How do you say "Happy Thanksgiving" in Italian?

When our family gets togther for Thanksgiving, it is a huge event. There are usually no less than 30 people, and enough food to feed a small army. It has always been one of my favorite holidays (coming in a close second behind Halloween.) Luckily, I married a man who also loves Thanksgiving. So, no matter where we are, we do Thanksgiving up right. This year will be no different. The turkey has been bought, and my countertops are filled with the fixins for a feast. I've had to re-vamp some of my menu, as some things are impossible to find over here. Family in the States have shipped the Copes Corn (Thanksgiving wouldn't be complete without it), but the orange sherbet for my Grammy's orange salad recipe is impossible to find, and impossible to ship. So...no glop.

From growing up in our family, Thanksgiving dinner is not a meal meant to enjoy in small groups. With that in mind, we have invited some of my husband's soldier-friends, and also an Italian family who own a restaurant that we frequently visit. The family sort of adopted my husband while I was home this summer with our boys. Without them, my husband may have starved. I'm very excited to have them come, as this will be their first Thanksgiving dinner. But last night, I had a bit of an anxiety attack as I considered the fact that I was preparing a meal for a chef. Not just a meal...but an unfamiliar one. Do Italians do mashed potatoes? I'm kind of thinking it's not a bad thing that orange sherbet doesn't exist here, because what would they think of the neon orange salad that our family devours? Then again, while dining there last night, the chef brought out to us a plate that had a variety of sliced fresh vegetables, and a small dish with a dipping sauce. He explained that it was pureed sardines and fresh garlic. I'm not saying it was bad, but I don't see myself every throwing sardines into a blender.

So, I have three days to prepare myself. I can do this. I'm just going to channel some of my aunt's energy and cooking wisdom. With a little luck, our Italian friends won't leave wondering why we Americans get so jazzed up over the fourth Thursday in November.

Ciao' for now!

He said what!?!?

I've really been into creating pottery. The Art Center on base has a fabulous studio and kiln. It's turned into my escape. I could sit for hours and sculpt and paint (I can't actually do this often because I'm usually not afforded the time, but after this week's flooding and extra days off of school and home with the boys, hubby booted me out of the house to catch a breather.)

I found out on one rainy day that my boys also enjoy going and "playing with clay." I'm fine with it, because they can be creative and messy all at the same time and I don't have to clean up clay all over my house.

In the beginning, I was a little concerned about my older son's work. It all had a sort of phalic appearance. He said they were cannons, but I think he was working out some Freudian issue. However, he is extremely adamant that they are not penises, so if you see any of his artwork when visiting Grandma's house, please don't say anything. And Grandma, he will expect to see his artwork proudly displayed when he comes to visit...and don't think of breaking it, cause he'll make another one....BIGGER and better.

And then there is my younger son. He also enjoyed sculpting. More than sculpting, he enjoyed socializing with the two young ladies who were there hand throwing on the wheel. He quickly made friends with them, and shared his mosquito pool that he was working on. (No, I didn't realize mosquitos enjoy swimming, either). When I bumped into the ladies today, sans children, the one told me that my younger son said something that totally cracked her up. This cannot be good, I thought. As he was getting off one of the stools in the workroom, he groaned as he was sliding down. She asked him if he was ok. To which he responded, "I squished my tenders." Then, just to clarify in case she was not aware of what "tenders" were, he matter-of-factly added, "Those are my balls."

Who knew the pottery room could be such a wonderful place for entertainment? I'm going back tomorrow!

It's gotta be said....

WARNING: The following may be offensive to some. I realize that I am over generalizing, but if you don't like it, stop reading. If you disagree, good...I like stirring things up.

I have come to a conclusion about the younger men (the twenty and thirty-somethings) of Italy. They fall into one of two categories: either smoking hot and manly or scrawny and girly.

