let's Get Crackin'

Right about now you're saying to yourself, “You're kidding. Some idiot is actually writing about how

to break an egg?” And you know what? Up until recently, I would have been right there with you. But that was before I discovered how many people can't do it. Or at least can't do it properly. I mean, how hard is it to break an egg, right? You'd be surprised.

A lot of folks make a big mess of a fairly simple procedure. They wind up chasing little shards of eggshell around the mixing bowl. Or worse; they don't chase them and then find them later cooked up in their scrambled eggs. They get egg goop all over the counter, the bowl, and/or their hands. And it's all so unnecessary if you just master the proper technique.

Kids get a big thrill out of learning to break an egg. I know I did. I started cooking eggs when I was seven or eight years old, but my mother always cracked them for me until I developed the manual dexterity to do it myself. A lot of shattered shells and gooey messes ensued before I got it right. But eventually I did. I have a young nephew who sometimes backcombs my fur with his know-it-all attitude. I remember when he came to me all full of himself because he had learned to break an egg. He proceeded to demonstrate his new-found skill, a laborious, painstaking two-handed process that took nearly a minute to accomplish. Then, with bratty arrogance, he challenged me to match his feat: “Betcha you can't do it that good.” I know I shouldn't have taken the bait. It was mean and I really shouldn't have done it. But I did.....he was such a ripe little target. I snatched up an egg and opened it in about two seconds using one hand, leaving him deflated and crestfallen. Not to be a total jerk about it, I told him to keep practicing and I'd teach him how to do it that way after he got a little better at the two-handed method.

So let's start there. With two hands. This is really the best way to open an egg if you are going to separate the yolk from the white or if you are concerned about the yolk remaining intact. It's not as fast and as flashy as the one-handed method, but it's a lot safer and more reliable.

First, let's address the issue of cracking the egg. Ya gotta crack it before ya can break it. There are two camps when it comes to egg cracking: the “flat surface” camp and the “edge of the bowl” camp. Most people who learned by watching their mothers or grandmothers tend to fall into the bowl edge category. People who were taught by a culinary instructor are generally flat surface crackers because that's really the “approved” and “correct” way to do it. I cringe when I see supposedly trained TV chefs cracking eggs on bowls. They sure didn't learn that at the CIA or Le Cordon Bleu.

It's not just some senseless rule that chef instructors came up with. The people who study such things have found that when you strike an egg against a sharp surface – like the edge of a bowl – you run a greater risk of driving fragments of the shell into the interior of the egg. This is a big deal not just for the annoyance factor but because of the potential for carrying bacteria from the outside inward. All commercially produced eggs in the US are washed before they ever hit the cartons, so the risk is minimal. Not so much with farm fresh eggs, though, which usually just get a wipe down to remove anything obviously nasty. It's kind of a two-edged sword. The reason Americans refrigerate eggs while Europeans don't is because of that washing process. When American eggs are washed before packaging, the shells are stripped not only of potentially harmful bacteria but of the egg's natural protective coating as well. That's why you have to refrigerate 'em. They're naked. Anything yucky they encounter after they're washed can more easily penetrate their unprotected porous shells. Europeans – and Americans who get their eggs straight out of the henhouse – can get by with leaving them in a basket on the counter rather than in the fridge because their natural coating is still intact. And so are any bacteria lurking about on the outside waiting to get driven inside by an injudicious crack on a sharp surface. So, from a “better safe than sorry” standpoint, it's generally just better practice to crack an egg on a flat surface.

That said, the objective when you strike the egg is not to bust it wide open. You just want to dimple it. Pick up the egg so that it's positioned in the palm of your hand. The pointy end should rest against your thumb and the blunt end should be cradled by your ring and pinky fingers. With the contact point in the middle of the egg, give it a gentle tap or two to break just the outer shell while leaving the inner membrane intact. Now, turn the egg so you can see the dimple you've made. With the unbroken surface of the egg resting against the index, middle, and ring fingers of both hands, position your thumbs on either side of the dimple. Position the egg over the bowl or pan and gently press inward with your thumbs to penetrate the shell. Then gently pry the two halves of the shell apart and allow the contents of the egg to drop into whatever receptacle you're using. Notice I said “gentle” or “gently” three times in the description. It's an egg, okay? Don't go all Incredible Hulk on it and smash it. Handle it gently.

Not all egg shells are created equal. Depending on breed and feed, some shells are thicker than others. Other than the fact that they are on a natural diet, I don't know what my farmer feeds his chickens or what breeds he has but some of them produce some prodigiously thick shells. And I find brown eggs to generally have thicker shells than white ones. Thick shells aren't necessarily a bad thing; you'll get a lot fewer fragments because they tend to break cleaner. I've had some store-bought white eggs crumble under the slightest pressure and make a real mess. It just takes a little extra effort and care to crack a thicker shell.

