A Pontifical Thanksgiving

As incredible as Italian cuisine can be, no American living in Italy can avoid the opportunity to have real down-home country American fare – at least, not on Thanksgiving Day. Still, it is a challenge to replicate a traditional Thanksgiving meal in a country that does not understand stuffing, pumpkin pie, cranberry sauce, and why we must have a Turkey.

The process of preparing Thanksgiving is a team effort; even the Turkey required four people and a handful of confused Italian priests in order to come to its full realization. First, there is the process of ordering the bird, one that is the right size, and is whole (Italians don’t always understand that the process of roasting the whole bird, rather than in pieces, makes a big difference). Then, once the pre-ordered bird has arrived at the butcher, there is the process of trying to explain (in broken Italian no less) that you would appreciated it indeed if the head, claws, and any indicants that it was once a living animal that had eyes and feet.

Then, there is the process of cooking the bird. For this, our little Thanksgiving Team was fortunate to have the help of a local parish Community House, complete with dining hall and an industrial-sized kitchen. Surrounded by curious eyes and lots of mutterings in Italian, I rinsed the 17-pound bird, gently lifted the skin and reached up to my elbows to spread an herb garlic butter between the meat and the skin, and stuffed the insides with onions, garlic, celery, and whatever herbs I could get my hands on. Aside from some excessive poking on the part of an Italian which let a few too many juices out, the Turkey came out of the oven smelling divine and tasting even better.

At the meal, there was stuffing, Pumpkin Pie, green-beans, bread rolls, and many other odds and ends of Thanksgiving goodness, all surrounding a massive home-cooked Turkey. However, what makes Thanksgiving significant is the togetherness, the joining of family and friends together over a good home-cooked meal. It’s an element of American culture that many foreign cultures think that we lack, when in fact it is as integral to us as to anyone else. For us Americans, especially those of us living in Rome, Thanksgiving is the opportunity to share this community element with people from other cultures, in a way that only Americans can.

In Vino Veritas

Anyone walking through Trastevere on a Friday evening will be forced to endure a ruckus. Students from John Cabot´s American University spill out of bars with glasses and bottles in hand, filling the ancient streets with a noisy, stumbling crowd. The stylish mess of drunkenness tumbling through the ancient neighborhood -- the wealthy elitism, the refusal to learn the language, the sense of entitlement, the unrestrained liberation -- paints a picture of America that is not accurate, but nevertheless is a reaction to something truly present in American culture: the Puritan ideology upon with the country was founded. And these Puritanical roots affected -- among other things -- the way in which Americans view the culture of alcohol.

Although most of the States in the US have relaxed their attitude towards alcohol in that very few places consider it to be the ¨demon liquor¨ (the south still retains remnants of this Puritan attitude), the laws that are in place are strict but misleading; the legal drinking age of 21 is so strictly enforced that if an estrablishment forgets to ask for the ID of anyone who looks under the age of 30, they can be thrown in prison. Drinking is seen as something which the government and Fundamentalist Christians seek to restrict. To drink at all -- especially if underage -- is seen as rebellious. As a result, young adults who have had restrictions imposed on them without having been taught temperance come to Rome, and the result is the drunken feast that one too regularly witnesses on the streets of Rome.

In contrast to the repressed drinking culture of the States that promotes unrestraint and irresponsibility, is the drinking culture of Italy. During an Italian meal, for instance, the wine will flow quite liberally -- yet, the result is a relaxed appreciation for the food and company. One can not only comfortably go to a wine bar alone without appearing to be an alcoholic, but an hour can pass with a good book before the first glass is finished; and after that first glass, one feels more than content. Italian culture lends itself to moderate drinking because wine is recognized as an intrinsic good, and with this recognition, moderation naturally follows.

The contrast between Italian and American cultures in regards to drinking is more than an issue of law and ideology. It offers a small insight into what the effect can be when something that is intrinsically neutral -- even intrinsically good -- is overly restricted by the culture. In America, wine is seen as something that is enjoyable but not intrinsically good; therefore, the result is rebellion that does not understand the value of moderation when applied to a good thing. In Italy, on the other hand, moderation comes naturally, for it is understood that wine is intrinsically good. And its quite a Catholic idea, really: how could any culture that believes in Transubstantiation not believe that wine is a good thing?

'Wastin away again in Margaritaville'*

One of the unfortunate elements of blogging about food is the occasional need for research. For this, I made the long treck down to Pompeii, where the day was concluded with a meal at a southern pizzeria. Because my father, who came to Italy many times throughout his military service, had always told me that the margerita pizza of southern Italy was the best pizza in all the world, I knew that I could not disapoint my father and leave Pompei without trying it.

And I was not disapointed. Unlike the Roman pizzas which tend to be much thinner, the southern pizzas are cooked on a much heartier bread. The mozzerella was melted into a cream, lightliy fermented and hinted into a perfectly mild tartness. The tomatoes were flavorful and organic. And the basil, scattered only lightly throughout, nevertheless filled the entirety of the experience with aromatic splendor.

The Margarita Pizza is not simply a joy of pizziastical simplicity, however. Its creation, in fact, marks an important landmark in modern culinary history in Italy . . . and consequently the rest of the world.

In spite of pizzas being associated with Italy, the plain flatbread (otherwise known as foccacia) was a Greek invention. Due to its inexpensive heartiness, however, this plain flatbread was often sold to the peasants in the southern regions of Italy -- such as Naples (one should also take note that America can claim responsibility for existence of tomatoes in Italian fare, thank you very much, but that is another post for another day).

It was during a visit to Naples in 1889 that Italy's Queen Margaret, traveling with her husband, Umberto I, took a liking to this simple peasant fare. Since such a liking was a faux pas for a queen, she arranged for her cheif -- Rafaelle Esposito -- to come up with a version of this peasant's flatbread that would be more suitable for royalty. Of the various combinations that Esposito came up with, the pizza that Queen Margeret liked most was the one arranged in the colors of the Italian flag -- red tomatos, white mozzerella, and green basil. Named after the queen who commissioned it, all forms of the pizza which developed from that time forward, first in Italy, than the rest of the world, can claim the Margarita pizza as their mother.

It is in the humble simplicity that Italian cuisine finds its delectability. Unlike many dishes from elsewhere in the world which consist of a dozen of ingredients (not to mention America's processed food industry, which can consist of 100s of ingredients -- most of which are chemicals and dies), Italy's most flavorful fare remains simple. The life lesson here? It is in life's simplicity that one finds life's true delectability.


*Jimmy Buffet, 'Margaritaville'