The longer you work in a kitchen, though, the less you crave food. Try tasting sugar laden things day after day – frankly, when I go home, the last food I crave is a slice of pie (chocolate is an exception). It’s also true that restaurant food, no matter how carefully prepared, will always contain, by and large, more butter and salt than anything you will make at home – that is why it tastes so good. The rules I put in place for myself are second nature now: I don’t taste anything unless I need to and it is always limited to a morsel; working in a restaurant also gives me the advantage of being surrounded by vegetables that someone else cleaned, chopped and prepared so I make a point of piling up the veggies when I stop for a meal; dinner at home literally consists of a bowl of rice cereal with rice or almond milk, a sprinkle of almonds and some raisins for sweetness. And a cup of tea. I will cook semi-extravagant meals twice a week. That’s it. And breakfast is always a smoothie with plenty of fruit, a quarter of an avocado and almond or coconut milk so when I get to work I will reach for coffee but not a lethal pastry. And no sodas – fortunately it’s a taste I never acquired so that comes extra easy.

Above all, because I do like food so much, my golden rule is to make calories count. When I order out or when I get a craving for a doughnut or a pizza, I will look at it and wonder if the calories are worth it. A doughnut from the market is not but one from Frittelli’s in Beverly Hills, or even two, will not stop me. If I am at a restaurant with a reputation for delicious food, I will not stick with the green salad but at Denny’s, I will.

And then there is that bete noire of exercising. I do. A lot. No way around it. To someone who told me the other day that my thinness is genetic, I retorted that I actually work for it. It’s not unpleasant work but a middle aged woman whose estrogen levels are about to take a dramatic drop can’t kid herself into thinking that a flat stomach is carried by genes. I don’t obsess about food  – while writing this, I chowed down a giant caramel covered marshmallow and it was damn good – but I try not to lose sight of what I eat as a big picture. It only takes a little bit of discipline – and, frankly, I can’t see myself Mario Batali size!

The life of a random New Hampshire village, as unremarkable as they come, is explored through the mindless happenings of an unremarkable day, the inevitability of marriage and the great equalizer that is death, reminding us of the preciousness of each  moment we get to spend on earth. Each single life can be a meaningless repetition of millions of others but nonetheless less precious to each individual.

Helen Hunt is magnificent as the Stage Manager, leading the audience through time, events, observations and judgments. The audience becomes even more involved by being seated on stage, with the actors weaving in and out around them, pulling the spectators into a web of questions. A handful of years of memories in a village at the turn of the last century feel vivid and contemporary, the essence of the human condition not having changed that much.

It was my very first time at the Broad and by no means the last. The intimate size of this modern theatre makes for a pleasant experience. Parking is easy, making the whole evening hassle free. Coming in April is an interesting play, In Paris, from the Baryshnikov Arts Center.

“Our Town” at the Broad Stage until February 12

thebroadstage.com

My amazing aloe

One morning, there it was. I know it didn’t sprout overnight but that aloe plant that has been there since I can remember and thriving in the Californian sun, has now grown big and strong and its flower is dangling out of proportion, reminding me of overbearing jungle vegetation and improbable prehistoric plants. It surprises me every time I come home.

My version of spaetzle

Monday was Germany. My dinners sometimes are spurred by something I read that stirred my curiosity or a dish somebody mentioned. Unless I am entertaining, I only cook twice a week (the rest of the time it’s just a bowl of cereal and a cup of rooibos) so I must make it interesting.

Recently, a colleague mentioned spaetzle, which brought to the surface of my dim memory dinners in mountaintop chalets in Tyrol when I was a kid, several feet of snow outside and delicious, hot and heavy dishes inside.

Spaetzle (which translates to little sparrow) is, essentially, a home made egg noodle. In Germany, at least in Sud -Tyrol, spaetzle machines can easily be found in most homes but all you need is either a colander with largish holes or a potato ricer. I went with the base of a pizza dish which had nice, large holes. Traditionally, spaetzle is mixed with browned onions and cheese and served as a side dish. I served it as a main course by adding some sausages to it and baking everything in the oven but, once the noodles are cooked, you can sautee the whole thing in a pan and just serve it.