As I said, if you're trying to keep the yolk intact for poaching or sunny side up or something, the more deliberate two-handed method is probably best. A little slower, maybe, but better. However, if you're all about speed and action and don't care about how the yolk winds up, the one-handed method is for you. If you're going to scramble your eggs or just dump them in a bowl for beating, who cares if the yolk is broken, right?

Now here is where manual dexterity comes into play. I know people who are ambidextrous and can break two eggs at once, one in each hand. Not me. I'm so right-handed it's an affliction. Anything I try to break with my left hand winds up spattered on my elbow. So, unless you're among the gifted, stick with using your dominant hand. The problem now is that breaking an egg with one hand is a lot easier to do than it is to describe. But I'll try.

Holding the egg as above, crack the shell the same way. Only this time, keep the egg cradled in your hand. Once you've got the crack started, the breaking motion is done mostly with a twist of your thumb and forefinger. I've heard it described as sort of like the motion you'd use to snap your fingers. You should be holding the bottom part of the shell against your palm with your middle, ring, and pinky fingers while the top part of the shell is manipulated by your index finger and your thumb. I've also seen it described as being like the motion you would employ to pop the top on a soda can with one hand. See? It's really easy to do, but harder than hell to describe. Tell you what: I saw a tip online where you hold two ping pong balls together in your hand with a quarter wedged between them. If you can separate the balls and make the quarter fall out, you can break an egg one-handed.

By the way, kids aren't the only ones who get a thrill out of learning to break eggs. Andrew Knowlton, James Beard Award-winning critic, blogger and restaurant editor for Bon Appétit magazine, recently did a feature where he worked his way through twenty-fours hours at an Atlanta Waffle House. (You can find the story and video here: https://www.yahoo.com/food/its-not-every-day-you-see-a-renowned-four-star-113433461996.html) Besides a new appreciation for short-order cooks, Andrew also gained a new skill: at age 39, he can now break eggs one-handed. He can also make a mean waffle, but that's another part of the story.

Now go forth, break some eggs and make some omelets. Or maybe a nice frittata. Oooo......scrambled eggs sound good about now.......or poached.....or over easy. No, Eggs Benedict......or perhaps a Croque Madame. How about egg salad........?

American Women Deface Roman Colosseum

The “Ugly American” Keeps Getting Uglier

Stop me if you've heard this one; two American women in their early twenties walk into a two-thousand year-old Roman Colosseum. One says to the other, “Hey, wouldn't it be fun to tear up this old place and then take a selfie to commemorate our senseless desecration of one of the most iconic places on the planet?” Ha-ha-ha! Hilarious, right?

The two micro-brained miscreants were part of a tour group. But you know how boring those generic old tour groups are. So the pair decided to personalize their experience a little by slipping away and using a coin to carve their initials into walls erected by emperors two millennia ago that have withstood the ravages of time as well as attacks by hordes of the folks who literally defined what it was to be a Vandal. And then the pair of fools went the original sackers of Rome one better and proudly photographed themselves with their vandalism. Doesn't it just warm your heart that such idioti cazzo walk among us? The “Ugly American” keeps getting uglier.

Now before you go off on me for dissing these darling nieces of their Uncle Sam, let me acknowledge that they are far from the only ones to have done something selfishly senseless, ignorant, infantile, puerile, moronic, and numerous other pejorative adjectives on foreign soil. A Russian touron – that's a portmanteau of “tourist” and “moron” in case you were wondering – did something similar in the same place a few months ago as did an Australian father and son team of mindless vandals. Chinese officials are in a state of perpetual embarrassment over the conduct of their citizens abroad and Egyptian authorities are all atwitter over some Russian tourons making a porn flick amongst the Pyramids. So its not just an American thing. But as an American, it hurts more to see it because it so perfectly reinforces a stereotype that most other cultures already have of us. I know what these two cretins did is not on a scale with the wholesale destruction of historic and archaeological treasures being carried out in parts of the Middle East these days, but just because they used a coin instead of a sledgehammer does not make them less culpable for their blatant violation.

I don't know. I guess there's just something in the human psyche that compels people of a certain sort to immortalize themselves in this manner, whether it be by carving their initials in a tree trunk or by scrawling “Kilroy was here” on every stationary surface they encounter. However, just because I can rationalize it doesn't imply that I condone it. It's vandalism, pure and simple, and vandalism is vandalism, defined as “willful or malicious destruction or defacement of public or private property.” And it's not “cute” or “silly” or “just harmless fun.” It's a disgusting criminal activity. And it's expensive. I recently read that the annual cost of cleaning up graffiti – the most basic form of vandalism – in the United States is around twenty-five billion dollars. But it's not just the money.

