Buongiorno Venezia

Last weekend, as I moved into my 34^th year, Jeremy and I celebrated Italian-style with a long weekend in Venice, Italy.

Although we’ve explored Italy a bit since arriving in Europe, this was our first trip to the Veneto region. Venice is made up of 100 small, intertwined islands, connected with a dizzying amount of canals and bridges that rival Amsterdam. It’s completely man-made with brightly colored buildings that are a dim reflection of what they were at the turn of the twentieth century. Not to mention they rise out of the sea with no visible support or structure. The city itself would seem like a dream if it weren’t for hordes of tourists vying for striped Gondolier shirts and Carnivale masks.

But through the hustle and bustle, it’s easy to slow down and let that facet of the city pass you by, for Venice is and will always be romantic. Strolling the narrow walkways to get lost in the inner city is a must. Kitsch restaurants, family-owned bakeries, dogs playing in the park and freshly washed clothes hanging on lines show the everyday life of the few residents who still reside in here. Gondolas and small boats pass through under low bridges and the waterbus (yep, it’s a bus that’s a boat) provides viable transportation along the Grand Canal. 

Venice is a photographer's dream with picture-perfect settings at every turn. While camera in hand monopolized much our trip – we also managed to see some sights and learn some fun facts about the city.

The original gangsta: Venice is home to the very first known ghetto. The name comes from an area restricted to Jews in the 1500s near the former foundry which translates to geto. The word ghetto was then coined to refer to a segregated community. Italian Jews are, therefore, the original ganstas. Respect.

Passing the torch: It’s apparently pretty tough to get a gondola license as there are currently only a few thousand. But there is no waiting list – for when a Gondolier dies, the license is passed on to his widow or children. Gondoliering is in the blood, and a unique family tradition.

Jesus rides on a rainbow: On the ceiling of the famous St. Mark’s Basilica, a mural depicts the Son of God riding a rainbow in exquisite detail. No unicorns were spotted, however.

Big Pimpin: Peggy Guggenheim. Her art collection is impressive. Her list of lovers is even more impressive. The number of furry friend Lhasa Apsos she owned is the most impressive.

One for the tummy, two for the show: The best eggplant parmesan you will every taste resides in a restaurant tucked away in the back streets of Venice. It’ll make you throw your fork down and scream, “holy shit that’s good!” True story.

And a trip to Venice isn’t complete without an overpriced gondola ride. Overpriced, yes, but some of the best minutes we’ve shared. Take a ride yourself in the video below.

 

The Earl of Pork

Pulled pork is 90% mental, 23% physical. 

Call me old-fashioned, but I’ve always had a soft spot for a good pulled pork sandwich. 

I don’t specifically remember eating it that much growing up, but I know it was always there, not far from the smoked mullet and hot-boiled peanut stands.

When I moved to San Francisco, a place called Brothers BBQ on Divisadero reignited my taste buds for pulled pork – each order even came with two slices of Wonder Bread on the side in a folded-over plastic baggie (so you know it was authentic).

In Hawaii, kalua pork blew my socks off, too, but it wasn’t until a few months ago when it finally hit me – why have I never tried to make my favorite food?

The first time I made it I couldn’t believe how good it tasted – and the simplicity of its preparation made me like it even more.

Here’s a quick run-down:

This little piggy stayed home. 

1. Place pork on top of onions & garlic in a crock pot.* Put spices, more onions & garlic on top and add 1.5 cups of water.
2. Cook for 8 hours on low (or 4-5 on high).
3. Remove water, pull/chop pork into bits and remove the fat (mail fat to Grandma Brown).
4. Add more onions and seasoning and cook for another 8 hours on low.
5. Sample the sweet, sweet nectar of satisfaction.

I’ve probably made it 3-4 times in the past two months, each time tweaking the recipe. Last time, on a recommendation from fellow pulled pork connoisseur Jeb, I used a local Bavarian smoked beer. 

Now that’s what I call a successful international exchange program.

*I know it’s probably better smoked versus in the crock pot, but you have to use what you’ve got.

Hochzeitstag haiku

© June 2008

On the occasion of our anniversary today, 

we celebrated with a little he-said she-said haiku*

*Sinbad sold separately.

Local man's weekend ruined

FELDKIRCH, Austria – Northern Maine native and mild mannered businessman Tom Roderick was caught unawares recently when 11 people hijacked what was shaping up to be an otherwise relaxing weekend in the Alps.

“You know, I was just hoping to kick back and rest before heading home to Chicago,” said Roderick.

