In the U.S., fascism and racism and anti-semitism and misogyny and xenophobia are back with a vengeance, seemingly emboldened by the current political environment, there's fake news all over the web, propaganda on cable news, the President is, um, problematic.
For the last four months of 2017, I lived alone in Torino, in a random apartment about forty minutes by foot from the bakery where I was located for my stage/internship. Six days a week, I woke up at 2:00 a.m., ate a quick breakfast, and then went out, in the dark, alone, to walk to work.
Two years ago, crammed into a tiny green gazebo at the house of my wife's grandparents in Voronezh, Russia, the simplest of meals somehow changed my life.
Seemingly every day marks the introduction of another way to reduce the time we spend cooking and eating. Thanks, but no thanks.
Assorted thoughts on Week One of the Italian Culinary Experience at the International Culinary Center, with as much coherence as I can muster after the most draining and exhilarating week in recent memory.
At the door, a man—wielding a large knife—slicing, always slicing. You walk in. Pause. A single question. In Italian at first—then English, if you, like I, seem a little puzzled. But you needn't be. There are only two options. This blunt simplicity has a weird way of translating the Italian in your brain after the fact. "Oh, of course that's what he said," you think.