Alisa Bowman is usually busy sharing marriage-saving advice on her award-winning blog Project Happily Ever After. But in a recent post, the author of the forthcoming book Project: Happily Ever After: Saving Your Marriage When the Fairytale Falters
shared the story of how she got in touch with her Inner Italian on a stay in Tuscany with her girlfriend Deb Gordon. We loved it so much we asked her to share with SimpleItaly readers.

Alisa Bowman

What Italy Taught Me About Happiness

While in Montepluciano in Southern Tuscany, I stayed at a wonderful, old villa. It was there where I met Daniel (Dan-yel-luh, and not Dan-yuhl), who served me breakfast and dinner most of the days of my stay.

Each morning he greeted me with an exuberant smile, as if he’d been waiting all night just to see me. He reminded me of a Labrador Retriever puppy, wagging his happy tail at every turn.

One day I couldn’t help but ask, “Daniel, are you always this happy?”

He put a finger to his lips, shifted his body weight to one side, and thought deeply for a moment. Then he said, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You always seem so joyful. You seem happy and content all the time. You joyfully pour wine into a glass. You joyfully bring dirty dishes back to the kitchen. Is joy your nature?”

He said that it was, but he said it with an incredulous look on his face, as if he assumed that joy was the nature of all beings and that it was odd for me to think that his personal joy was anything beyond ordinary.

And maybe, in Italy—in the land of 1,000 sensual delights—it’s not out of the ordinary. Perhaps, in Italy, people like Daniel are a dime a dozen.

Here in America, though, people like Daniel are downright rare. The Daniels in this country are bordering on extinction.

So naturally I was taken with Daniel, so taken that I fantasized about winning the lottery so I could transplant Daniel to Pennsylvania where he would become my butler. (You so thought I was going to write secret Italian lover instead of butler didn’t you?)

That way Daniel could greet me every morning when his joy filled buongiorno.

But then, Deb, my travel companion, asked, “Do you really think Daniel would ever want to live in Pennsylvania when he could live here in Tuscany instead?”

Florence at Sunset

Indeed, Daniel lives in a world where he is surrounded by beauty. In Italy, creating and admiring beauty is a national pastime. The wine is beautiful. The people are beautiful. The handbags are beautiful. The countryside is beautiful. So is the architecture.

Italians are known for their olive oil, wine, Pecorino cheese (among many other varieties), and handmade pasta.

Americans are known for Ho Hos, Doritos, and spray cheese.

Italians live in homes and cities that date that back thousands of years and are works of art in and of themselves.

Americans live in sub divisions.

If I transplanted Daniel to Pennsylvania, I would suck all of the joy right out of the man.

Still, during my 9 days in Italy, I searched for a way to take a little Daniel back home with me. I made a study of the cultural differences between Italians and Americans, trying to figure out if there was something other than the landscape and setting that made Daniel so happy.

This is what I concluded.

Eating can and should be a sensual experience. I took a cooking class while in Italy. The chef encouraged me to dip my entire index finger into a bottle of olive oil and then suck the oil off my finger. He watched me as I did so, and he clapped and said “ah-ha-ah!” when a post-orgasmic smile and blush took over my face.

Then he proceeded to show me how to make red sauce. The sauce started with an entire head of minced garlic and about a cup and a half or so of olive oil.

With that much olive oil in any dish, your lips and tongue get lubed in such a way that you can’t help but have sex with your food.

But Italian eating is sensual for reasons that go beyond the olive oil. In Italy, food and beverages are works of art. The ingredients are local and they are fresh and they are grown, raised and handled with love. You eat a bite of Italian cheese drizzled with Italian honey and you close your eyes, you put your hand to your heart, and you make all sorts of grunting sounds that you once thought you would only ever make while inside a bedroom.

You eat some American Velveeta and the only grunting sounds you’ll ever make will be a result of the stomachache you experience later in the day.

One experience brings joy. The other brings pain and sadness.

Which would you rather have? I already know my answer.

Italians don’t go on diets. I’m fairly certain that things like Diet Coke, low-fat and low-carb packaged foods, and margarine are confiscated at the border.

I don’t know precisely how most Italians stay relatively thin. Maybe the happiness somehow increases their metabolisms. Maybe they eat smaller portions. I’m not sure. I didn’t see a single Italian out running or power walking, so I don’t believe they are consciously exercising off the calories, either. (The roads where I was staying had no shoulder, were narrow and were populated by speeding, aggressive motorists to such a degree that my friend and I joked, “What do Italians do when they want to commit suicide? They go for a walk.”)

Whatever the Italians do to prevent obesity, I apparently wasn’t doing it. I gained 6.5 pounds while I was there. But I’m not unhappy about that.

The hills of Tuscany.

There is only one moment, and that moment is now. While in Italy, our GPS broke and, as a result, we spent a lot of time driving aimlessly around the Italian countryside and stopping at various gas stations and asking for directions. (More about that experience tomorrow). There are many peculiarities about Italian filling stations. One of them is that every single filling station has an espresso bar. The other is that you cannot get the espresso “to go” as they don’t have to-go cups. Rather, you sit inside and you drink your espresso out of a real espresso cup. Then you get back in your car and you go.

