Risott-Hoe
As I’ve previously stated, each week in Rome brings with it a series of personal epiphanies. I can’t attest these realizations to any one thing in particular. Perhaps they’re happening because my comfortable, ranch dressing addicted American ass was catapulted into a different country and way of life. Well, it must be that. I’m out of my comfort zone, and this allows me to think a bit differently than I do in Arizona.
The first epiphany that I had this week was that I will never think that the television show “The Big Bang Theory” is funny.
The second is that I absolutely hate pigeons. My body reacts to these flying rat creatures in a way similar to Caitlyn Jenner’s driving habits: dangerous. I will go flailing into walls, poles, innocent bystanders, etc. The worst part about this is that they're everywhere here, squawking their filthy, disgusting little bodies into every aspect of my life.
The third is that I seriously love cooking, and that Italy is the best place to do it. So far, I’ve had two significant cooking moments in Rome. Mind you, my kitchen--shared by five other 20 year olds--is far from the golden standard of culinary excellence. Think Kitchen Nightmares, but in a cramped corner, starring only me. Nonetheless, cooking is an activity I find to be therapeutic, a sort of natural Lexapro. Also, I’m taking a food writing course, and each week we are assigned a dish to make and subsequently write about.
The first assignment was to go to a farmers market, choose any vegetable, and create something with it. My first step: brainstorming. I grew up watching the Food Network, and always enjoyed Ina Garten’s segments. Though she possesses a mild serial killer demeanor and is definitely cheating on Jeffrey with her florist, her recipes always look incredible. I decided I’d try my hand at making her famous roasted tomato and basil soup. Even though store bought was fine, I did as my professor instructed and travelled to my nearest farmers market to pick up the ingredients. I followed the recipe, left it to simmer away, and made a quick trip to the bar a.k.a. my living room. I drank a full bottle of wine and then checked in on my soup, which appeared to be ready. Definitely have to give it up to Ina--the soup was fabulous.
However, to my dismay, I found myself running straight to the bathroom 45 minutes later. I’ll spare you the details--but I’ll say this: if there’s a Roman version of Montezuma, I apparently drowned his pets or crashed his wedding, because he was getting hardcore revenge. My friends believe this happened because my dumb ass didn’t wash the tomatoes before cooking them, but I think otherwise. Oh, and it definitely wasn’t the wine, either. Either way, I was exploding out of both ends for the rest of the night--but I felt really skinny the next day. You win some, you lose some.
My flight to Berlin this past weekend was cancelled due to a labor strike at the airport, leaving me with a good amount of time to tackle my next assignment: risotto. Risotto isn’t the easiest dish to make, because the chef must constantly stir the rice, adding ladles of boiling broth every 2 minutes or so for an hour. Problem #1 arose when I couldn’t find chicken broth at the grocery store. Instead, I had to resort to using bouillon cubes and water. Bouillon reminds me of ramen noodle flavor packets, and those little shits will leave you bloated until 2023. But alas, I made do with what I could, and began the process of making risotto. One of the first ingredients used is white wine, so I made sure to have four bottles ready for the ½ cup the recipe asked for.
After what felt like an eternity--during which my right arm fell off after enduring the most physical activity it’s experienced in 3 years--the risotto finally took to an al dente form. I grated 45 pounds of parmesan on top, and dug in. This is when I experienced a full ayahuasca-esque body/mind/spirit orgasm. The work is WORTH it. I’ve never been one to promote exercise, and the only form I regularly practice is having panic attacks--but cooking risotto is definitely one I can get behind. Oh, and also--risotto doesn’t photograph well. In fact, mine looked like my dog vomited on my plate, so please don't judge me.
A bitch even garnished with fresh parsley.. someone call Gordon Ramsay.
This week, I plan on continuing my conquest to find a store in Rome where I can buy a jar of crisp kosher dill pickles. I’ve been craving one harder than Melania is craving freedom. Maybe I’m pregnant?
That’s that for this post. I’ll leave you with one final thought: NEVER, ever take your drying machine or dishwasher for granted.
Ciao!
