This is my buddy from school, doing his thing in Manhattan. A savory cook turned baker, take a look at what he's up to:
http://newyork.seriouseats.com/2009/05/momofuku-milk-bar-making-of-the-volcano-nyc-east-village.html
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Summertime in MAC
We're pushing it hard.
After 3 months, first course was up to 13 dishes, plus 3 salads. Brad, our pizzaiolo has really stepped it up, a dishwasher convert into a serious chefs’ project now handles the majority of the bar’s needs, and regularly helps to bail me out of the weeds when I’m being bombarded with multiple ticket calls. As the team is tight and fluid for dinner service, the daytime has the ball-and-chain of a dishwasher catastrophe. He’s a young kid, a mere 17, kicked out of high school, which I was under the impression to be next to impossible this day in age, has all the work ethic of a surviving Kennedy who has finally inherited all the riches the far more deserving of his family has left behind. To put it bluntly, he has a 5 minute timer now, to prove to him how excruciatingly slow he is. A walking disaster, he is lazy as can be, and with no sense of self awareness or comparative pride for the work being performed around him.
I guess my fear is that I might see a little of myself in him, perhaps when I was his age, working job after job around hockey, that my nonchalant may have been detrimental to my employers. It has caused me to sit down on more than one occasion to evaluate the potential of my past, and try to enumerate the amount of stressful moments I caused by being more focused on the clock than my work. I’ve questioned how much more I could have accomplished, learned, progressed if I had only spent every moment dedicated to what I was doing, instead of just chasing paychecks. Would I be a 26 year old line cook, struggling, with aching joints, swollen fingers and knees? The answer is a resounding yes. Even through the torment, the part time positions, the long drives, I knew what sacrifice meant. I should have apologized much more back then, but there is no time to dwell on the past. So I write today, with my legs elevated, and stretching my fingers, to loosen up and to get back to business. I am still aspiring, so it’s time to make full use of these sacrifices.
Oh yeah, and we have a WHOLE COW coming in today.
Go Slow, Stay Local.
After 3 months, first course was up to 13 dishes, plus 3 salads. Brad, our pizzaiolo has really stepped it up, a dishwasher convert into a serious chefs’ project now handles the majority of the bar’s needs, and regularly helps to bail me out of the weeds when I’m being bombarded with multiple ticket calls. As the team is tight and fluid for dinner service, the daytime has the ball-and-chain of a dishwasher catastrophe. He’s a young kid, a mere 17, kicked out of high school, which I was under the impression to be next to impossible this day in age, has all the work ethic of a surviving Kennedy who has finally inherited all the riches the far more deserving of his family has left behind. To put it bluntly, he has a 5 minute timer now, to prove to him how excruciatingly slow he is. A walking disaster, he is lazy as can be, and with no sense of self awareness or comparative pride for the work being performed around him.
I guess my fear is that I might see a little of myself in him, perhaps when I was his age, working job after job around hockey, that my nonchalant may have been detrimental to my employers. It has caused me to sit down on more than one occasion to evaluate the potential of my past, and try to enumerate the amount of stressful moments I caused by being more focused on the clock than my work. I’ve questioned how much more I could have accomplished, learned, progressed if I had only spent every moment dedicated to what I was doing, instead of just chasing paychecks. Would I be a 26 year old line cook, struggling, with aching joints, swollen fingers and knees? The answer is a resounding yes. Even through the torment, the part time positions, the long drives, I knew what sacrifice meant. I should have apologized much more back then, but there is no time to dwell on the past. So I write today, with my legs elevated, and stretching my fingers, to loosen up and to get back to business. I am still aspiring, so it’s time to make full use of these sacrifices.
Oh yeah, and we have a WHOLE COW coming in today.
Go Slow, Stay Local.