RECIPE

1 onion, thinly sliced

2 1/4 C flour

1/4 ts nutmeg

2 eggs

8 oz Emmenthal cheese, grated

salt

3/4 to 1 C milk

2 your favourite sausage links, if using

1. Brown the onion on medium heat until nicely caramelized. Add salt to taste. If using, cut the sausage into chunks and cook them in a pan until nicely browned.
   

   Caramelize the onions firstAnd the sausages

2. Combine flour, nutmeg and salt.
3. In a different bowl, whisk eggs and milk (start with 3/4 cup). Add wet ingredients to dries and mix with a spatula. The batter should look like a thick pancake batter – add a little more milk if too stiff.
   

   The batter should look a little less stiff than this

4. Bring a large pot of salted water to boil and place a colander on it (or use the potato ricer over it). Press some of the batter, a few spoonfuls at a time, through the holes. The spaetzle, like gnocchi, is cooked when the little sparrows come floating to the top.
   

   Here is what I used but a colander or potato ricer will do

5. Use a slotted spoon to transfer them to a large, flat dish covered with a cotton towel.
   

   Press the batter through the holes

   

   They are ready when they float up

6. Combine spaetzle, onions, and 3/4 of the cheese (and sausage) in a bowl, then transfer to a gratin dish. Sprinkle the remaining cheese on top and bake at 375 for about 20 minutes, until the cheese is nicely melted.
7. Alternatively, put all the ingredients in a sautee pan and cook on medium heat until cheese is melted. Serve immediately.

The original Papaya King was opened in New York by a Greek immigrant who, at first, only sold tropical juices and what could be looked at as antecedent of the smoothie, to no much success until, in 1935, franks were added as an improbable menu combination. The rest is history. Three successful locations, including the original on 86th and 3rd, are still standing and, now, one in Hollywood. The spot they picked, on Wilcox Av and Hollywood, is close to perfect, in the heart of clubland. A greasy hot dog laden with onion, chili, cheese and the other million toppings that make it hard to decide might just be what the doctor ordered to soak up a night of drinking.

Not exactly a stand but not much more than a hole in the wall, the bright yellow decor is hard to miss. The menu of franks which are advertised as all beef, no fillers, no gluten and no preservatives, allows you to build on many different combinations. I went for a simple jumbo with onions and peppers (which I saw are deep-fried and not grilled or sautéed). The very chatty employee from Detroit who was as enthusiastic about my patronage as he was about being in Hollywood, made me taste the papaya juice and I was instantly sold (coconut and strawberries are also available).

It might be my Californian palate (or my abstention from hot dogs for decades) but the combination of papaya and frank is not as outlandish as it sounds. I enjoyed my wiener (no double entendres here), nestled in a soft roll, with onions and green peppers piled on top, standing at the small window ledge – no seating available. All the better to explain to the boozy lady who came in what a knish was (she didn’t order it) and to dissect the couple with a 20 year divide between him and her, who enquired whether juices were sold (yes) and toilets available (no). “We need this winning combination” the man said, whisking his date away. I am not making this up. Los Angeles is an endless source of improbable characters.

The curly fries I ordered with the dog were of the soggy variety but the juice was excellent. I then proceeded to take a very informal poll amongst hot dog eating friends who have tried Papaya King. With no exception, everybody deemed Pink’s superior. But, then again, none of them hails from New York.

www.papayaking.com

I can work in the States, go about the everyday business of American citizens with whom I shoulder the same tax burdens but not entirely the same rights. I was brutally reminded of this when I happened to lose my “green card” at Heathrow and I couldn’t even get a foot inside the US Embassy without a phone appointment, and was stuck in London for a whole week waiting for my re-entry papers. A US citizen would have been issued a new passport in a matter of hours. Were I to spend six months and a day outside of the US, I would lose my right to residence and, obviously, I cannot vote, which bugs me to no end. Three years ago I would have proudly cast my ballot for Hillary Clinton and, listening to the recent Republican debates, I get frustrated thinking about not being able to exercise my right to relegate characters such as Mitt Romney or Newt Gingrich to the back of the bus.