Instead, he was accosted en masse by Megan and Todd “Tivisonno,” Todd’s sister Amy, Aunt Darcy and Mom Wendy – collectively known as the Nordic contingent; former Keenan Hall compadre JR Mellin; outdoor adventureman Jeb Carson; Gore-Tec reps Dustin & Holly; and the buddymollys.

Roderick was taking a sip of his vending machine beer when Jeb (who you may know from such restaurants as Jeb’s Cook Place and Jeb’s Mobile Cook Wagon) shoved a pair of ski pants into Roderick’s face and told him to get in the van.

“I was concerned for my safety at first, but then I guess I was just surprised he had my size,” Roderick said. “I mean, no one carries ‘husky’ anymore.”

The group brought Roderick to St. Anton and forced him to ski down slopes whose mogul-to-run ratio was off the charts.

After compelling him to ski until both knees blew out, the hijackers drove Roderick across the border to Liechtenstein where he was forced to endure a Saturday night in the capital of Vaduz.

(Insert cricket sounds here)

Roderick woke up alone the next morning with a distinct taste in his mouth but couldn't quite put his finger on it. 

“Has anyone seen a cat around here?” he said to his empty hostel room.

(Local Polizei are currently pursuing leads on the hijackers at the Montefon ski resort and in Bavaria).

1, 2, 3, 4 … I declare ski war

I’m not saying I take pleasure in my husband’s failures, no, no, I’m not saying that at all. But I can’t help it if a sinister laugh comes out of my mouth when he attempts to ice skate, clutching onto the wall as I saunter past him ... backwards.

See, despite his girlish sensitivity and affinity for nail polish, Jeremy is a man’s man. Every sport he tries, he triumphs. And frankly, he’s better than me at almost all of them. My secret snickers don’t come from being competitive; I’m quite indifferent when it comes to most competition – but it is nice to have something I can reign over. And last weekend, when Jeremy temporarily traded his snowboard for skis, I found it.

Below is a short video of Jeremy’s humorous shortcomings in his second-ever attempt at skiing. 

And yes, someday he’ll probably be a better skier than me, but for now, me and my sinister laugh will watch this gem over and over again.

Weiberfasching: where ladies are king

Although we’re still struggling with the language after living in Germany for two years, we are a quick study on cultural celebrations.

Last year we got our feet wet for Amberg’s Weiberfasching; this year we dove right in.

For Weiberfasching (ladies' day during carnival), which usually occurs the Thursday before Fasching, women rule. Women cut men’s ties and are allowed to kiss any man that passes them (although the latter seems like something cooked up as “tradition” by the menfolk).

This year our friend Andreas scored much-sought-after tickets to a Weiberfasching party in Amberg and it was on. Tons of men donned too-tight skirts and wobbled on high heels while women put on their best Tom Selleck.

DJs forsook their usual techno and rocked old school beats, which kept the dance floor packed. We even heard a Deutsch version of Sir Mix-a-Lot’s “Jump on it,” a crowd pleaser in any language.

If you can’t make it to Germany for Weiberfascing, here’s the recipe – take one part Mardi Gras, add another part Halloween, and sprinkle in some of San Francisco’s Castro District and viola! 

Delicious every time. 

Sella Ronda: Better hide your mama

I had another one of those mornings this past Monday. The kind where you have so much fun the night before you wake up thinking that maybe you inappropriately propositioned the chambermaid – or perhaps damaged the décor of the guesthouse you were staying in.

After a quick look around (and eye contact with said chambermaid that revealed nothing) I passed if off as just another crazy fun-filled evening with the Bavarian Ski Club.

This was our third trip with the club, second this year, and they never disappoint. 69 skiers, snowboarders and snow bunnies boarded a double-decker bus and headed for the border. Ending late Friday night in Italy (Dolomites), we geared up to ski the Kronplatz on Saturday and the Sella Ronda on Sunday. 

Jeremy continues to shred on his snowboard each trip, while I slowly move from drunken baby on skis to semi-professional. We’ve had to hit it hard this year, quickly, as our usually warm-up Bavarian bunny hills are still green and snowless. The Alps, however, continue to quell our downhill desires. 

On Monday, we headed back to the Kronplatz where half the group braved the elements again the other half nursed aching bones and headaches. We decided to toboggan – which I believe is actually more dangerous that skiing, but just as much fun. Hairpin turns at 50 kilometers per hour with no steering and Fred Flintstone-style brakes. Yeah, I got this.

Our gypsy feet are slightly frostbitten after this last trip, but we head to London on Friday, where we will replace the snow for rain. The good times, however, will remain.