Roots and Panini

Bologna: Yup, That's the Italian Dictionary

I’m Italian. By most standards I’m actually a mutt – a quarter Italian, a quarter Russian, and a half mixture of German, Dutch, English, and a bit of hazy after that.  But of all the wonderful cultures that grafted themselves together to yield my family tree, I'm convinced that my Italian roots have a direct sap-line to my heart. Growing up my sisters often remarked about my olive insta-tan skin and my inclination to communicate through food. In college I enrolled in Italian 101 and studied in Bologna for a five-week language intensive program. Five years later, my mother (who is half Italian), took our family on a two-week trip to Tuscany in a splurge of generous exuberance. I soaked up every ounce of it like a dry sponge thrown into the ocean. Even now, seven years since, I catch myself deciphering how to say something in Italian. It doesn't sound as pretty from my lips as it once did…but I want to make sure it can still be done. The older I am, the stronger the kinship I feel to the homeland of my great-grandparents. But it’s more than the country itself that enraptures me. It’s the mindset, the values, the nuances of BE-ing Italian. In many ways, my homestead way of life echoes and encourages similar points of view. And, of course, there’s the food...which is much more a way of life than merely a source of nourishment. To which I say, “Exactly!”

Chicks Dig Brooders

Though this is a homestead blog, I feel compelled to clarify that by "chicks" I don't mean girls and by "brooders" I don't mean mysterious & moody boys...though I suppose one could argue the point. I'm talking much more literally about the fuzz-bodied winged variety and their nursery of sorts.

This week was significant on our homestead. First, Wednesday was the beginning of spring a.k.a the vernal equinox -- when the sun spends identical shifts above and below the horizon making day and night equal in length for a 24-hour period. As of this day, winter had to relinquish its reign to spring...at least in title if not yet in temperature. To know spring is officially here makes my cells dance with excitement. To top it off as an unofficial christening to the season, our batch of one hundred chicks arrived this afternoon!

Gettin' Eggy With It

It was snack time in second grade. My friend Stacy* and I sat with the cornucopia of our lunchboxes displayed before us, playing and joking about who knows what. Somehow relating to our reverie I picked up her egg salad sandwich in its tidy zipper bag and nonchalantly smushed it with both my hands. If you envision a rambunctious little boy squeezing a tube of toothpaste with the cap on just to see what would happen you have a glimpse of the scene. The two of us then continued with our giggly play. At the end of snack we packed up our boxes and returned to our lessons...and I obliviously went about my morning. Later our teacher Mrs. Jones came to me questioning why on earth I would smash Stacy's sandwich leaving her lunch-less. I innocently replied, "I really don't like egg salad." Naturally, a mild reprimand ensued and I (being somewhat of a goodie-two-shoes) promptly apologized to Stacy and hung my head in shame. When lunchtime came around I munched on whatever blase item was packed for me...but Stacy got to choose a delectable offering that Mr. & Mrs. Schmidt were serving for hot lunch in the cafeteria. Lucky! Surely I had done her a favor...

*The names in this story have been changed to protect the innocent. The only exception would be me -- who was absolutely guilty as charged.

Demolition Derby: She's A Brick House...Or Used To Be

I'm speechless...well, almost. I was tempted to post only pictures for this one because, as they say, they're worth a thousand words. However, my affection for the written word cannot be suppressed. While the photos throughout will tell almost all of the tale, I'll obligingly provide the embellishments.