Bruschetta: Raw fava beans, poached egg, olive oil, sea salt, cracked pepper, Parmigiano Reggiano.Sunday, April 26, 2009
Nick's Italian Cafe
Nick's Italian Cafe, an evidently iconic institution in the state of Oregon, strangers from as far as an hour away know exactly where I’m working when I explain why I traveled across the country from New England to the Pacific Northwest. This forty-seater is an excellent spot for me, we're working with almost all of our ingredients coming from within 70 miles, minus a few specialty ingredients (Parmigiano Reggiano, Modena Balsamic- but the chef, Eric Ferguson, is making his own, it just isn't ready yet). We're getting in whole lamb, half pigs, and starting next month whole cows. Whole Cows. 5 course tasting menu, and every single thing we serve we make. I'm on starters, working 7 dishes, plus 2 salads, and 6-10 items on the lounge menu, so my speed and execution are being pushed hard when we're pushing full turns on Fridays and Saturdays (30-40 covers per turn) and a busy bar. House cured prosciutto and several varieties of salumi (gentile salami, finochiona salami, mortadella, capocollo, speck, etc) are on my list of charcuterie lessons for my time here as well as being able to really having the opportunity to completely cook with the seasons. There are no Sysco deliveries, just local farmers making visits with the ingredients that they’ve sewn, grown, and pulled out of the ground themselves. First name, personal relationships with the purveyor…wait, not the purveyor, but the farmer. You want farm to fork? Come to my restaurant. Jerusalem artichokes, spring garlic, farm fresh eggs, Oregon Pecorino cheese, Oregon grown and milled flour, Oregon grown and pressed olive oil, artichokes, halibut, oysters, all from Oregon. Offal and lamb chops, fried green garlic, lamb sausage, lamb ‘jus’. Fresh tonarelli pasta, black pepper, olive oil, sea salt, black pepper, BASTA.
Simple, smart, and well, pretty damn good. I need to start taking more pictures!
Go Slow, Stay Local.
Va Piano, Rimane Locale.
Simple, smart, and well, pretty damn good. I need to start taking more pictures!
Go Slow, Stay Local.
Va Piano, Rimane Locale.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
PETA Kills Animals? How about that?
This could be enlightening, and there is some substantial background referenced by the website. I'll be curious to know what becomes of this sort of public inquisition
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Cover Letter.
Eric Ferguson
Executive Chef
Nick’s Italian Cafe
521NE Third StreetMcminnville, OR 97128
Dear Chef Eric Ferguson,
In my journey to become a chef, I have considered myself lucky for the knowledge and experiences I have earned along the way. Each position, progressively more challenging for me as a cook and as a man, have each started to construct the foundation for which my career will begin. It is my intention to strive for more of that knowledge and skill as I can obtain and to study food and culture under those who know it best.
As a student of Culinary Arts at Johnson & Wales University in Providence, Rhode Island, I was taught the fundamental skills of the kitchen, but more importantly, how to learn. Being a young cook, I have worked in several restaurants which have served to affirm my desire to pursue the profession of being a chef. Every lesson that I have subsequently learned has intensified my desire to for more education, to compile as much information as I can in order to genuinely honor the chefs who have come before me and those whom which I will work under as they will undoubtedly influence my individual growth in my continuing studies.
In my pursuit thus far I have become an advocate for organizations such as the Slow Food Movement and other smaller, sustainable agriculture factions like Farm Fresh Rhode Island. In the states, I worked in short term stagier positions under several chefs as a way to expand my food intelligence as well as my exposure to their individually varying styles and approaches. In each of those restaurants or events, I learned the importance of utilization and was able to see first-hand how a chef balances natural relevance with beautiful, inspiring plates. In traveling to Italy, I found this direction is in practice as a commonplace, and used almost no ingredients that are not indigenous or cultivated in Umbria. The significance of fresh, sustainable ingredients has played a vital role in how I approach refining my palate and use of flavors. I hope to continue by surrounding myself with the food products that reflect this fervor and to continue working amongst the talented, driven chefs and other students of food as I have been fortunate enough to thus far in my early career.
I’m very confident that working among the most talented and dedicated of culinary professionals is the best opportunity for me to challenge myself and develop. I would be honored to be a member of your highly esteemed operation.
Sincerely,
David Notartomaso
Go Slow, Stay Local.
Va Piano, Rimane Locale
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Post Valentine's Day self reflection.
St. Valentine was an Italian…
The day after Valentine’s Day, San Valentino (along with St. Patrick, San Patrizio), was an Italian priest for whom the holiday is named for, brought in quite the crowd to Zeppelin. Lorenzo prescribed a 6 course tasting of interesting, unique combinations, as well as clean simple dishes for his dining room full of infatuated food lovers. The show went smoothly, as if it had been rehearsed thousands of times before. Glitches, mistakes were expected, and we remained steady and determined to conquer the evening’s affairs. Many of the A.I. students were in the restaurant tonight, some working front of the house positions, seating guests and bussing tables, while two were dutifully focused in on the kitchen, assembling plates and trying to help the chefs prepare each course. Yet, it seemed that there was a lacking presence or their other peers. One, who had cut himself earlier in the day, snuck out before the rush, another, who clearly couldn’t care any less about food, Italy, culture or, well, much of anything for that matter, hasn’t made an appearance in the restaurant in over 3 days. It leads me to divisively analyze what the purpose of their being here is. Why travel thousands of miles from home, take up time and space in a live kitchen, and be completely ignorant of your surroundings, language, habits and history. It is idiotic to me, that of 8 students, 2 have dedicated themselves in the kitchen. One of them is completely new to food, and she’s growing by the minute that she is here, and likely to gain 10 fold over her fellow students. The other, cannot take criticism, believes that he’s supremely talented, and hasn’t swallowed his empty pride to accept that he’s merely a student, and not nearly a chef.