Let's start with the guys that would be getting stuffed into lockers and trash cans if they were in the States. I'm not saying they look nerdy or gay...ok, maybe gay, but I am saying that there are not a lot of masculine qualities being exhibited. If one of these guys were on a scooter with a helmet, you could go 50/50 on whether or not it was a dude or a chick. Most of them are smaller than a 12 year old girl. We were at a shopping mall, and had a guy pass us wearing two pairs of jeans. One over top of the other. And the one on top couldn't have been more than a size six. I'm happy if I can squeeze into one pair of jeans, let alone two. And let's not even talk about what it would take for me to fit into a size six again.

When winter comes, it will be even harder to discern the guys from the gals. They'll be all bundled up in their uni-sex clothes, and the scarves will cover up the facial hair.

At first, I thought all Italian men were the size of middle school girls and wore purple. But then....there he was. His body was built like Michelangelo's David...chiseled and rock hard. He was the only man I had ever seen who could make a banana hammock (weenie bikini, speedo, whatever) look good. He was standing there by the side of the pool speaking Italian into his phone, so I knew he wasn't "one of ours."

It was then that I figured it out...there are a handful of amazingly gorgeous, well-built Italian men who have taken all of the men hormones for their culture, leaving only girly hormones for the other thousands of men.

Our Soldiers Are Coming Home

Dear Friends and Family,

This weekend, I watched a movie with my husband called "Restrepo." It is an independent film that is showing in select theaters throughout the States and will be coming out on DVD soon. If you would like to learn more about it, you can check it out at restrepothemovie.com.

The movie follows the soldiers from the unit my husband is currently assigned during their previous deployment to Afghanistan. These soldiers are doing another tour in Afghanistan, and are due to come home within the next few months.

I am embarassed to say, because as an Army wife, I should have understood what the deployments were like for the soldiers. But I truly had no idea. Restrepo opened my eyes. These soldiers spend a year living in tents and plywood structures. They sleep in the dirt. With their main outpost miles away, they eat MRE's day after day. These soldiers are not sitting in front of computers. Phone calls to loved ones may come monthly, if at all.

When the soldiers return, they will have with them only what they can carry in their rucksacks. Everything will be covered in dirt and grime from a year of rough living. The soldiers who have families here in Italy will return to warm meals and welcoming homes. But there are 75 soldiers in my husband's company who will return to an empty barracks room. With a few thousand soldiers returning in the next few months, our P/X (shopping area) will be sold out of many of the linens and bath items.

Our Family Readiness Group ( a group of wives and children of soldiers) is hoping to prepare the barracks rooms to provide a warmer welcome for these boys who have given so much of themselves. Back in August, we sent out a mailer to the parents of the soldiers in the States. We have received a lot of items, but we are still falling short.

If you have any desire to help make a soldier's homecoming more welcome, please send me an e-mail and I will give you an address. The military is providing sheets for the beds, and shower curtains for the showers. We would love to have towels, shower gel, and razors in their rooms. If there is anything else you would like to send, I'm sure it will be welcome. If you know of any groups that would be interested in helping out, please give them my name and e-mail address and I will contact them. I realize it's short notice, and I apologize for that. Seeing that movie was such an eye opening experience, and it compelled me to do something.

Thank you in advance!
Love to everyone!!!!
Ciao' for now!

A bicycle built for two....or three

Short blog, but one worth writing about. Since living in Italy, I have seen the strangest people riding bikes. I told you about the guy carrying the umbrella wearing a long fur coat with a sequined hat. There have been people riding their bikes while smoking cigarettes, talking on their cell phones, and eating gelato. Some doing all at the same time. There was the bike with three adult passengers, one on the seat, one on the handlebars, and one on the back rack; the lady with the baby in a snuggly (frightening); and countless people toting their weed whackers (no...get your mind out of the gutter...I'm literally talking about the garden tool). They carry them over their shoulder while pedaling, hanging out of the basket on the front of their bike, draped across the handlebars, and in one instance, attached to a hand truck he was pulling behind him. Yet, for all of the toting of weed whackers, there are a surprisingly large number of weeds around. I truly don't know where they're whacking. Today, however, I found the muse for this blog. There was a guy pedaling his bike carrying a CHAIN SAW! If you've never carried a chain saw, they are rather heavy, and they have very sharp teeth all along the blade. I don't even want to carry one while walking, let alone negotiating traffic on a bicycle.

