There are pistachios and then there are pistachios. The first time I had pistachios I was riding bitch in my dad’s Chevy Luv and he offered to let me “drive,” meaning he pulled me onto his lap and let me man the wheel. We hulled pistachios with our teeth and spit the shells out the permanently rolled-down drivers’ side window. I had so much fun I forgot my hard-earned lessons in toilet training and peed on his legs. I must have been about four. The pistachios were good- sufficient for my post-toddler tastebuds.

The first time I had pistachios I was in Naples, Italy. I was 19 and on a solo backpacking tour of Europe. I had just arrived in Naples after a harrowing experience in Corfu, Greece at the Pink Palace. The Pink Palace is the kind of place that makes you slam shots of fuchsia-hued ouzo on the shuttle bus before you’ve even checked in to the hostel. The Pink Palace is the kind of place that makes you wear a toga to dinner, and further, a staffer performs a creepy gym class-style hand check to make sure you are sans undergarments beneath the cheap sheet. The Pink Palace is the kind of place where you are forced to room with three girls from Saskatchewan who make fun of you for being American even though one of them has trouble naming the Canadian provinces. These same three girls make a pact not to sleep with anyone later that night. Read more

I was pretty nervous to serve my guests garlic chocolate gelato last night.  That’s why I made three flavors, so that if they didn’t like the garlic chocolate they could delight in the obvious goodness of gianduja chocolate chip, for example.  Or take global comfort in the spicy delicacy of cardamom pistachio, from India and Italy with love.  The good news is that I had plied all 5 of them with enough wine throughout dinner to loosen their lips, so I’m pretty sure I got candid comments between creamy bites.  Curious what they thought?  Well first let’s talk about the “safe” flavors. 

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