As I write this, I’m hesitant, because I know that my cocky arrogance only a year ago was met by the hard reality for which I was not prepared, or simply, that I had not yet achieved the knowledge, experience and learned the readily available lessons in the kitchen, but it is appalling to me, to witness from the third person how oblivious these “students” are. They are picky eaters, and complain regularly. They are finicky cooks, who are scared to ask questions. When they are given advice, or even shown a more effective technique for simple knife work, the next day, they’re reverted back to their old ways, passing on an opportunity to improve themselves. This series of repetitive disregard, has forced me to analyze myself more than once, to shine an invasive light on the corners of my intent, to examine my ‘chefness’. As of yet, my self-examination yields no findings other than the very real result of my growing awareness for avoiding, at all costs, working in another environment with people, cooks or chefs who embrace this fraudulent nature among them. One strong proponent scathed with these abhorrent character traits can drain an entire team of strong willed, dedicated, independently motivated people, and over time, transform the troop into a dreary, feet-dragging, shoulder-sagging, slow-moving, pouty, whiney twits.
I cannot allow them to have any effect on me. As a group, the daily routine of cleaning up after their lackluster kitchen performances has, in turn, led me to slowly turn bitter in my work. The plague has a hold on me, but I’m not letting that beast burden me with its self-loathing and disregard for what is truly great about cooking: THAT I ENJOY IT. I’m not the greatest cook in the world, and I don’t expect to be, but I certainly have a better grasp on what I’m doing with a knife and a sauté pan then I did as an associates culinary student. They won’t ask me questions, because I don’t sugar coat my voice. I’m sorry, you’ve aggravated every proud bone of the cook inside me, so you’ll get my answer in the most professional tone possible. I’m not intent on nursing you with lullabies so that your precious little ego won’t suffer from being told in a direct, concise, effective manner how to adjust your knife, or when to put your mirepoix in the pan to sauté. Please, if you’re not a cook, don’t pretend to want to become a chef, it’s humiliating to me and, more so, those who study at your restaurant, educational institution, or other kitchen environment. My diploma says that I learned a lot at Johnson & Wales. My resume, in accordance, mentions my formal education only after the list of real-life learning that I’ve absorbed in the last 5 kitchens in which I have been employed. Neither my studies at school, nor my hard-knocks experience is more valuable than the other, and reasonably, each begets the other, making my degree more prominent in its title to me, because it has allowed me to expand my abilities through putting my hands directly in the mess, and come out relatively unscathed.
It will not be handed to me, nor will it be set gracefully in the palm of your hand for ease of accessibility. Call yourself a chef all you want, but if there is a moment when finding the value of ITALY’s food culture, habits and history is difficult, rethink your self-proclaimed title. When selecting your produce, sustainability, locality, freshness and quality do not retain their need-no-introduction, self appreciating value, perhaps you may have overlooked some detail in your process. If (and this is enormous for you meat-eaters out there, those of us who are passionate about pork, bonkers for bacon, cheery for chicken, fanatics for foie gras, and boosters for beef) you have the slightest inclination to ignore the outstanding purpose and value of witnessing and or slaughtering yourself, every type of animal you ingest, then not only are not a chef, you’re a member of the ignorant, self deprecating, declining moral majority of western humanity. There is a greater disconnect than ever between us, the predator, and our 4-legged dinners, our prey, which allows major market players to manipulate, inject with hormones and other un-natural drugs into the food which we rely on every day.
