Postcards for Sal

In 1999 we moved to Greenpoint, Brooklyn, before it became a "hip" place to live. We had a great apartment two doors down from Russ Pizza. I was just learning to cook, so now and then we relied on pizza as a quick and inexpensive meal. We'd bring it back to our apartment, sit in our hallway for lack of comfortable furniture and play scrabble while we ate.

One day as I was walking to work looking snappy in my uniform (my first job out of college I was a flight attendant) dragging my luggage behind me, I heard a voice from a window say, "Dove vai?" I looked up and saw the pizza guy in his window. I had noticed him before as he was often at his perch observing the goings-on on Manhattan Avenue. "Vado a Parigi!" I spouted out, "I'm going to Paris," proud that my two years of college Italian could be put to use. "Torno sabato! Ci vediamo." (I'll be back Saturday! See you then.) When I returned from that trip a few days later, I started eating my pizza in-house and soon the man behind Russ Pizza would sit and chat with me. We treated all of our out of town visitors to Sal's pizza, the quintessential thin crust New York pizza, impossible to replicate outside the five boroughs.

Sal would look out for me when my boyfriend (now husband) was out of town and I never again paid for pizza. To show my gratitude, Sal and his crew became the recipients of my kitchen experiments. Ginger cookies, chocolate cookies, and I remember a carrot cake at one point. I'd bring them down and Sal would take a break while we chatted in Italian. Slowly, I learned the story of his past which he shared in bits and pieces.

Sal arrived in New York in the early 1970's from Palermo, Sicily. He came with no family, but soon married a girl from the old country and together they had two children. Sal started working at Russ Pizza, for a Sicilian named Rosario (who went by Russ in English) and after twenty years Sal bought the place. I always ask him why he never changed the name. He said a friend told him not to change it, so he didn't. All these years he has been making pizza with the same imported products from Italy, never scrimping on quality despite the weak US dollar and the increasing prices in Europe.

Although our time in Brooklyn was brief, we remained friends with Sal. Everytime we'd come to New York or anywhere on the East Coast, Sal's place was our first stop. On one visit in 2007, Sal ran out and got a bottle of wine and sat and drank it with us. Then he took us down the street for Italian pastries before sending us on our way with a bag full of them. He treated us like family. He always asked when we were going to have a bambino. We would sort of shrug our shoulders. We were busy traveling the world. We kept in touch with him, sending postcards from our new homes and travels.

"Ciao Sal, adesso siamo in Tunisia. Ancora non c'e bimbo..." (Hi Sal, we're in Tunisia now, still no baby...)

"Ti salutiamo da Barcellona dove siamo in vacanza. Come va Greenpoint?" (Hello from Barcelona where we are on vacation. How's Greenpoint?)

"Ciao Sal, Andiamo a vivere a Roma. C'e un bimbo in arrivo! Si chiamerà Romano!!) (Hi Sal, we're going to live in Rome. There's a baby on the way! We're going to name him Roman!!)

Earlier this summer when we found out we were moving to New York, I called Sal. It had been four years since we had seen him and I could hear tell by his voice that he had a smile on his face. Saturday, we took the train out to Greenpoint to introduce Roman to the authentic New York Pizza and to the man behind our favorite pizza place. I think they hit it off quite well.

No matter how far away we were from home these past 12 years, we thought of Sal. It was comforting to know that he would always be there in Greenpoint, watching over the place in his crisp white apron. And that the crunch of his thin crust pizza with that perfect balance of sauce and cheese would be waiting for us to welcome us back each time.

My 7 Links

Recently, I was invited by my blogger friend Amelia of Z Tasty Life to participate in the "My 7 links" project started by Katie from Tripbase. The purpose of this project is to "unite bloggers (from all sectors) in a joint endeavor to share lessons learned and create a bank of long but not forgotten blog posts that deserve to see the light of day again."

1- Most beautiful post: Up until now my husband has been the photographer for this blog. That will change soon though since with his new job he'll be too busy, so I'm about to step up to the plate! For me, the Parting Shots post is probably one of the most beautiful posts because it captures his view of our two years living in Rome and was a chance to say goodbye to our time there.

2-Most popular: Tuscan Wild Boar Ragu comes in first place for most popular. It's one of the best recipes on the blog, too. Looking back at this post I feel nostalgic for the aroma of the sauce smell simmering for hours, the taste of it on my fork and the long, lazy afternoon spent in the company of our friends sharing an elaborate meal.

3- Most controversial: Circle of Life. I was a bit conflicted about writing this post. I wasn't sure I wanted to make public certain details of my life, like the death of my mother. But she was my first and most significant food influence and on the 20th anniversary of her death it seemed important that I mark that in some way. This post confirmed for me that my blog is an extension of myself, a creative outlet and not just a place to post recipes.

4- Most helpful post: Ricotta Mousse with Fragoline di Bosco is the simplest, most delicious recipe to whip up in seconds and impress friends on any occasion. It's not rocket science, it's just tasty.