I was visiting the site of a historic cabin in the mountains of East Tennessee when I came across a woman nearly in tears with anger. When I asked what was wrong, she replied bitterly, “Look what they've done to it. This was my grandfather's home. He built it with his own hands. And look what these f***ing idiots have done to it.” The walls were covered with the names and initials of savagely ignorant people who felt compelled to preserve themselves for posterity. Vandals in the truest sense.

I was visiting Independence Rock in Wyoming. This huge granite monolith, a landmark for travelers along the Oregon, California, and Mormon trails, has been called “the Register of the Desert” because many of the emigrants marked their passage by carving names and messages in the face of the rock. Just goes to show, I suppose, that vandalism has been around for a long time. But worse by far are the vandals who continue to vandalize the historic site by adding their self-important scribblings to those left by the pioneers of long ago. In fact, the National Park Service says modern graffiti actually threatens to overwhelm the rock's historic signatures. But I guess as long as you get to carve “Billy and Betty were here” and take a picture of it, that's all that matters, because, after all, it is all about you.

When the Russian reprobate committed his reprehensible act of hooliganism in Rome, he was given a four month suspended sentence and a hefty fine. No word yet on what penalties the California girls may have to face. But we can all feel a little better about the whole thing because the girls now say they have learned the lesson of a lifetime. They didn't realize what they were doing was such a big deal until shocked tourists who possessed basic common sense and common decency pointed them out to security and they were met by Roman police who proceeded to charge them with “aggravated damage on a building of historical and artistic interest.” After which I'm sure they were photographed again and given another opportunity to practice their signatures.

I hear they're headed to the Louvre next. I mean like really, wouldn't that stuffy old painting of the woman with a goofy grin look positively outrageous with a mustache?

In the words of the immortal Forrest Gump, "stupid is as stupid does."

Boston Restaurant Exposes Yelp Thugs

A Good Idea Gone Horribly Wrong

It's hard to type while applauding, but that's what I'm doing right now. I am wildly cheering for Boston restaurateur Michael Scelfo and his “Alden & Harlow” eatery. No, I don't know the guy and I've never eaten at his restaurant – although next time I'm in Boston, I will. Rather, I am applauding the act of his standing up to and publicly exposing a couple of Yelp thugs.

Yelp is a good idea gone horribly wrong. On the surface, the concept of a forum wherein the “common man” has a voice and can express his opinion is a noble one. Unfortunately, it does not take into account the preponderance of rude, ignorant, selfish, entitled idiots one finds buried beneath the veneer of altruism contained in Yelp's mission statement: "To connect people with great local businesses."

Yelp proudly proclaims that “Yelpers” have written more than seventy-one million local reviews. The basic problem with that statement hearkens back to the old adage that says “opinions are like a**holes; everybody has one.” And in the case of Yelp and its imitators, far too many of the users expressing their opinions are a**holes.

Case in point: a couple of young females – “ladies” probably stretches the definition – showed up at Alden & Harlow with no reservations. They proceeded to seat themselves, to berate and insult the staff, to loudly proclaim that they were not tipping because of the poor service, and then to refuse to leave when asked to do so. And, of course, they played the trump card – threatening to give the establishment a bad Yelp review.

You get the picture? These are jerks. They went into the place with the intention of causing trouble and then blackmailing their way out of it. And in most cases they would have been successful because many small, local restaurant owners are thoroughly cowed by the threat of a bad social media review. Word of mouth is the bread and butter of their advertising and people bad-mouthing them can put them out of business. And Yelp thugs have figured that out and know how to play it to their best advantage. I mean, come on! The difference between Yelp et.al. and protection rackets is minimal. What's the difference between a hulking goon in an ill-fitting suit holding a club and saying “pay up or I'll break your kneecaps” and a stylishly-dressed moron with a cellphone saying “give me what I want or I'll put you out of business”?

I've never thought much of social media review sites, but my contempt reached a tipping point a few years ago when I found this scathing review of a local Italian place posted on one of them: “This is absolutely the worst Italian food I have ever had in my life. It was nothing but over priced boxed mixes with some chewy, obviously frozen bagged seafood on top. It literally disgusted me. If you value your hard earned money and your stomach I would keep on driving right past this place.” In the first place, it's poorly written – “if you value.......I would keep on driving.” Really? In the second place, it's non-specific. What dish particularly “disgusted” you? Or did you have a general sampling of everything on the menu and found it all to be “the worst Italian food”? And did you actually see “boxed mixes” and “bagged seafood” being used? Or did it just taste like that to you? There's a difference.

I had eaten at the place myself and knew the opposite to be true. It was a small, family owned and operated business, started by mom and pop and now run by the kids, all of whom are right off the boat from Italy. I knew their food was fresh, delicious, and as authentic as American tastes would allow. I'd seen their kitchen and watched everything being prepared from scratch. There wasn't better Italian food to be had within a hundred miles. No, this was just a hack job written by somebody who wanted to hurt the business. I took it upon myself to go online and rebut this scurrilous billingsgate, pointing out the obvious lies and flaws therein and concluding with: This is absolutely some of the best Italian food I have ever had in my life. It is nothing but high-quality, fresh ingredients deliciously prepared in a wonderful Italian family tradition. It literally delights me. If you value your hard-earned money and your stomach, you'll drive directly to this place, and you'll do it often.