For the longest time, I didn’t feel “American”, whatever that means. It was partly a remnant of my old world European snobbery towards the New World, a bit too brash, a bit too loud, not as refined. In truth, American is what you make it to be. As I am getting ready to sign my citizenship application (or, more correctly, naturalization) and to send it off with a couple of horrible pictures and a $700 cheque, I am coming to recognize that it was this New World that afforded me the opportunity to reinvent my life, to blossom into who I have become with fewer restraints than I would have encountered “back home”. It’s this New World that is experiencing an economic meltdown not seen since the Great Depression, with its bigotry, its flamboyance, its attachment to seemingly simplistic values, that I call home. This is where I belong now. It might not have been the place that entirely molded me, where my genetic and ancestral roots lie but it is where I freely chose to be for the longest time since I left Italy. This choice was partly dictated by circumstances but it had a lot to do with the sense of freedom I have experienced here – not so much the freedom of “the home of the braves and land of the free” rhetoric but, rather, the freedom that comes with being able  to be who you want to be. Sure, I can express my opinion in Europe just as freely, for certain aspects my broad political thinking is better supported by the European political infrastructure but many aspects of the economic and working life of its citizens are too staid, impeding success and entrepreneurship.

I hope I have become a mixture of the better parts of the two worlds that live within me. I am glad the battle is finally over and, by declaring allegiance to the US Constitution, I finally don’t feel like I am betraying my roots. After all, I am a proud descendant of those Romans who would have approved. They so liked to roam and conquer.

My only disclaimer is that Rachel, whom I was supposed to foster for a while, could not be returned to her previous owner who, for health reasons, cannot take care of her any longer. They had only spent 6 months together. Rachel’s previous 6 years are unknown – she was abandoned and lived in two different shelters for a while. Despite this, her disposition is one of happiness, curiosity and eagerness to please. There is only one slight hitch – Rachel is incontinent. It might be a result of her spaying or it could be a symptom of something more serious, either way, at times she will sit and, upon getting up, a pool of pee will be left behind.

The thought briefly flickered in my mind of returning her to the shelter but it was quickly dimmed by her smile and the knowledge that no one will adopt an incontinent dog. On the other hand, I don’t want to spend my evenings with mop in hand. The medication the vet prescribed, with no guarantee, makes her groggy and listless so I discontinued it. And that is when the power of the internet kicked in…looking for advice, I discovered the existence of doggie diapers. On they go, swaddling her butt as if she were a baby (with a hole for the tail) before bedtime.  I watch her strutting around, parading her cute, enrobed butt and, as if she knew that was the condition for staying here, she will oblige and keep them on all night long.

Hence the pictures I am sharing with you. Feel free to be annoyed.

Ready for the runway

She is happy. Really

It was entirely the fault of a certain Diego De Silva, whose latest book, “I am against emotions”, is a disquisition on broken hearts, psychotherapy and Italian songs from the ’70’s. A “Melancholy audio” list is even provided as an addendum for readers like me who decide to fritter an afternoon away taking a long jog down memory lane. Way easier than dusting off old 45’s in the attic, not to mention more comprehensive than any record collection I might have accumulated from that time.

Jumping from song to song (those algorithms were working very well for me), from grainy black and white tv clip to bad audio live recordings, what struck me, and what Mr. De Silva points out in his hilarious book where he is capable of writing three whole pages on the most inane song and making it read as if he were reviewing a Bach cantata, is that double entendres were simply not done in those days and the sexual meanings of the most innocuous songs were devoid of any metaphor.

We know that Italian males are supposedly Latin lovers and that Italian women are consummate flirts, and that prime time Italian tv is populated by scantily dressed girls, with sex and nudity  par for the course when watching most Italian tv but I never noticed how much sex was exalted  in those “ancient” times of my childhood. Let’s take Raffaella Carra’s hit “Tanti Auguri”, the theme of which is the celebration of those who have many lovers and “if one doesn’t work out, who cares? I will take another”. This is from the blonde next door who conducted family shows on Saturday night. And in a country where divorce wasn’t even legal – or maybe because divorce wasn’t legal, it concocted ways of working around bad marriages. I wonder if the Church was throwing daggers or turning a blind eye.