This is even true at the airport.

From what I could tell, the “to go” container does not exist in Italy.

And this is probably because, in Italy, people do not walk while they drink espresso. They do not drive while they drink it, and I’m somewhat sure they don’t talk while they drink it, either. They do not multitask it. They single task it.

They single task eating, too. I did not see a single Italian reading or talking on their cell phones while eating. When my friend Deb pulled out her iPad at a restaurant so she could jot down a few notes about the experience, the waiter (who’d already become quite friendly with us) gave the iPad a dirty look and then put his fingers to his throat and then flicked them away.

So this morning, I single tasked eating a hardboiled egg. Let me tell you: it was the best tasting egg I’ve ever had. I did not cook it any differently than usual. I just ate it differently than I usually do.

Sex is not just for the bedroom. Everything about Italy is sensual, including the language. To speak in Italian, you must do things with your tongue that, honestly, get me hot and bothered just writing about. When I returned home, I found myself speaking English differently. My English words sound the same, but I’m speaking more slowly and I’m using my lips and my tongue differently. I’m savoring the sound and the sensation of the words.

And I’m doing the same with other experiences. It’s supposed to rain 6 inches today. When I walked out into the rain, though, I didn’t think, “Darn, I’m getting wet.” No, I savored the experience.

It may be true that Pennsylvania is no Tuscany, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still allow every experience—every taste, smell, sound and sight—to make love to my being.

And if I continue to allow these delights to have their way with me, I might continue to feel happy and joyful no matter where I find myself.

Next, Alisa’s traveling companion Deb Gordon writes on Italy and Friendship.

Grazie mille for Laura Thayer’s lovely review of Cooking Up an Italian Life on her Ciao Amalfi blog. Laura is an American art historian and travel writer who has the good fortune (sigh!) to live near Amalfi.

I crave panzanella in August. This home-spun jumble of stale bread, succulent tomatoes, aromatic basil, olive oil, wine vinegar, cucumber and onion is restorative. Each refreshing bite perks me up, makes me feel more  like a budding flower and less like a scorched weed.

I first tasted panzanella in the countryside outside of Florence. Friends told me that the dish evolved as thrifty country cooks combined stale bread with juicy seasonal produce to create a quick, inexpensive salad.

These days, the challenge to putting together a good panzanella is in obtaining ingredients that will give the dish a genuine flavor and the proper texture. The keys are the bread, the tomatoes, and the olive oil.

Bread

Panzanella requires a rustic whole-grain loaf–with no fat or sweeteners–that won’t dissolve into goo when moistened. (LaBrea Bakery whole grain loaf is one commercially-produced example. To find a store near you, go to La Brea Bakery.) Many so-called Italian breads are made from white flour and dough enhancers and are just too fluffy to hold their crumb. If you’re a baker, you can prepare the Italian Wheat Berry Bread for the panzanella. If you think your bread won’t hold up to the water bath, I recommend skipping that process. Instead, simple toast the bread lightly and then cut it into cubes before tossing with the vegetables and dressing.

Tomatoes

Choose very ripe fruit that’s grown in your area. I like heirloom varieties which are like tomato-juice machines.

Olive oil
The fruity taste of extra-virgin oil is essential. When it’s mixed with the vegetables and basil, it produces a seasonal elixir.

While I prefer the classic simplicity of the following recipe, you can add protein or other vegetables to a panzanella to make it a one-dish meal. Add-ins include lettuce, radishes, celery, fennel, prosciutto, canned tuna, Parmigiano Reggiano, Gruyère, capers, artichoke hearts, hard-cooked eggs and roasted red peppers.

Panzanella (Tuscan Bread and Tomato Salad)

Makes 6 to 8 servings

1 loaf (about 1 pound) rustic Italian Wheat Berry Bread, cut into 1/2-inch cubes, dried

1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil

2 tablespoons red or white wine vinegar

Salt and pepper

1 1/2 pounds ripe locally-grown tomatoes, cut into chunks

1 medium cucumber, peeled, quartered lengthwise, sliced

1/2 medium red onion (about 4 ounces), halved and thinly sliced

1/2 cup slivered fresh basil

Place the bread in a large bowl. Cover with cold water. Allow to soak for 30 to 60 seconds until bread is saturated. Test by squashing a piece between thumb and finger. Drain. Scoop the bread in cupped handfuls, squeezing out excess water but taking care not to pulverize the bread. Transfer to a platter. Continue until all the bread is squeezed.

In a large bowl, whisk the oil, vinegar, and 1/4 teaspoon salt. Add the tomatoes, cucumber, onion, and basil. Toss. Add the bread and toss. Season to taste with pepper and more salt, if needed.

What’s your go-to Italian summer dish? Tell us about it.