But I gotta admit, Michael Scelfo did me one better: he posted a picture of the thugs who tried to dun his establishment on Instagram, along with a description of their execrable behavior that included the hashtag “#wedontnegotiatewithyelpers.” I. Love. It!! “We don't negotiate with Yelpers” should be posted large on the front door of every restaurant in the country.

For some reason, Instagram removed the post, but BostonInno has the story and the picture here: http://bostinno.streetwise.co/2015/03/02/duo-attempting-yelp-blackmail-gets-an-earful-from-alden-harlow-chef-owner

Scelfo has since written that, regardless of the picture being taken down, “#wedontnegotiatewithyelpers stands true." And he says, "I would encourage more people to be responsible with [Yelp].” Can I get an “amen” from the choir, brothers and sisters?!

Scelfo and I aren't alone in the outrage department. Botto Bistro in Richmond, California got a lot of mileage out of offering discounts to patrons who would give them “bad” reviews in the hope that their “star” rating would sink low enough to remove them from Yelp's radar entirely.

Yelp and its ilk are a bad joke badly told. No matter how benign the intention, the system is intrinsically broken and it is being abused by thugs every day to the detriment of the “great local businesses” it was supposedly designed to help. And most people seem to know it. Here are a few random comments I pulled from the 'net: “Yelp is less than useless. They're shady and people abuse the hell out of how much power Yelp has over small businesses. Burger King doesn't give a s**t if a location has bad Yelp reviews, but it can kill a small family owned restaurant.” Or, “One of the things that makes Yelp so uneven is that it allows for anonymity of the reviewer. Unlike professional reviews (where the reviewer might be a secret, but still is accountable to a readership and probably a publisher) with Yelp there's no accountability at all. It's total crap.” And, “Anything that can make Yelp useless, I'm behind 100%.”

But let's face it, Yelp is a culturally entrenched behemoth and it's not going anywhere. Curmudgeons like me and a handful of rebels at places like Alden & Harlow and Botto Bistro can quixotically tilt at windmills all day long and it's not going to make a bit of difference other than, perhaps, making us feel a little better for having “done something.” So instead of saying, “don't use Yelp,” – because I know you're going to anyway, – let me echo Michael Scelfo and say, “please use Yelp – and other similar sites – responsibly.” As a consumer, develop a “BS meter” and learn how to figure out when the system is being gamed. There are a lot of tells you can spot in a fake review. I've written about them and there are a ton of articles on the subject available online. Don't be a part of destroying somebody's livelihood just because some moron with an ax to grind tells you to. And if you're one of the ax-grinding morons, shame on you. I hope your Mama's proud and that you can live with yourself, because it's likely that no one else wants to live with you.

Better yet, exercise some judgment and common sense. You want to know if a place is good? Ask a local. I do it all the time. Last time I was in Boston, I didn't “Yelp”. I was in a little North End bottega and asked the clerk, “where's a good place for lunch?” And her recommendation was wonderful. Or you can consult an expert. Read a newspaper or magazine review. Check out a copy of a guide like the one published by Zagat. The people who eat for a living are much more qualified to guide you to a good place than some idiot who trashes a restaurant because he didn't like the way the waiter smiled.

Just remember that adage about opinions and a**holes the next time you're tempted to rely on Yelp. And then think seriously about what you get out of an a**hole before you make a choice.

Stop the Bread and Milk Buying Madness!

Buying Bread and Milk is All in Your Head!

I'm writing this with three of an expected six inches of snow piling up on the ground outside my office window. 

Forty-five years past and a few hundred miles north from where I now sit, this would have been considered an average snowfall on an average winter day. It might have slowed us down a bit as we brushed and scraped it off our cars and from our paths, but life would have gone on largely unaffected. 

Located as I am now along the 36^th parallel, it is cause for widespread panic. Not as widespread, perhaps, as it was a few years ago when I lived even deeper in the Deep South. There an inch or two of snow caused a reaction that bordered on insanity. Schools closed days in advance and virtual martial law-like scenarios were implemented. Once a “state of emergency” was declared, you were subject to arrest and fine if you were found frivolously driving around town on one or two inches of snow. Yes, I'm serious. My mind still reels when I recall the time “snow” – i.e. one to three inches – was predicted on a Monday evening, scheduled to arrive on Thursday morning. They started closing the schools on TUESDAY! The city spent Wednesday in full panic mode and when Thursday arrived, it just rained. And there wasn't a loaf of bread or a half-pint of milk to be found anywhere within a hundred-mile radius.