5- Post whose success surprised me: The Nonna Elena series, including Gnocchi on Thursdays, Nonna Elena's Crostata di Marmellata, Gnocchi alla Romana, and Pasta, Made in Italy. My years in Rome would not have been the same had I not sought out Italian friends from all walks of life. Looking back on these posts, I remember Elena's smile and loving willingness to teach me, asking only friendship in exchange. She and I have been emailing since I left Rome and she writes to me with such wonder that she, an "old Italian nonna" made a young American friend with such a different life path.

6- Post I didn't feel got the attention it deserved: Local Flavor and Coda alla Vaccinara. When people found out I lived in Rome, I got a lot of envious comments. To be honest, it wasn't always easy living there, but I made the best of it by really connecting with the people in my neighborhood. These two posts described my shopping trips, the flavor of life on the street in a regular old neighborhood in Rome. The kind of thing you don't see or experience when you're on vacation there.

7-Post I am most proud of: Pasta, Made in Italy. Since the birth of my son Roman almost two years ago I have taken on fewer big culinary projects. Before we left Italy I realized I would feel like a complete failure if I hadn't tackled fresh, hand rolled pasta. One phone call to Nonna Elena changed that and within a few days of practicing her technique, I had a new skill under my apron.

Now I will nominate the following five bloggers to continue this project. I encourage you to check out their blogs, they are some of my favorite reads:

1- My Little Expat Kitchen

2- Honestly Good Life

3- Care's Kitchen

4-Sweet Little Sasquatch

5-The Perfect Pantry

Salt of the Earth, Maras Salt Mines, Peru

Some of the most basic things in life have the most complex and interesting histories. Take salt for example. In cooking, salting is one of the oldest methods of preserving foods and the simplest means to enhancing flavor. It is essential for virtually all forms of life. It was used as offerings in the funerals of Ancient Egyptians, and the salarium was a form of payment to soldiers of the Roman army, allowing them to buy salt, which many scholars agree gives us the word salary.

Salt is mentioned in religious texts from virtually every recorded religion. Most languages also have idiomatic expressions including the word salt. "Salt of the earth" dates back to the Bible, and the phrase "taken with a grain of salt" was used as early as 77 AD. "Salty dog" in slang can refer to an experienced sailor.

Several years ago, on a trip through the Sacred Valley in Peru, we stopped at the Maras Salt Mines, believed to be in use since Inca times. We descended upon these salt pools in a small bus, our driver navigating the bumpy dirt roads down a steep downward climb to the mine. The views were magnificent as we approached these terraced pools. When we arrived we saw that all of these pools were fed by just a thin stream coming from the mountain. Several salt farmers were busy harvesting and transporting the salt. Throughout history salt has often been a form of controversy, and at the Mara Salt Mines, we learned that these poor farmers were not immune. They work under the heat of the sun in difficult circumstances for a mere pittance, while their famous Incan salt makes it onto the tables of the finest restaurants in Peru.

Until I was about 11 years old, I regarded salt as what came in the blue cardboard canister with the girl and the umbrella on the label and the pour-spout that made a funny noise when I opened it. My family was never big on salting our food at the table. Then we traveled to Spain one summer and my grandmother took us to see a salt mine in the Mediterranean. As I squinted through the sun at the mountains of salt being raked up by heavy machinery, for the first time I made the connection to the source of this ubiquitous mineral. An elementary discovery on my part, but important.

Funny how times and trends change. In the 80's as a kid, salt was really just salt. Over the years it has become a coveted, specialty kitchen item. Pink salt from the Himalayas, French fleur de del, grey and black rock salt, sold in elegant jars with fancy labels and rustic boxes with cork lids. I remember buying my first fleur de sel years ago in France and cradling it in my hands like an expensive gift, then scooping it out carefully to add to my dishes as if it were flakes of gold.

Sometimes seeing things from a new perspective makes them all the more clear. Salt can sustain life or be very dangerous in excess. Laws regulating salt started civil disobedience in India. Salt can ruin a meal at an expensive restaurant. It can turn watermelon even sweeter or make your tastebuds sing when sprinkled on top of chocolate chip cookies. Human beings contain about 8 ounces of salt. I like to think mine is fleur de sel.

Skeleton Coast, Namibia

My little family is on the verge of great changes, enduring the waiting period before another adventure, a life in New York City. This July we've been enjoying the bounty of summer fruits and vegetables, but without a real kitchen to call my own (all of our belongings are in storage before we get to New York) food blogging is regrettably on hold. While waiting out the transition, I'm taking stock of a few legendary trips we've taken. It's always good to stop and pause before taking another leap.

The Skeleton Coast lies on the Northwest corner of Namibia, Africa and gets only about 100 visitors a year. A few years ago, we were among those few and we knew that it was the trip of a lifetime. We embarked on a fly-in safari from the capital, Windhoek on a 2 passenger plane and landed on a strip of sand where we were met by a 4x4 that took us to our first camp.

