The Girl Who Ate Everything

September 14th was the day that I ate five meals.

Okay, not five full meals. That would've resulted in an illness involving vomiting.

What I meant to say is that there were five instances of eating out. Six, if you include the final one, which I don't since I merely sat on my bum while others drank. And solely drinking probably doesn't count as a full meal. (Not in my world, at least.)

The day unraveled like so: breakfast, lunch, dessert, aperitivo, and dinner (and after dinner drinks). This wasn't planned, just a result of the combined gurglings of our bellies. Let's start from the beginning.

Pastries, ooh

Our first stop was Pasticceria Levante, about a 15 minute walk from our apartment. I wasn't craving anything in particular—I hope I won't get pummeled for saying this, but there aren't any Italian pastries that I'm drawn to, which might explain why I rarely go to Italian bakeries—but something flaky and filled with sweet something-or-other caught my attention. Also, it was dusted with confectioner's sugar. More sweetness! I embrace thee.

Baleated

[The above image explains what happened to my photos from September 15th, meaning that this entry will be very light on photos. No food, for instance; just some photos that I took on other days or stole from friends' flickr accounts. As this entry carries little in the ways of visual enticement, I wouldn't blame you if you stopped reading right now. Or perhaps right now. But this is a full entry, so I hope you keep reading.]

As I turned left after stepping out of the train, 75% of my field of vision was taken up by a huge Coke Zero banner looming overhead on the distant wall that designated the end of the platforms and the start of the ticketing & waiting area.

Welcome to Milan. We have Coke Zero. You must buy it.

As we neared the end of the platform I recognized a familiar, smiling, bespectacled face. It was Sara (previously seen in Paris), who had come to rescue Morten, Kåre, Diana and me from the Coke Zero overlords by welcoming us into her cozy and colorful apartment for the next two nights. It was very generous of her to give up her living room to the four of us, three of which were strangers and—for all she knew—could've been vagrants that I picked off the street. But the chances of me finding two Norwegians and an Asian American on the streets of Italy would've been pretty low. And I think Sara trusted me, even if her mother was afraid that we were crazy and would pillage her apartment.

So much 'lato

Check out my guide to gelato in Bologna on Serious Eats! DO IT! Because I definitely don't have a new post for you today! :D :D :D

But I hope to have another one soon.

This week has been crazy for various reasons. I can't believe I just got back a week ago! Since then I've had multiple stresses slammed into my brain, experienced god knows how many emotions on the opposite end of "happy rainbows and fluffy kittens," and had to readjust my mindset a few times so I could go back to the land of "happy rainbows and fluffy kittens"...

Which is about where I am now.

Enjoy the gelato post! And support Serious Eats; they pay my bills!

The cake, it is coming

You know you have a great host when you walk into her kitchen and stumble upon the birthing of a custard-based dessert. And by "birthing" I mean your host is putting the dessert together, not...um...nevermind.

Of course, Sara wasn't making a Charlotte Russe for the hell of it, but because she was throwing a birthday party that night (her own, in fact; happy belated birthday!) and needed to make sure there would be plenty of tasty, starvation-preventing food. The Charlotte Russe would be the centerpiece dessert.

Lugnut.

Not really.

My site entered the dark world of social networking. Behold, the The Girl Who Ate Everything Facebook Group. I got the idea from Adam and because a surprisingly high number of people message me on Facebook to ask if I'm TGWAE. I figured creating a group would make the TGWAE-ness clearer. (My website has such a sucky acronym.) So join it, if the desire springs forth from your gurgling stomach.

As for what the group is for, I dunno. Doing group-ly things.

As for what Facebook is for, you can use it to Superpoke people!

Cheap Ass Food!

Addendum!: I almost forget, I'm on Cheap Ass Food, one of the coolest sites for finding...CHEAP ASS FOOD! Mostly in NYC, admittedly, but anyone is free to contribute their cheap ass eats as well, whether it's a recipe or a restaurant. There's a little Q&A with me in their Cheap Ass Lifestyle section, which is accompanied by some scary looking photos that I have yet to incorporate into my blog posts. (I have no time right now, pinky swear!)

Finally, thanks to all of you who have signed up for the Facebook group! I have no freakin' clue what it's for! Ha ha! Ha. A virtual world of TGWAE-ness. And hell, I don't know a lot of you guys. Why do you lurk? Why do you hate me so? Why be hatin'?

Whyyyyyeeeeee?

Just kidding. It's okay to lurk! If I saw myself from afar, I'd avoid me too.

[Italian entries shall continue soon! But until then, here is a random announcement.]

Do Not Want

I took a supertaster test today, courtesy of Doug, who mailed some kits to the Serious Eats office to test the supertaster-ness of food bloggers. All you do is chew on a special strip. If it has no taste, you're a non-taster. If it's mildly bitter, you are a regular taster. If it's very bitter, you're a supertaster.