Which brings me to my point: Why? What in the name of rational thinking are people going to do with all that bread and milk?

When I was a broadcaster, I used to joke that whenever the local Kroger or Piggly Wiggly had a surplus of bread or milk, they would call the radio and TV stations and ask us to say “snow” on the air. Didn't matter if it was the middle of July. That simple four-letter word would have the power to strip the shelves of any and all stock and overstock. In the South, it's a Pavlovian response. You hear the word “snow” and you are compelled to run to the nearest grocery or convenience store and buy all the bread and milk there is to be had.

Hey, even native Southerners laugh at it. But nine out of ten of them still do it, even though they can't explain for the life of them why they do it. It is literally a conditioned response, handed down through the generations. It doesn't have to make sense. It's just what you do.

After years of head-scratching, I decided to do a little research on the phenomenon. Here's what a psycho-doodler I read posited as a theory. According to this learned individual, buying bread and milk represents a form of control. The theory goes that when a storm threatens, if you buy something substantial and sensible, like canned food or dried beans or something, you are expecting the worst and surrendering your control of the situation. If, on the other hand, you buy something totally impractical, like bread and milk, you are secretly telling yourself that everything will be alright and that you will remain in control of your circumstances for the short term. There. All figured out. See? Wasn't that easy? The binge buying of bread and milk is all in your head. The crisis isn't real and with a little therapy you could be cured.

Now, I do have to question this scholar's credibility a bit because, A.) she lives in Los Angeles where nary a flake of snow has ever fallen and B.) rather than objectify Southerners in specific, she chose to include Mid-westerners in her proposition. As one who spent the first twenty or so years of his life in the Upper Midwest, I can assure you that at no time did I ever see my mother, father, grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends or neighbors rush off to pillage a supermarket at the drop of a snowflake. Had they done so, they might as well have just taken up residence in the store's stock room, because when and where I was a kid it started snowing at Halloween and didn't stop until Easter.

I read several other psychological evaluations that all centered on people's desire to "meet basic needs" in case of an emergency. Okay. Whatever. If an inch of snow in an area where winter's worse temperatures barely touch the freezing mark for more than a few hours at a time constitutes an "emergency," so be it.

I read one brainiac who suggested that the whole "bread and milk" thing didn't start in the South at all but was a New England phenomenon that began after the Great Blizzard of 1978 when people were trapped in their homes for weeks following the fierce, paralyzing storm. Okay. I remember that storm. In fact, it was the impetus for moving my frozen Midwestern butt south of the Mason-Dixon line the following year. But I also remember that my sister had already been living in the South for nearly a decade by then and was completely mystified by the lack of bread and milk in stores every time a snowflake fell. And besides, right after I read that article I saw another one that said the whole rigmarole started after a big storm in 1950. Which would be given the lie by people I've talked to who recall empty store shelves prior to snows several years earlier than that.

A friend of mine, a woman with no vaunted psychological background and no letters after her name, theorizes that the tradition started back in the days when bread and milk were delivered to the home by route deliverymen. Obviously even a smattering of snow had the potential to disrupt these vital deliveries, so people took things into their own hands and hit the stores ahead of potential bad weather to insure their supply of essentials. And even though I personally have not seen hide nor hair of a milkman in more than a half-century, the thought process is that people stockpile today simply because that's the way ma and pa and the grandparents all did it.

Not that I'm saying a little preparation is a bad thing. But, for Pete's sake, use some common sense. In the first place, you're in the South, okay? IF.....and that's a big “if”.......any measurable snow actually materializes after the weather guessers spend a week scaring the beejeebers out of you, how long will it actually last? A day? Two? You're in Burlington, North Carolina, you know, not Burlington, Vermont. And then what do you do with all that bread and milk? Get together with your equally overstocked neighbors and have the world's biggest bread pudding party?

Which further leads me to ask, why do you have to buy all the bread and milk in sight? I mean, come on. Jesus fed the multitudes with five loaves of bread and a couple of fish. Is there a reason a family of four needs sixteen gallons of milk and thirty-two loaves of bread to last for the next day or two? As I write this in January, there are people in New England who will likely not see the ground again until July. Surely folks in Atlanta, Birmingham, Charlotte, and Charleston can survive on what's in the pantry for a couple of days without having to denude the store shelves of superfluous goods.

Yes, I said superfluous goods. Bread and milk are rotten choices for emergency provisions. Milk requires refrigeration which requires electricity. Unless, of course, you plan to stick it all out in the snow. And nutritionally speaking, you're not getting much bang for your buck out of loaves of gummy, store-bought white bread. What's on your emergency menu, bread sandwiches? Why don't you raid the peanut butter aisle while you're at it. At least that way you'd have something nutritious and non-perishable on which to survive for those grueling thirty-six hours of snowy captivity. And instead of gallons and gallons of liquid moo juice, why not fill up the old pickup truck bed with cases of powdered milk? Yeah, I know it tastes lousy but it's non-perishable and it will still be good when the next two-inch blizzard strikes a couple of years from now.

