Summertime

I found myself watching Summertime the other night for the umpteenth time.

It never gets old.

It's one of those rare movies that gets everything right.

All of the breathless, gasping wonder that is Venice

The sights, the sounds, the magical light that shines over Italy.

(If you've ever been there, you know the light of which I speak.)

The still shots, lingering on every statue, bell tower, and facade you yourself would stop to photograph. The movie camera panning down the city's shadowed, twisting, turning alleyways before coming upon some majestic Venetian view, glistening in the sun.

And Katharine Hepburn is perfect, absolutely perfect, as an American seeing the magic that is Venice for the first time.

Walking around in wide-eyed, smiling wonder, camera in hand, breathing in every last bit of dolce vita.

I want to go back.

But this will hold me over...for now.

xo

When In Rome...

It almost never snows in Rome.
But lately, the ancient city's been donning a blanket of white.

 

A rare, lovely sight, indeed.

xo

Say Hello, Wave Goodbye

Monday afternoon in the kitchen. The sunlight is slanty and warm, the way it should be in October. Listening to White Ladder: at one time overplayed; a decade later, a near forgotten gem.

Pulled from a dark shelf in the basement is a large jar full of vodka-drunk lemon peels and the frozen juice of the 18 lemons they once housed. My hands cramp at the memory of the peeling and the squeezing, 36 lemons in all.

Sugar is dissolved in water. Three liquids strained into the largest bowl I can find, mixing and mingling and becoming one. The bowl is near to overflowing, and I begin to wonder if there are going to be enough jars, or even enough shelf space in the cool dark of the basement.

Ladling the liquid into the largest jar, I can't help but note that it looks a bit like chicken broth sitting in the bowl, but that it warms the body in a wholly different way. Remembering an early morning somewhere between Rome and Naples, visiting a ceramic studio and sampling the homemade limoncello. Remembering giggling at the knowledge even then that we would always remember that morning in Italy we had limoncello for breakfast, drunk more from the travel and the adventure than the early morning booze. Snapping back from my daydream just in time to prevent the discarded lemon peels from going into the compost, lest there be drunk squirrels running around the yard.

Jars filled and sealed, and returned to the shelf in the basement to spend the next six weeks becoming mellow. A retreat, a sort of spa for cocktails. A new way to view an otherwise dark and dingy space underneath the house.

Tomorrow, more juice to thaw, more sugar to dissolve, and more jars to fill. There were thirty six lemons in all. I think I'm gonna need a bigger jar.

xo

Under The Peach Trees

Hotel All'Angelo
Venice, Italy. May 2007

The last trip I took to Italy, I stayed two nights in Venice. I'd been to Venice before, but always as one of those dreaded Daytrippers- in on a morning train, out before dinner.

This time around would be different. There would be no rushing around to see everything, and I would take the time to watch this city, one of the most magical places on earth, twinkle at night.

We stayed at a little hotel  just a few zig-zagged alleyways from Piazza San Marco. Upon our arrival, we were ushered into an antique-filled sitting area, with French doors that opened directly onto a canal, to wait for a water taxi to bring our luggage.

And we were served, from a silver tray, bellinis.

Never before had anything tasted so perfect as that sparkling peach cocktail, drank standing in a doorway overlooking the city in which is was created.

Flash forward to a few weeks ago, a wanderlust state of mind, and a bowl of fruit that included two donut peaches on the verge of going bad. A quick trip to the liquor store to procure a bottle of prosecco, peaches squeezed through a strainer, and I was, for just a quick moment, back in Venice.

Babycello

One Sunday, back in mid-April, an early morning phone call came from my sister, saying that this would be the day Nephew number Two would be making his appearance. Breakfast and a shower happened, my bag was packed in preparation for a possible long night with Nephew number One, and then.....

I'm not very good at waiting. I paced a bit, fluffed some pillows, stared at the phone.

I needed a project. A small one, one that could be quickly abandoned, but something meaty enough to really get involved in.

I decided it was the perfect afternoon to make limoncello. Zesting a half a dozen lemons would kill a nice chunk of time. And, since it was baby day, I'd call it babycello, and we would toast his tiny self with it once it was ready.

So I gathered together my lemons and sugar and vodka, grabbed the zester, and the phone rang. Baby time!

My little project would have to wait for another day.

I picked up where I left off a few days later.

Lemons were zested and drowned in vodka, and the little jar was placed on a cool dark shelf in the basement.

Every morning for the next six weeks, right after turning the coffee maker on, I went down and shook my little jar.

After six weeks in the dark, I brought the little jar up into the bright daylight of the kitchen, drained my zest, added some simple syrup, and back to the basement it went for a two week rest (apparently, it's very taxing turning into a delicious Italian digestivo!).

Once my little cocktail had finished its rest, into the freezer it went.

If you've never had it, there's nothing quite like fresh made limoncello.

I first had it (very early in the morning) in a ceramic tile studio in southern Italy.

I'd had limoncello before, but never like that.

And from then on, I only wanted to have it like that:

fresh, smooth, and perfectly lemony.

So thank you, Nephew number Two,

for providing me with the need for a simple project while I waited for you to be born.

Cin cin!

xo

Heat Wave

Last week, we got walloped with a heatwave. It was awful. About all I could manage to do was lay on the floor, arms and legs as far from my body as I could muster the energy to move them. Every now and then, I would drag myself into the kitchen and chug water straight from the pitcher in the refrigerator. I was unprepared for this heatwave, and I had to do something horrible- I had to put on shorts. My legs were not made for shorts- all skinny and big-kneed and pale. They are much more suited to sundresses. Light, airy, flowy sundresses. I have these, packed away in abundance in the attic, which is like an oven on the best of days. No way was I going up there.

But today, as we bid adieu once again to seasonable temperatures and head unwillingly back into the uppermost nineties (noooooo!!!!), I will be digging those sundresses out. And perhaps hunting for a few more. Like these:

All dresses from Anthropologie

Now. If only I could find a place like this to hide away from the heat, I'd be all set:

{image}

Stay cool, Dear Readers.

xo

Trulli Magical

Monday. Monday, and welcome to it, Dear Readers. I thought it might be nice to ease into a new week with a little trip to Italy.

Now, I have been fortunate to have travelled throughout Italy on a few occasions. And during those travels, I saw homes ranging from modern apartment buildings wedged in between medieval dwellings, to modest farmhouses, to sprawling villas and palazzos. But never ever in any of my travels have I seen anything quite like the magical little round, stone Trulli houses that dot the countryside of Apulia. Did I mention they are round!?

Don't they look like something right out of a fairytale? Living in one must be absolutely magical, with all of those whimsical curves and alcoves.

Have a whimsical, magical week, sweeties!

xo

{images found here, here, here, and here}