From the mindless hits I then moved on to the suicide love songs of Mia Martini (who did indeed commit suicide) and Riccardo Cocciante I  loved so much. I was barely 13. What did I know of “being ravaged for a whole night by a bastard who will not call in the morning?” (the essence of “Minuetto”). For that matter, what did I know about broken hearts and being abandoned and endless anguish other than what I had gleaned from “Little Women”?

On approaching hour two of this  downhill run, I finally found the strength to hit the off switch – I was close to suicide myself or, at least,  to a good cry for all those unhappy souls who were the soundtrack of my childhood. At 13, I discovered the Beatles and it was on to British and American rock from there, by way of punk. I never looked back until now and who knew that those inoffensive looking performers I admiringly watched on Saturday night were as unself-conscious about sex as Mick Jagger?

  Watch until the end for a little surprise

It was only 3 weeks ago....Like a beached whale, discarded on the side of the road, waiting for the mercy of a recycling truck, the poor Christmas tree reminds me the holidays are definitely over and it’s time to get my head out of the bubble and start living.

Downton Abbey is back for its second season on PBS/Masterpiece (Sunday – 9pm but if you can’t be bothered to tune in I believe the entire series, that already aired in England, is available on DVD). Sucker as I am for anything English and period, this mini-series that was not destined to have a continuation ended up being so wildly successful that its creator, Julian Fellowes, resumed writing it. Set against the backdrop of World War I, the story unfolds within the walls of Downton Abbey, the residence of the titled Crawley family and it is a mix of “The Remains of the Day” and “Upstairs Downstairs”, covering the travails and joys of both nobility and servants. It just doesn’t get any better and Maggie Smith has lines so good, it makes you look forward to getting old.

I just read that Mistresses is back on Wednesday (BBC – 10pm). I had given up hope of ever seeing this group of girlfriends ever again. Set in London in contemporary times, these smart and attractive women that could indeed be your girlfriends, lead interesting yet ordinary lives – the married woman who is a sex addict and betrays her husband with nameless men in casual encounters, the doctor who helps euthanize her lover and then embarks on an affair with his son, the home maker whose husband re-appears after nearly 10 years….ok, maybe my girlfriends don’t live such outlandish lives (god have mercy if they did) but these women have credible dialogues, are spotted actually doing work for a living and don’t have closets filled with couture a la Sex and the City. Guilty pleasure at its best.

Staying in England, The Hour, one of the best shows of the year, will also be back on BBC. Taking place in the ’50’s, it depicts the rise of independent reporting in the midst of political life changing events, peppered with a wonderful female producer figure and espionage twists and turns. If you haven’t seen the first series, rent it while waiting for the second.

Poised to start in February on HBO, Life’s too Short is Ricky Gervais’ new tv venture. I find this man extremely funny: vulgar, caustic, dry, his humour rubs Americans the wrong way and, yes, nothing, I mean, absolutely nothing is sacred to Mr. Gervais, making many people uncomfortable. But The Office was a groundbreaking comedic show – still better than the Steve Carrell’s version – and Extras was downright funny. Life’s too short is again shot documentary style and follows the life of a dwarf actor (or little person, in a more p.c. fashion). Can’t wait.

At this point, you can accuse me of a bad case of “Anglophilia” and you would be right but, when it comes to tv, the Brits do it better. Having said that, on my Netflix list are Breaking Bad and Homeland – my most trustworthy friends who do watch tv can’t stop talking about them so I must trust them and start watching. Breaking Bad is about a chemistry teacher who becomes a drug dealer and Homeland is exactly what you think it is and it is rumoured President Obama is a fan.

On HBO I have been following Boardwalk Empire that, if I don’t love in a visceral way, I can’t deny being excellent. The only mafia show I really ever revered was, you guessed, The Sopranos, but this romp in gangster life in the 40’s is classy. Luck, with Dustin Hoffman, and set in the world of horse racing (shot at our very own Santa Anita race track), looks promising and, for the meanest humour ever, I believe Curb Your Enthusiasm will be able to make me cringe again some time soon.

Something to look forward to as I settle in for another dreary winter.