This is our reality. The lackluster education leads to the absent minded consumer and then completely destroys that which we rely on; our own self sufficiency. Selfish, lazy students, who become selfish, lazy ‘kitchen managers’ are not going to heed the warnings. It has become the responsibility of the limited number of self determined, self educated, which I use in the manner that our learning does not cease and desist upon exiting the classroom, to reconstruct the foundation of healthy food by supporting agricultural advocates who know how to and proudly do it properly. This is the extent of my self-imposed internal inquiry into my motivations and determined affairs. I am dedicated, and driven to become a true chef, who respects the seasons, and who wants to understand the complete value of every piece of food that I place on my work station. I have 9 days left in Italy. I need to find my next place to land. If it’s Castle Hill, I’d be elated, but one thing I’ve learned from being in Orvieto is that I need to see more, and if that means passing on an excellent job, to take the risk of adventuring to a new location, to broaden my cultural horizon, then so be it. I like Oregon for their attempts at sustainability. I like San Francisco (besides the cost of living) for the extensive seasonality displayed by their restaurant scene. I like NYC, but am skeptical of my readiness for, what I like to call “The Show” in American food. Where will I end up? All I know is that come February 25, 2009, I’ll be stateside, and on the prowl, looking where to hone my skills, to refine my abilities, and maybe it will be in a kitchen near you!
Go Slow, Stay Local
Va Piano, Rimane Locale.
The day after Valentine’s Day, San Valentino (along with St. Patrick, San Patrizio), was an Italian priest for whom the holiday is named for, brought in quite the crowd to Zeppelin. Lorenzo prescribed a 6 course tasting of interesting, unique combinations, as well as clean simple dishes for his dining room full of infatuated food lovers. The show went smoothly, as if it had been rehearsed thousands of times before. Glitches, mistakes were expected, and we remained steady and determined to conquer the evening’s affairs. Many of the A.I. students were in the restaurant tonight, some working front of the house positions, seating guests and bussing tables, while two were dutifully focused in on the kitchen, assembling plates and trying to help the chefs prepare each course. Yet, it seemed that there was a lacking presence or their other peers. One, who had cut himself earlier in the day, snuck out before the rush, another, who clearly couldn’t care any less about food, Italy, culture or, well, much of anything for that matter, hasn’t made an appearance in the restaurant in over 3 days. It leads me to divisively analyze what the purpose of their being here is. Why travel thousands of miles from home, take up time and space in a live kitchen, and be completely ignorant of your surroundings, language, habits and history. It is idiotic to me, that of 8 students, 2 have dedicated themselves in the kitchen. One of them is completely new to food, and she’s growing by the minute that she is here, and likely to gain 10 fold over her fellow students. The other, cannot take criticism, believes that he’s supremely talented, and hasn’t swallowed his empty pride to accept that he’s merely a student, and not nearly a chef.
As I write this, I’m hesitant, because I know that my cocky arrogance only a year ago was met by the hard reality for which I was not prepared, or simply, that I had not yet achieved the knowledge, experience and learned the readily available lessons in the kitchen, but it is appalling to me, to witness from the third person how oblivious these “students” are. They are picky eaters, and complain regularly. They are finicky cooks, who are scared to ask questions. When they are given advice, or even shown a more effective technique for simple knife work, the next day, they’re reverted back to their old ways, passing on an opportunity to improve themselves. This series of repetitive disregard, has forced me to analyze myself more than once, to shine an invasive light on the corners of my intent, to examine my ‘chefness’. As of yet, my self-examination yields no findings other than the very real result of my growing awareness for avoiding, at all costs, working in another environment with people, cooks or chefs who embrace this fraudulent nature among them. One strong proponent scathed with these abhorrent character traits can drain an entire team of strong willed, dedicated, independently motivated people, and over time, transform the troop into a dreary, feet-dragging, shoulder-sagging, slow-moving, pouty, whiney twits.
I cannot allow them to have any effect on me. As a group, the daily routine of cleaning up after their lackluster kitchen performances has, in turn, led me to slowly turn bitter in my work. The plague has a hold on me, but I’m not letting that beast burden me with its self-loathing and disregard for what is truly great about cooking: THAT I ENJOY IT. I’m not the greatest cook in the world, and I don’t expect to be, but I certainly have a better grasp on what I’m doing with a knife and a sauté pan then I did as an associates culinary student. They won’t ask me questions, because I don’t sugar coat my voice. I’m sorry, you’ve aggravated every proud bone of the cook inside me, so you’ll get my answer in the most professional tone possible. I’m not intent on nursing you with lullabies so that your precious little ego won’t suffer from being told in a direct, concise, effective manner how to adjust your knife, or when to put your mirepoix in the pan to sauté. Please, if you’re not a cook, don’t pretend to want to become a chef, it’s humiliating to me and, more so, those who study at your restaurant, educational institution, or other kitchen environment. My diploma says that I learned a lot at Johnson & Wales. My resume, in accordance, mentions my formal education only after the list of real-life learning that I’ve absorbed in the last 5 kitchens in which I have been employed. Neither my studies at school, nor my hard-knocks experience is more valuable than the other, and reasonably, each begets the other, making my degree more prominent in its title to me, because it has allowed me to expand my abilities through putting my hands directly in the mess, and come out relatively unscathed.