I know you just want to panic when the power goes out and takes the electric stove with it, but do you realize how easy it is to cook up a pot of Campbell's soup over a can of Sterno? Why not grab some of those instead of all that bread and milk? Or canned fruit. Or packaged nuts. Or granola bars, for cryin' out loud. Something you can actually live on for a day or two. I saw a picture online of some guys lining up with beer and chips. Great idea if you like warm beer. No power, remember? Again, I guess you could just slip some Buds into a snowbank, but really........

Old habits die hard, and that's really all it is. There's no logical reason whatsoever for terrorizing grocery store clerks and herniating bread and milk deliverymen other than the fact that your mama did it and your grandmama did it and your great-grandmama did it, and so on. Don't you think it's time to break the cycle? Get therapy if you need to, but stop the bread and milk madness!

I gotta go now. My wife just got home with groceries......including a rare and priceless gallon of milk......and I've got to put a loaf of bread in the oven.

Eggs Are Back! So Eat a Frittata

Viva l'Uovo!

Once upon a time, we lived in a world where people simply ate. They ate what was available; they ate what was fresh; they ate what was local; they ate what nature provided. Nobody counted calories or milligrams of this, that, or the other. They ate things they liked just because they liked them. And, by and large, they were a happy people who lived long and healthy lives. And then food science was invented and it all went to hell in a hand basket.

Okay, that's not entirely fair. Food science came about because we started treating our food like a science project. We “enhanced” it, we “fortified” it, we “processed” and “preserved” it and filled it full of “additives.” And in so doing, we created a society of the most obese, disease-ridden people ever to populate the planet. In an effort to safeguard our waning health, food scientists came along to help guide us down the righteous paths of good nutrition. Unfortunately, as so often happens with trailblazers and pathmakers, they didn't know where they were going themselves. They were just winging it based on the information they had and hoping for the best. And this has led to a lot of dead ends on the ol' nutrition trail. Like Daniel Boone and Kit Carson of old, food scientists have had to do a lot of backtracking and reevaluating. “Damn! Where did that mountain come from?” “That river's not supposed to be here!” “Ooops! Bigger stretch of desert than I thought.” Such is the case with cholesterol.

I'm of an age where cholesterol has been a part of my consciousness for about as long as I can remember. Maybe less so when I was a little kid, but certainly a major factor in my adult diet. Cholesterol has been the big, bad, bugaboo for about fifty years now. HDL (high density lipoproteins) were the good guys that would save you from coronary disease while LDL (low density lipoproteins) and their companion triglycerides would send you down the slippery slope of fat-clogged arteries to a certain early demise. Dietary science from the '60s, '70s, and '80s said it, and we all believed it.

Well.....not all. I was one of those who always wondered how Grandma cooked everything in lard and Grandpa chowed down on a half-dozen eggs and bacon every day and they both made it well into their 80s. My great-grandmother lived to just a few months shy of 100 and she never counted a calorie or monitored a milligram in her life. What did they do right that everybody else seems to be doing wrong?

In the first place, they ate what was available; they ate what was fresh; they ate what was local; they ate what nature provided. They ate things they liked just because they liked them. And, by and large, they were happy people who lived long and healthy lives. Nobody tried to embalm them with preservatives before they were dead. The fact that they knew what arms and legs were intended for also helped. Can you imagine? They actually had to get up and walk across the room to change the channel on the TV!

Anyway, back to cholesterol. The fat world shook the other day when the nation's top health cops at the FDA decided that maybe cholesterol has gotten a bum rap. Old research has been reexamined and rethought and new findings find that eating foods like eggs, butter, steak, shrimp, and lobster may not significantly impact the level of cholesterol in the blood or increase the risk of heart disease. Hence, they are recommending the removal of cholesterol from the list of “nutrients of concern.”

After analyzing studies and data from the '70s and '80s, nutritionists now realize that all the health warnings about cholesterol shoved down our throats over the years actually caused people to shift to foods high in carbohydrates and sugar, which, conversely, created more inflammatory and cardiac disease processes – and obesity – than the original culprit. Turns out it wasn't naturally occurring fats that were causing all the problems, but our wonderful new chemically created trans fats and refined oils that were killing us off in droves.

In fact, your body needs cholesterol in order to function. That's why the liver produces it naturally and in greater quantities than dietary intake provides. And that's why the new studies are saying, “don't sweat the cholesterol. It's not that big a factor.”