I placed the tiny strip on my tongue. Waited. Chewed. And then the horror set in. Oh my god. Tasted like. Horror. HORROR. The bitterness of the strip lingered like the smell of a dead rat stuck in the roof of a long abandoned building covered with moss and mildew and death. And rats.

Okay maybe not that bad. But I had to chase it with a spoonful of ice cream.

[licks inside of mouth]

Euh.

SO THERE! Morten, Kåre and whoever else wonder about my malfunctioning coffee and alcohol tastebuds—there's my explanation.

Although I am now officially a supertaster (which is not a very special title, as it applies to about 35% of American women), all this means to me is that bitter things taste more horribly than they should. It doesn't mean I can discern flavors any better than other people, as apparent through my inability to describe the taste of whatever I'm eating with vocabulary that extends beyond the eloquence of "AWESOME!" I failed.

MID-DAY UPDATE! Ed just called someone at Jeffrey Steingarten headquarters to see if we could get HIM to take the taste test (he lives near our office, apparently). He wasn't available at the moment, but we've been told that he thinks the whole taste/supertaste thing is bunk and that supertasters are actually taste impaired.

Now that does make sense in my situation. I SHALL NEVER ENJOY WINE, EVER.

I'll save some monies.

END OF DAY UPDATE! Adam made a video while taking the test. I'm not in it, but you can hear my voice...to the side.

Indeed, Ed and I took a trip to Steingarten Central and I took a video of him talking about the meaninglessness of supertasting. Or normal tasting. I don't remember exactly what he said; Adam will post that online later.

[Note: Since these entries are not even remotely being posted around when they occurred, I thought I should let you know that this entry took place on September 16th. But it still feels like yesterday! Kind of.]

The golden morning breaks

I cracked my eyes open to see slivers of morning light peeking through Sara's shutters. Ah. Peacefulness.

This was was quite a different view from what Sara saw as she walked into the living room.

We're not dead, taken by Sara

What would the neighbors think? "Oh, that Sara, housing refugees as usual."

[Although this is the least food-centric entry of all my Italy-based entries, it was probably the most memorable day and fun to reminisce about. PLEASE, ENJOY.]

Yes, that is the best title I could think of. Soon you shall find out why.

Over the bridge

Venice looks lovely, even if walking through it gives you the sensation of being a rat stuck in a maze in which the reward for finding the end is a nice chunk of pungent cheese or lack of starvation. Of course, you're not a rat sniffing around sharp corners as a lab worker looks down at you, but a human wandering around shadowy alleys between buildings hued with reds and yellows in an attempt to follow the numerous signs that point to Piazza San Marco, aka The Nice Chunk of Pungent Cheese.

Did someone forget to kern?

Sometimes the directions are neatly printed in a black serif typeface on a mustard-colored sign attached to to the corner of a building—other times they're less elegantly spray painted directly on the wall, which kind of breaks the whole, "Wow, this place is charmingly pretty and clean," aesthetic. Not that I'm complaining; it still gets the job done.

I could visit major landmarks. I could peruse famous museums. But you know what I'd rather do to expand my cultural horizons?

Meat. Like. Whoa.

Browse a local supermarket.

Okay, maybe I don't want to "expand my cultural horizons" as much as "pick up something tasty for dinner," but supermarkets are just as fun as...as...well. They're fun, period. At least, if you're a tourist. Otherwise I suppose the process of regularly buying sustenance is another drudgery of life. (Today, for instance, is the designated "Grocery Day" in the Lee household. It's nearly 5 PM. I'm still in my pajamas. And I don't want to go to the grocery store until after dinner when the fridge will have slightly enough food to support half a squirrel.)

On the morning of September 20th, I made a mortadella, lettuce, and maybe-something-else sandwich.

Sammich

It basked in the glittery rays of the warm Bolognan sun. Oh, how it basked. Yes, sandwiches can bask. They're just like you and me, you know. Not mammalian, but able to derive pleasure from the glow of a distant sphere of gas so large, so powerful, that if you thought about its greatness for long enough you would realize what an insignificant speck you are compared to everything else in the universe and want to kill yourself. I mean, it's going to happen sooner or later—you may as well end the suffering now. Don't you think it's rather selfish to keep all that fresh oxygen for yourself when you know it's all for nothing?

Yup, that was a good sandwich.

By the way, as I write this it's 1:30 AM on October 18th. I'm revealing my "slow as a rabbit nailed to a wall with a rock tied to its foot, which is broken" blogging speed to you, dear reader, so you can understand why I'm lucky to even post twice a week. It's not like I don't want to write (I love it!...I love you!...I love sandwich!)—I blame it on the rotation of the earth around the sun. That baby needs to slow down. Slow down, orbit!