It will not be handed to me, nor will it be set gracefully in the palm of your hand for ease of accessibility. Call yourself a chef all you want, but if there is a moment when finding the value of ITALY’s food culture, habits and history is difficult, rethink your self-proclaimed title. When selecting your produce, sustainability, locality, freshness and quality do not retain their need-no-introduction, self appreciating value, perhaps you may have overlooked some detail in your process. If (and this is enormous for you meat-eaters out there, those of us who are passionate about pork, bonkers for bacon, cheery for chicken, fanatics for foie gras, and boosters for beef) you have the slightest inclination to ignore the outstanding purpose and value of witnessing and or slaughtering yourself, every type of animal you ingest, then not only are not a chef, you’re a member of the ignorant, self deprecating, declining moral majority of western humanity. There is a greater disconnect than ever between us, the predator, and our 4-legged dinners, our prey, which allows major market players to manipulate, inject with hormones and other un-natural drugs into the food which we rely on every day.
This is our reality. The lackluster education leads to the absent minded consumer and then completely destroys that which we rely on; our own self sufficiency. Selfish, lazy students, who become selfish, lazy ‘kitchen managers’ are not going to heed the warnings. It has become the responsibility of the limited number of self determined, self educated, which I use in the manner that our learning does not cease and desist upon exiting the classroom, to reconstruct the foundation of healthy food by supporting agricultural advocates who know how to and proudly do it properly. This is the extent of my self-imposed internal inquiry into my motivations and determined affairs. I am dedicated, and driven to become a true chef, who respects the seasons, and who wants to understand the complete value of every piece of food that I place on my work station. I have 9 days left in Italy. I need to find my next place to land. If it’s Castle Hill, I’d be elated, but one thing I’ve learned from being in Orvieto is that I need to see more, and if that means passing on an excellent job, to take the risk of adventuring to a new location, to broaden my cultural horizon, then so be it. I like Oregon for their attempts at sustainability. I like San Francisco (besides the cost of living) for the extensive seasonality displayed by their restaurant scene. I like NYC, but am skeptical of my readiness for, what I like to call “The Show” in American food. Where will I end up? All I know is that come February 25, 2009, I’ll be stateside, and on the prowl, looking where to hone my skills, to refine my abilities, and maybe it will be in a kitchen near you!
Go Slow, Stay Local
Va Piano, Rimane Locale.
Friday, January 30, 2009
as the deadline quickly arrives
Time is moving slowly, becoming a reprehensible foe in my ventures and my spirit. I say so because my allotment of well organized, scheduled, delineated permission here is creeping closer to its ending date and I’m not prepared, as a student to return home. I am, instead, entirely entranced by the notion of seeing my friends, my family, my dog and ethnic foods again. So here we go.