Wha-a-a-a-a-t! Do you mean all those disgusting egg white omelets I've been eating for forty years were all for nothing? That I've been choking down “I Can't Believe It's Not Butter” for decades when I could have been basking in the real thing? In the interest of full disclosure, I wouldn't actually touch either of those things if you paid me to, but yeah, that's about the size of it.

I'm happy as a frog in a pond full of lily pads about butter. As a native son of America's Dairyland, I wouldn't put margarine, that disgusting chemical concoction foisted off by the French on an unsuspecting world, on my table to save my life. Ironic, because margarine has recently been shown to be a substance that will kill you more quickly than bad ol' butter ever would. See? Food science at work. “Butter is bad and margarine is good. Oh......wait.......margarine is bad and butter is good. Or is it butter can be good if it's got olive oil in it and.....and....margarine is bad.....unless it's made with healthy fat like.......oh, never mind!” And let me tell you a little secret; skim milk has never passed my lips, either. I live by the rule “If my grandmother wouldn't recognize it as food, I won't eat it.” And in her day, skim milk was something they fed to cattle and pigs. (You younger folks may have to amend that rule and extend it back to your great-grandmother.)

But I'm happiest of all about the revived reputation of eggs. I've always liked eggs. Not six at a time like Grandpa, but I can do justice to one or two at a sitting. And even at the height of the hysteria when egg-phobic ninny-whiners were out there trying to suck the life out of every egg dish by insisting that the yolks were gonna kill us all deader than hammers and that we should all be eating “whites only,” I refused to succumb. There's a cardinal rule in the kitchen; “there's flavor in fat.” And when it comes to eggs, fat's where it's at. All the “killer” cholesterol is in the yolk, but so is all the flavor. Try as I might, I could never stomach the idea of eating a pile of bland egg whites. Not that I tried very hard, mind you. No, indeed. I chose to brave a premature death by eating two or three whole eggs a week, usually with a deadly glass of whole milk and perhaps a couple of lethal slices of buttered toast. Buttered, not slathered with faux-healthy “spread.” And I'm on the cusp of my seventh decade with blood cholesterol that falls within normal limits.

Eggs have long been called “nature's perfect food.” And there's a reason for that that transcends all the junk science we've been forced to endure. Granted, egg whites have some extra proteins in them. Beyond that, they are nutritionally worthless. All the good stuff is in the heretofore forbidden yolk. The beautiful golden center of an egg contains loads of the fat-soluble vitamins A, D, E, and K. All the carotenoids, lutein, and choline in an egg are in the yolk, as well as most of the calcium, iron, phosphorus, zinc, thiamin, folate,and vitamins B6 and B12. So go ahead and listen to the idiots who tell you to throw out the yolk. Better yet, throw out the whole egg and just eat the carton. It's fat-free and you'll get lots of fiber that way.

So now that eggs are officially okay again, let's celebrate with a recipe for the grandaddy of all Italian egg dishes, the frittata. This is one of my favorites.

FRITTATA AL FORNO CON MOZZARELLA

(Baked Frittata with Mozzarella)

Ingredients:

6 eggs

1/4 cup whole milk

salt and pepper, to taste

1 sprig fresh Italian parsley

6 fresh basil leaves

2 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil

8 oz mozzarella, thinly sliced

1 plum tomato, cut into thin rounds

Method:

Preheat oven to 350°.

Combine the eggs and the milk and beat until frothy; add the salt and pepper.

Chop together the parsley and the basil and add to the egg mixture.

Heat the oil in a medium ovenproof skillet over medium heat. Pour in the beaten egg mixture and cook until the bottom sets, 4 or 5 minutes. Remove from heat and add a layer of cheese, then dot with slices of tomato.

Place the skillet in the oven and bake until the eggs are set and the cheese has melted, 15 to 20 minutes.

Serve immediately.

Makes 6 servings

Buon appetito!

Be Grateful for Your Food

Pasta Waits for No One

Let's talk for a moment about gratitude. There doesn't seem to be a lot of it going around anymore, especially when it comes to food.

To me, one of the most egregious examples of ingratitude is the all too common practice of “wait a minute.” Italians have an old saying: “Pasta waits for no one.” In an Italian household, when the call to the table is given, you drop what you are doing and respond. There is no “wait a minute,” or “I'll be right there.” Such would be considered a dismissal of the cook's efforts. Cooking is love. Food is a gift. To say something to the effect of “what you've done for me isn't as important as what I'm doing right now, so I'll be there when I'm good and ready” repudiates the love and rejects the gift. The only thing that might be more rude than saying that to me is what I'll likely say to you in return. You come to my table ready to eat when I call you, or you can go eat cold leftovers in the garage.