Every coastal region of Italy has a seafood stew. Tuscany— or more specifically the port town of Livorno—has cacciucco (ka-CHOO-ko). While the word is fun to pronounce, the dish is even more pleasurable to eat.

I yearn for cacciucco in the spring. It was in primavera that I first tasted cacciucco at Trattoria Benvenuto in Florence and I haven’t been the same since.

Some say the dish must have at least five types of seafood to correspond to the five Cs in the word. The more fish and shellfish, the better the flavor. And select good quality red wine and artisanal quality bread with good texture to soak up the amazing broth.

Choose the freshest fish available. Use one type or as many as three or four, to comprise 2 pounds. Sea bass, monkfish, cod, halibut, swordfish, shark, tilapia, turbot, catfish, or red snapper are all good choices.

As for the shellfish, in this recipe, I’m using littleneck clams and shrimp but baby calamari, octopus, mussels, or scallops may be substituted.

Cacciucco

Serves 6 to 8

3/4       cup olive oil
1          large red onion, coarsely chopped
4          large cloves garlic, minced
1 1/2    teaspoons dried crushed red-pepper flakes
1           cup dry red wine
1        can (28 ounces) crushed plum tomatoes
1/2       cup minced fresh flat-leaf parsley, divided
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
24       littleneck clams
24                medium or large unpeeled shrimp
2 to 2 1/2         pounds mild white-fleshed fish fillets, cut in 2-inch chunks
3          cups cold water
6 to 8 thick slices Rustic Bread, toasted

Heat the oil in a 6-quart Dutch oven over medium heat. Add the onion, garlic, and pepper flakes. Cook, stirring occasionally, for 10 minutes or until soft. Add the wine. Increase the heat to medium-high. Cook at a brisk simmer for 5 minutes or until the wine no longer smells of alcohol. Add the tomatoes, all but 2 tablespoons of the parsley, and salt. Bring to a boil then reduce the heat until sauce simmers gently. Cover and cook for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally, for the flavors to blend.

Add the clams and shrimp; stir. Add the fish and stir gently. Increase the heat to high. Cook for 2 minutes or until liquid starts to bubble. Add the water. Cover and reduce the heat so the mixture simmers but does not boil. Cook for 10 minutes or until the clams open and the other seafood is opaque in the center. Discard any clams that will not open. Spoon over bread set in pasta plates or large shallow bowls. Sprinkle with the remaining parsley.

What Italian seafood stews have you savored and where? Tell us!

Story and Photographs by Melinda Rizzo

The Palazzo Vecchio, the town hall of Florence.

Florentines are accustomed to waiting.

From Michelangelo to Botticelli, DaVinci to Galileo, Florentines have cultured their passions into pearls, like a single grain of sand nestled deep inside an oyster and emerging over time to become a gem of the sea.

This year was my 30^th, or Pearl, wedding anniversary.

To celebrate this milestone, my husband and I opted to take a trip to Florence, the heart and breath of Italy’s Tuscany region.

In January, we made the decision to travel to Italy at the end of November. Planning and executing this trip—one in which we’d invited a cousin and were traveling with our 12-year-old son—took time and patience. Patience, you might say, of the Florentines.

I’ve never considered myself a patient person.

Cathedrals take time to build, often centuries, still Florentines seem content to wait knowing their labors are never in vain.

The Dome of Santa Maria del Fiore Cathedral, commonly know as The Duomo.

As Carl Jung, a 20^th century Swiss psychiatrist would contend, any work with purpose regardless of its nature, ultimately provides satisfaction and even pleasure for the worker.

Prosciutto crudo (air dried and cured pork) from Parma and arguably the pride of its area, can take as long as two years from start to finish to be ready for consumption.

Two years for a ham and cheese sandwich, but what a sandwich it makes! Prosciutto for me, and my son, is porcine transcendence.

Does anyone ordering a prosciutto focaccia pressed and toasted, consider the amount of time it took to create the ham? A moment of mastication melts these buttery mouthfuls, and they are gone.

Florentines linger over osteria menus . . .  along alleyways . . . and outside the windows of leather shops.

Street performers sing operatic arias. They pump life into an accordion’s complication.

They strum a guitar or play the love theme from Florentine Franco Zeffirelli’s 1968 film Romeo and Juliet in the Piazza Signoria, where I rented our apartment. They spend time and care honing their musicianship. For those who love music, they offer kinship without translation.

Street performers share their art in exchange for spare change dropped into a basket poised at their feet. Skilled musicians bear witness to patience and waiting.

Witnessing the patience of Florentines: to execute a 17-foot-tall statue of David in marble, paint the mythological birth of Venus over the ocean waves or slice tissue thin prosciutto from the seasoned hindquarters of a pig, taught me a thing or two about this most elusive of virtues.

Consider the amount of time it takes for someone to carve mounds of
Nutella, vanilla or tutti fruitti gelato, into tempting, irresistible towering creations
decorated with fruit slices, nuts or plump, glistening blackberries and shiny
currants.

Florence Awaits continued