Thursday, March 31, 2011


Play both videos at the same time ;)

Coals to Newcastle
For about a decade now, I (F) have been on a kind of crazy bread binge. I have a mad-scientist bubbling jar growing in the fridge (in Italian they call it la madre) made originally from the grapes up at Fattoria Colleverde. Then on Sundays when the panificio/bakery is closed, or whenever we have a dinner party where we want to blow the guests away, I bust out la madre and people generally swoon.

A few weeks ago, when I was feeling perhaps a little overly confident, I made a loaf of bread for my favorite baker, Luca, at Panificio Giusti. I got all nervous and forgot all my Italian, but managed to convey that I had made this, myself. I then proceeded to worry over the weekend, but finally when I went back . He said that it was very different because they never would put cheese in a bread, but that his favorite cheese is Gorgonzola and so he and couple of friends made short work of it. Traditional Tuscan bread is made without salt and you use it especially when you want to fare la scarpetta or eat up the sauce with it. I tried to explain that when they had been closed for a week for some refurbishing, I had given foccaccia baking a try for T's sake. It is her favorite standby when she needs a metabolism boost. She was not having it. It was fine bread she said, but it was not really foccaccia. Then he asked me if there was a word in English spelled b-o-s-i and I said that we had the word "bossy." Apparently the women in his life are also high maintenance. We will probably invite him to dinner.

Hi. K here. I just wanted to say that F has a total advantage at the bakery because he is over six feet tall. I am fine with waiting in lines, but I hate not knowing where they start or finish or whether to push ahead or hang back.  It is so amorphous and foreign like. You have to pick one of two or three bakers and then stand in a tangled mop of a line that extends vaguely from the counter back a couple of feet or a meter to the wall. The three lines seem like they are connected, but they are not. People know what baker they want. They're all nice, but one white haired guy has a rhythm and if you mess it up, he gets growly. Like the time I tried to hand him money, for example, was bad. F later explained that the bakers put on gloves to handle money so you have to put the bills on the counter and let them touch it and take your change away after they are done.  And plus I'm really short. I would rather have to stand in the NY subway on the 6 train at rush hour on the way to an early morning gynecologist's appointment than have to buy bread without F standing next to me. Truly.

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