As I said, the art of preparing good food – Italian or otherwise – is an act of love. The cook – the good cook, anyway – does more than just throw a few ingredients into a pot. There is an outpouring of creative energy, of time spent planning and preparing. There is a thoughtfulness and care that goes on each and every plate. A well-prepared meal set on a well-prepared table is the ultimate act of love expressed by the cook toward the family and friends – or even complete strangers – for whom the meal is prepared and the table set. It is an expression of an artist's soul. And you're gonna tell me, “just a minute?” You're gonna tell me that my time and effort and love are worth less than your watching some damn TV show or something? Not in my world.

In my world, as in the Italian world in general, the call to the dinner table is inviolate. It's like a call to prayer. It's an invitation to come together as a family and share the dance of life. When the pasta hits the table, the butts hit the chairs and the dance begins. To say something like, “I'll be there in a minute” is the ultimate insult. It is a rude, classless way of saying, “I don't care about the time you put in or the money you spent. I don't care about your effort or your feelings. I don't care about being a part of the whole. I've got more important things to do.” It's not done in an Italian family and it shouldn't be tolerated in any family.

It used to be tolerated in my wife's family......until I came along. Her brother was one of the worst offenders. Seems like he always had something else to do or one more thing to finish up when the food was served. “Okay. I'll be right there.” Then he'd saunter in when he was ready, meaning the meal was being held in the meantime and everything was getting cold. When I was cooking on his turf, i.e. his parents' house, there wasn't much I could do other than fume. But he made that mistake once when he visited my wife and me at our home. And I do mean “once.” I didn't go all pazzo on him, but I did explain quite emphatically all the things I outlined in the previous paragraphs – love, respect, family, etc. And guess what? It worked. He apologized and explained that nobody had ever laid it out that way for him before. He not only got the concept, he passed it along to his kids and now everybody shows up at the table, ready to partake of the food and the shared family experience.

According to the dictionary, to be grateful means to be “warmly or deeply appreciative of kindness or benefits received; to be thankful.” This, of course, is the diametric opposite of being entitled, an attitude I find far more prevalent these days.

People who walk through life with an ineffable sense of entitlement generally feel that everything is due them simply because they exist. It is we who should be grateful to them merely for gracing us with their presence. I know people like this and I suspect you do as well. And it's loads of fun trying to cook for them. I have been feeding such a person at holidays and on other occasions for the better part of two decades and I have yet to receive as much as a simple “thank you” for my efforts. Oh, the guy is quick enough to sit down and chow down, often going back for seconds and thirds. But, far from warm or deep appreciation, I have yet to experience even superficial acknowledgment. It's like I'm expected to feed him just because he's there.

By the definition previously alluded to, cooking is an act of kindness that provides a benefit. Therefore, it is something for which the recipient should be “warmly or deeply appreciative.” It is a gift. And what did your mother teach you to say when you were given a gift? “Thank you.”

The traditional Catholic blessing before a meal includes the words, “Bless us, oh Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty.” Whether from the Lord's bounty or simply from your mom's kitchen, food is, indeed, a gift. Most Protestants go a step further in their invocations, expressing thankfulness not only for the food, but generally including an exhortation to “bless the hands that prepared it.” Both are indicative of a feeling of warm or deep appreciation for our food, although I must admit a slight bias for the one in which the cook gets a little credit.

Recently I read an article in which the writer espoused the theory that the reason many people don't like to cook anymore is because of a lack of appreciation for their efforts. They look upon cooking as a chore and a thankless task because.........well, because they don't get any thanks. Having some experience along those lines, I concur that it can be difficult to muster any enthusiasm to cook for someone who plants his face in whatever you've prepared without ever giving you the slightest indication of approbation. The writer further opined that whiners and complainers are even worse, the thought being that it might be better to have somebody stuff their face in silence than to have them nitpick every morsel that goes down their ungrateful gullet. Here, too, I agree, because the individual I referenced earlier, although incapable of compliment, is quick enough to complain.

I am fortunate to come from a family of good cooks. Generations of my family have been involved in the food service industry. Even those who never set foot in a professional kitchen were outstanding home cooks. To us, food has never been something to be slapped on a plate and thrown on a table to meet a basic biological need. From choosing the finest ingredients to employing the best cooking techniques to plating and serving in the most attractive manner, food has been important to us. Whether a big holiday feast or a simple weekend breakfast, food has been our gift to one another and to those whom we have served. And it is a gift that works both ways. Surely you've heard “it is more blessed to give than to receive.” Family, friends, and other guests are always telling me, “you didn't have to do that” or “you didn't have to go to all that trouble.” And they're right; I didn't have to. I chose to because of the joy and fulfillment it brings me. And the only thing I ever ask in return is for the recipient of my gift to be “warmly and deeply appreciative.” Not necessarily effusively or demonstratively. I don't need people to go into paroxysms of praise over my pasta or to wax poetic about my pizza. A clean plate and a “thanks, that was good” is all any cook ever really needs.

So next time you ask, “Give us this day our daily bread”..........remember also to be grateful for it. And for the hands that prepared it.