But, I think I've figured out why there are so few traffic accidents in Italy. Yes, the drivers are crazy and aggressive. However, because of all of the crazy obstacles we come upon while driving, you are forced to pay attention...lest you shall lose a side-view mirror to a chainsaw carrying biker.

Ciao' for now!

Where's my manual????

The government spends billions of dollars evaluating programs to find out whether or not they work. I know this because our current First Lady is working to examine the programs that are in support of military families. My suggestion to her, instead of spending the money to take an in-depth look at existing programs, why don't you put that money into the countless programs that already exist that have run out of funding due to the many military families who have found them helpful! Wow...what a concept! See...that is logic. I have learned as a parent that many decisions I have to make are as simple as looking at things logically.

If my children had come with manuals, similar to the 112 page book in five different languages that came with my hand mixer (seriously...if you need 112 pages to help you figure out how to use a hand mixer, you probably shouldn't be in the kitchen) I may not have to make so many decisions on my own. Logic wouldn't play a part; I could simply turn to page 43 and read their steps for handling the crisis of the moment. But, alas, no manual.

So, when my four year old refuses to get dressed in the clothes that I have laid out in the morning, because he wants to wear his Buzz Lightyear pajamas, there is no troubleshooting section to turn to. Decision time. Do I let him stay in the pajamas? Yes, if we are just taking his older brother to the bus stop. No, if we are going to meet his new teacher for PreSchool. First impressions being what they are, I don't want him to be "that kid" and I certainly don't want to be "that mom."

And then, there are those moments that no book would cover. When the same child calls to you from the bathtub and says, "Hey, mom, look at this!" it's decision time. What are the chances that whatever he has to show me is something I want to see? It could be a turd. Or maybe he found my razor and decided to shave his head. Or, like in the instance of tonight, he'd want me to see the little dancing toy he had suctioned onto his weiner. Such a treat, parenthood.

Ciao' for now!

Customer Service, Italian Style

If you've been reading my past blogs, you would understand that my experiences here in Italy have been marred only by two things. The first, my dissapointment in Northern Italian cuisine. The second, getting help with having anything fixed takes FOREVER. Well, after this week, I can no longer begrudge the Italians on that one. On Wednesday, with a laundry list of tasks to complete, my youngest son and I set out. We hopped in the car, and away we didn't go. The car wouldn't start. It didn't sound like the battery, and I knew that I had driven through some really deep water during a surprise rain storm on Tuesday. So, I did what any woman would do. I called my husband. He had no clue what to suggest. I guess my errands would have to wait.

I called the auto repair place on our military post, and was told that they wouldn't fix the car, but if I wanted to, they could come and tow it (for about $40), and I could fix it there. (Seems you can rent a lift and tools). The guy said from my description, it sounded like the fuel pump which would run anywhere from 35 to 150 euros. My Girl Scout badge in Automotive Maintenance failed to cover replacing fuel pumps, so I thought this may be a bit out of my league.

Frustated that I may have to wait until my husband had the time off to fix it, aka never, I walked to the nearby FIAT dealership. In my very little Italian, and the guys very little English, he understood that my car was "kapput" and that I had walked there from my house. Next thing I knew, there was a mechanic pulled around out front prepared to give my son and I a ride to our house to check out the car. WOW! I almost fell over. You mean I wasn't going to have to wait a week?

He drove my son and I to our house, and proceeded to tinker with the car. He signaled to me that he had to go back to the garage to get something, but that he would return. Which he did! He proceeded to tow the car back to his garage, and told me I could pick it up in 2 hours. Are you kidding me???? I kept thinking, OK, this car only cost us $100. It's probably going to cost me $500 to fix it. Damn language barrier. But, hey, I was desparate, and the guy had just driven off with my car...AFTER doing a home visit to try and fix it.

Two hours later, when I went back to the dealership, it was ready! And the bill....are you ready....51 euro! For everything! I must have said "Grazie" a thousand times. I told my husband I want to invite the mechanic to Thanksgiving dinner. (I'll tell you more about Thanksgiving later).

Ciao' for now!