Italy has left me wanting more, the way a great meal, film or relationship does. I have such an abundance of activities to look forward to on a daily and momentary basis that while I’m occupied, which, is about two thirds of the time, the clock is spinning recklessly towards tomorrow. I’ve not seen, experienced, nor learned a fraction of what I came here for. I don’t speak the language, I don’t know where my family is, and I don’t know what a truly Italian lifestyle is. I can’t. I’m not Italian, I’m an Italian-AMERICAN. I’m coming to terms with my reality, and it spreads further. Food is an oral-tradition, it transpires and progresses through the generations, through manipulative palates and variances in dedication, pride and passion. So, in other words, tradition is impossible to discover, because all recipes and methods have become modernized, through the generations. It’s not to say that the approach isn’t at all alike, or that the flavors don’t continue to elicit the same satisfaction, because each taste I find screams of predestined glory. I have submitted my resume, my list of perhaps relevant work experience to a world class establishment in order to sustain hope for a second chance in my long awaited trip to the ‘motherland’, but it is a complicated scenario that I will delve into in a future episode. Separately from the food is the culture, in which I am a lowly outside observer. Not to degrade or minimize my own individual significance, but the reality remains that as an outsider, and these days, being an American, has a detrimental response to social interaction. We are politically blasphemed, and publicly protested against. My politics do not represent that of my government, but I am irrevocably proud of my country, even through its perpetuating struggle. This brings me to my next point…
…I am anxiously awaiting February 25, 2009 to arrive so that I can fly to the States. I will likely come home “empty handed”, that is, without auxiliary packages. I will likely return to a state of inner chaotic confusion which will lead me to wondering why I hadn’t stayed in Italy and traveled through Europe, avoiding customs and government agencies for the next 3 to 5 years. It is, without question, a choice that either answer will cause me great disappointment. The United States of America does not represent me anymore, nor do I represent it. Italy does not have a government, on the other hand, that I would invest any of my effort in trying to rationalize, so politically, a contorted U.S. takes a slight lead. The food here is precisely what I needed in my professional career, and I will be hard pressed to find a community, never mind an entire country, that plays with the same philosophy of agriculture and culinary quality the way the EU seems to. Italy, and the rest of Europe, all win in overwhelming dominance for my food knowledge diatribe over the US of A. What cannot be replaced, what I had been convinced I could live without for 24 years of my life were my social dependencies. It is the hardest aspect of living this far from home for me to handle, that I have a family back home who are finally all getting along, and I have trusted friends that I had become accustomed to seeing and talking with and trusting in for the first time in my life.
I am coming home, eventually. Whether it is February 25 or at another date and time. I am torn between the nature of the two cultures I’ve been a part of and in the next 3 weeks, I’ll be forced to determine, with certain micro-analysis, what my next step will be.
Go Slow, Stay Local
Va Piano, Rimane Locale.
Italy has left me wanting more, the way a great meal, film or relationship does. I have such an abundance of activities to look forward to on a daily and momentary basis that while I’m occupied, which, is about two thirds of the time, the clock is spinning recklessly towards tomorrow. I’ve not seen, experienced, nor learned a fraction of what I came here for. I don’t speak the language, I don’t know where my family is, and I don’t know what a truly Italian lifestyle is. I can’t. I’m not Italian, I’m an Italian-AMERICAN. I’m coming to terms with my reality, and it spreads further. Food is an oral-tradition, it transpires and progresses through the generations, through manipulative palates and variances in dedication, pride and passion. So, in other words, tradition is impossible to discover, because all recipes and methods have become modernized, through the generations. It’s not to say that the approach isn’t at all alike, or that the flavors don’t continue to elicit the same satisfaction, because each taste I find screams of predestined glory. I have submitted my resume, my list of perhaps relevant work experience to a world class establishment in order to sustain hope for a second chance in my long awaited trip to the ‘motherland’, but it is a complicated scenario that I will delve into in a future episode. Separately from the food is the culture, in which I am a lowly outside observer. Not to degrade or minimize my own individual significance, but the reality remains that as an outsider, and these days, being an American, has a detrimental response to social interaction. We are politically blasphemed, and publicly protested against. My politics do not represent that of my government, but I am irrevocably proud of my country, even through its perpetuating struggle. This brings me to my next point…
…I am anxiously awaiting February 25, 2009 to arrive so that I can fly to the States. I will likely come home “empty handed”, that is, without auxiliary packages. I will likely return to a state of inner chaotic confusion which will lead me to wondering why I hadn’t stayed in Italy and traveled through Europe, avoiding customs and government agencies for the next 3 to 5 years. It is, without question, a choice that either answer will cause me great disappointment. The United States of America does not represent me anymore, nor do I represent it. Italy does not have a government, on the other hand, that I would invest any of my effort in trying to rationalize, so politically, a contorted U.S. takes a slight lead. The food here is precisely what I needed in my professional career, and I will be hard pressed to find a community, never mind an entire country, that plays with the same philosophy of agriculture and culinary quality the way the EU seems to. Italy, and the rest of Europe, all win in overwhelming dominance for my food knowledge diatribe over the US of A. What cannot be replaced, what I had been convinced I could live without for 24 years of my life were my social dependencies. It is the hardest aspect of living this far from home for me to handle, that I have a family back home who are finally all getting along, and I have trusted friends that I had become accustomed to seeing and talking with and trusting in for the first time in my life.
I am coming home, eventually. Whether it is February 25 or at another date and time. I am torn between the nature of the two cultures I’ve been a part of and in the next 3 weeks, I’ll be forced to determine, with certain micro-analysis, what my next step will be.
Go Slow, Stay Local
Va Piano, Rimane Locale.
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