As humans, we put a lot of things into our mouths. Stop and think for a moment: what has passed by your pearly whites on its way to your esophageal heaven today? I’ve had tea, several tiny French lavender mints, chicken, lettuce, aioli, San Pellegrino, focaccia, and some jelly-like candies that practically begged me to let them make out with my tonsils. It’s only 2:00 pm. Multiply that by the additional hours in the day by the days in a year by the years in my life, and that is a lot of food.

Does this make me an expert? Yes, yes it does. When it comes to eating, I take double black diamonds. When it comes to snowboarding, I stick to singles. I’m sure you’re realizing about right now that this makes you an expert too. We have this in common. We are expert eaters. With discerning palates. We could be celebrity judges if there were a show called Dancing with the Food. Read more

photo credit: victor@alcantaraphoto.com

Americans are squeamish about their meats. When I lived in Italy it was no problem finding horse, rabbit and goat meat, in fact it was the norm. I will never understand how someone can eat a cow with no problem but a bunny is deemed “too cute.” The whole business of butchery is a necessary and often gruesome evil no matter which animal you’re killing, so it doesn’t occur to me to eat my meats based on the ascending scale of adorability.

photo credit: Jonna Bell www.Vasyfille.com

Some of it can be attributed to cultural familiarity. When I tried to get the turkey for American Thanksgiving in Italy every year, more than one butcher looked at me quizzically and inquired as to whether I was Russo aka Russian. According to the Italians, the Russians are the only ones hardcore enough to want an entire turkey, and I soon found out why. In the US, turkeys typically reach market between 14 and 20 weeks of age. They range in size on average from 15-30 pounds. In contrast, Italian turkeys are raised with the idea that the parts of the bird will be sold separately, more like a cow. Therefore they are older and much, much bigger. Read more

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