Ah, it didn't listen. No one does.

I'm gonna roll into bed now. Shall continue this later. At which point I will not have. Sentence fragments.

"This was the day I just sat around and peed," announced Kåre as he elevated himself from the sitting position to make a visit to the little boy's room.

Diana, if you're wondering what we did the day after you left, well...there it is.

Morten designated Thursday as "sleep in as long as you feel like" day, a concept that I highly welcomed after having to wake up before 10 AM on every previous day of the vacation. I usually make up my severe lack of sleep on the weekend, making sure not to roll out of bed before noon unless my bladder is about to combust (and even then I'm hesitant to walk just a few feet to the bathroom), but we had to wake up early on Saturday to go to Milan and again on Sunday to...do stuff in Milan.

I can function on inadequate amounts of sleep, but not to my fullest potential. This is assuming that my fullest potential doesn't include shutting my eyelids every time my body is in the sitting position. I'm in the sitting position a lot—on the bus, in restaurants, at the dinner table, on the toilet, right now—and such a position tends to send my brain the message, "You must shut off your brain."

So on Thursday I shut it off. Kinda. Morten went into the city center to play Magic: The Gathering, leaving Kåre and I to sit at home and twiddle our thumbs while prostrated on the couches.

"I'm hungry. You wanna go to the bakery?" asked Kåre. This was around 3 PM.

"SURE!" As though I'd have any other answer.

We walked about 15 minutes to Pasticceria Levante where we were met with a not so full pastry case. Because it was past 3 PM. Yeah...oops. Kare chomped on a flaky palmier while savoring an espresso. In the meantime I stared at the case with the kind of intensity usually reserved for when a world leader has to decide what country to blast with nuclear weapons. "Who will it be—chocolate blob or cream-filled tart thing?"

Macawuh!

I made a nice little introduction to French macarons on Serious Eats that took me a little too long considering that it's not very detailed and only mildly informative, but IT HAS PHOTOS? IT HAS PRETTIES? YOU CAN HAZ THE MACS?

Yes. Thank you! Support me! So I can keep my job!

I know posting this entry will push the other one down the page and that makes me sad because I rather liked the other entry ("This was the day I just sat around and peed," is my most favorite quote ever), but I need some help. Like within the next 10 hours. I need to make A GIANT LIST OF PLACES WHERE YOU CAN BUY MACARONS!

Read more to see what I have so far. And the contribute, if you please. Also if you think I should remove anything from my list because it sucks, let me know. I want to recommend decent macarons.

You may recall that on day 11, Morten had a little microbial mishap with an unfriendly seafood dish.

And by that I mean there was a lot of reserve peristalsis going on.

And by that I mean he puked a lot.

Morten's sore digestive system (and thus entire body, as the digestive system is a big part of that thing) gave way to another laid back day of meanderings and random eatings and, of course, napping.

Paolo Atti e Figli

Per my request for something sweet and baked, we stopped into Paolo Atti e Figli, a gourmet food shop that is most well known for their tortellini. But I didn't want tortellini. I wanted sugary carbs, which they carried in great supply in the forms of cakes, cookies, and tarts.

I hobbled onto the front porch to see 75% of our refrigerator's contents strewn upon the table. I mean, neatly strewn about on plates and whatnot. Apparently it was one of those "eat everything left in the fridge and make it into a sandwich" meals.

Make some sammiches

Tomatoes, toast, squacquerone, mozzarella, burrata, lettuce, basil, butter, something meat based, some kind of citrus fruit whose name I can't remember...mah favorite!

Mm, open faced

I went with lettuce, burrata splodge, sliced plum tomato and a basil leaf atop a buttered slice of toast. And I repeated this...oh, a few times (or more), until the toast and cheese ran out.

[A note of sorts: While I originally planned on making this one unbearably long entry, it was becoming unbearably long, thus I'm splitting it into two parts. I'm also getting sleepy because it's almost 2 AM. And it shows in this entry's writing. Dammit.]

Looking out from the Duomo, which you will read about much later.

The time had come.

...To go to Florence.

...And look at old stuff.

Oh, we also ate stuff. I'll try to get through the non-food stuff rather quickly, which should be easy since my knowledge of history is somewhere in the range of "you suck" and "How the hell did you graduate high school?" I'm hoping that photos will be semi-sufficient.

Duomo

Morten, Kåre and I naturally made our first stop at the famed CRAZY-ASS DUOMO (not the real name, just my creation). So tall. So grand. So painstakingly detailed. So...uniquely green and pink, mildly reminding me of a watermelon. How long did it take to build this thing? 170 years? I guess it was worth the wait. Too bad all the people who worked on it on the beginning were decaying in the ground by the time it was even halfway done.