There was something powerful about being in such a remote place surrounded by natural beauty unlike any we had ever seen. Virtually alone, with just a few guides and two other couples, we all set out each morning to experience this rugged and breathtaking land. The Skeleton Coast is a 500 km stretch along the coastline of Namibia, which got its name from the scores of shipwrecks that took place there. Whale bones and wood from the wrecks are still part of the scenery on the shores. These bones and debris are actually protected as part of the National Park, and interestingly enough, Namibia was the first country to write Nature Conservation into their constitution.

My mind goes back to Namibia when we're driving the super highways around the DC metropolitan area, past strip malls and giant suburban sprawl. It's almost unfathomable that two such shockingly different places can exist on the same planet. Namibia's mega dunes, salt-brines and grand mountains are vast and practically untouched by man. The sands are gem-laced and life is everywhere, from the tiniest lichen to the huge seal colonies, endless varieties of birds, reptiles, and the elegant oryx thumping across the plains.

We visited a small community of Himba, an ethnic group of 20,000-50,000 nomadic and pastoral people living in Northern Namibia. I think of the Himba women often. These families in their simplicity and togetherness are a true community in every sense of the word, one that I do not belong to, nor could I seek to recreate in this modern world of mine. But I look to their example in keeping Roman close to me just as they raise their children. I feel lucky to have witnessed even a brief moment of their lives for their impact on me was profound.

Our last night back at Camp before leaving the Coast, we were treated to a Namibian style "braai" (grill) complete with local meats, the spring bok and oryx, as well as bread baked on the grill. We sat down to eat feeling wistful as the staff spoke the names of the foods in each of their African languages. The clicks and singsong quality of their voices rose up into the black sky that hung low like an onyx curtain, thick with stars. We ate the meal humbled by all that we had seen, savoring the flavors of the braai and trying to imprint those memories deep into our minds so that wherever we go, we carry them still.

Notes:

The Himba people are featured in this documentary.

Our trip was planned through the ecotourism company Wilderness Safaris.

Floating back to Laos

In between worlds, having left Italy more than a month ago, I'm having to adjust to life back in the US. Our household effects are still in transit from Italy to the United States, and we are still in transition. We have everything we could ever need at our fingertips, but it all feels impersonal, white, lifeless.

Not that I'm particularly missing Rome's chaos, pollution, sirens day and night, shoddy sidewalks, but I'm still stumbling to take in my surroundings. Clean, quiet, easy Arlington, just across the river from downtown Washington DC, feels sterile and "vanilla" to me.

In these temporary surroundings of mine, my mind is flipping through the archives of the past six years. We've moved countries 4 times now and traveled to a total of 17 countries in that same time frame. I spend my afternoons while Roman is napping looking at old photographs of the times when we were living at double intensity.

In 2008 we were in South East Asia and spent a few enchanting days in Luang Prabang, Laos. Time has erased some of the details of our trip but the overall emotions of visiting this place still remain.

There was a food market every morning outside our tiny hotel. The vendors started setting up before sunrise. Those early morning noises were delicate, like small birds chirping. Their movements gentle, with little feet shuffling. They kept their voices so low that in my half-asleep state they appeared to be elves, not people.

At night, townspeople sold their crafts under vibrant canopies. Handsewn books, pillowcases, tapestries, rugs, all colorful and made with pride. No one called out garishly to us to entice us to buy. Rather, if we made eye contact, they would bow and politely utter "sabaidee" hello.

People were visibly very happy, although it was plain to see they had little material goods. They had each other's company, they had their work, and they delighted in sharing their hometown with foreigners. Their smiles were contagious, their kindness palpable. It's a memory I reach for now, surrounded by big chain stores filled with employees trained to smile.

Back here in the land of plenty, I'm pouring over the photographs of things that don't come encased in plastic and cardboard. Goods without price tags, marketing, or gimmicks. Staples of life, bought fresh, net-caught, dried in the sun, colored, spun and woven by hand.

As with any place we've visited, there were unforgettable meals, including this one, where we grilled our meat and made a luscious soup in the same contraption, placed in the center of our table over hot coals. We were given a slab of fat that sat on top of the grill to impart its flavor and moisture into the grilling meat, then dripping down into the broth in the moat where we placed the noodles and the greens to cook quickly.

Looking back on our visit to Laos years later, I'm still charmed by the quiet mystery of the place. We watched the monks collecting alms at daybreak, stumbled upon their orange robes drying on the line behind a temple, we were moved by the temples ever-reaching up to the sky, and wondered at a religion that we knew little about, but that didn't matter.

A few travel tips:

We stayed here at the Ramayana Boutique Hotel.

We loved this restaurant. The kai phen, freshly made jerky wrapped in dried, marinated river reeds was unforgettable.