Overall Emotional Experience while eating Pannetone

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It is almost Christmas. The tree is up and colourful and I play ridiculous generic Christmas music of the type you are likely to hear on the escalator in department stores. The up-side of living in Europe around Christmas is being able to buy pannetone everywhere, and we do. I started a stock of beautiful boxes of this divine Italian cake in our office: Some are 500g per piece, others range from 950g to a kilo: they are for friends and relatives, and for work and/or project groups we have been forced to participate in in the last year. Most are elegantly wrapped in hand-made pastoral paper, sealed with a large bow; the label of some Italian family, living in a remote village and advertising that the 110-year-old grandmother is still involved in the leavening stages of their pannetone, is affixed. My husband and I love the stuff. We have gotten through half of the stocks already, and the piece-de-resistance was opened this morning, Sunday the 18th of December, 2011.

We were still in bed when, like expectant children, we unwrapped our delectable morsel (happy that it was only 500 grams, which meant we could eat it all in one go without feeling too guilty). It was my husband’s favourite kind: con uvette e frutti secchi – raisins and dried, candied fruit. Our children were invited to join in, but the fools do not eat raisins, so I made coffee, and there we sat in bed, like two little children absolutely transfixed with the imminent prospect of this delectable pre-Christmas treat.

After the coffee and most of the gorgeously soft pannetone (we wisely left a slither for later) there was time to inspect the little pastoral label, with all the family members in a sepia photograph. Text in Italian and English, all about ‘il corte di Ludovico il Moro’ and the Milanese tradition of ‘pandolce’ (sweet bread) and the tale of honey, natural leaven and the candied fruits, we then stumbled upon a questionnaire at the end: a full 4 pages are dedicated to the degree of enjoyment of the consumer. Did we have a satisfactory visual, taste, tactile and olfactory sensation while eating this pannetone? Were the colour and the structure excellent, or not? Was the taste intense and complex, was the aroma persistent? To add to our relish, each set of questions was accompanied by a rather old-fashioned and unquestionably elegant etching, picturing nose, eye, mouth and hand. And, if you thought that it would all not lead to anything, the ultimate set of questions, of course, regarded one’s “overall emotional experience” and made an inquiry as to factors of ‘pleasantness’, ‘satisfaction’, ‘temptation’ and ‘elegance’.

We were overjoyed with the little questionnaire. Finally there was confirmation as to what we were expected to experience while sitting in bed, eating pannetone. Finally there was a realistic anticipation as to the highest sensational ideals whilst consuming this godly food. Finally, we had met, face to sepia face, the makers, who had the same objective in mind as did we, when eating pannetone. With their little questionnaire, they were looking straight into our souls. Yes, we are fairly uncomplicated people when it comes to Pannetone, a good Italian bean, and a spot of prosecco on a random Sunday, somewhere near Christmas, with or without pyjamas. May life forever be so simple and so overall emotionally gratifying as the Italians meant it to be.

Buon natale a tutti!

Loison Pasticceri Dal 1938 www.loison.com

 

 

My Italian holiday 2011 – Part One ‘The Clothing Boutique’

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The first thing I did when we arrived in Italy was establish that I had not brought enough clothes with me. Not that it is at all very cold there. It is that I am now nearing forty, and am of the firm opinion that I need a different skirt to go with each pair of high heeled shoes I own. Plus a few changes, depending on mood. More often I carry a full change of light clothes in my spacious sisal shopping bag, including matching brassiere. Just in case.

My husband dutifully drove me to the nearest boutique to do the required shopping. He did this at my request, despite it being late morning already, and the threat of the shops closing for lunch was imminent. The shop was situated at the back of a bleak and hot mini-industrial area just outside of Spilimbergo. He took his white gentleman’s hat into his hand as if he were entering a church, and came inside with me.

The personnel in the spacious and cool shop ignored us completely as I flitted efficiently from row to row. I was on a mission. I felt like a grandmother picking her favourite berries and who was extremely pleased with the harvest. My husband waited patiently, advising me here and there. He casually grabbed a pair of shorts for me from the men’s department when I said: “shorts”. Then I did some energetic trying on and changes at the fitting cubicle with the curtain half open so he could see it all. The discarded clothing came flying out like when a bird is cleaning out her nest. The men’s shorts were a hit; a few of the skirts to narrow, others too wide. I was far from done. After a generous half an hour he left the shop to smoke a cigarette in the car park.

The ladies tending to the shop were left in peace. There was no one else in the place, and they eyed me with respectful distance while they folded and tagged items with demure. I didn’t need help. Over the top of racks of lycra blouses with flashing sequins I could see my husband outside, leaning against the car, smoking. That white hat is a flag in the midday sun. Knowing that he was relaxed made me more determined than ever. Leaving no single item in the hall untouched, I finally settled on several skirts, a blouse, some undergarments and the shorts, and paid swiftly by credit card. My Italian was meagre but polite and my gaze unwavering. Very pleased, I marched back out into the car park, now properly set for the holidays.

Hey Buddy, where’s my integration?

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After ten years living in the Netherlands, I would like to consider myself “fully integrated” in society. I have even integrated into the imported Moroccan and Turkish culture which enlivens my sense of Euro-African upbeat spicyness. But that’s MY intergration. Yesterday,  I noticed where the hitch may lie with some of my ‘ southern brothers’, who are fighting to bridge the cultural divide with enthusiasm. That’s just it; some of them are just not fighting.

To begin with, I will just say: without the Turkish/Moroccan ‘supermarket’ in my hood I would be culinarily dead. I go down there for my weekly fix of Turkish flatbreads, bunches of fresh coriander and peppermint, fresh green chillies and tahin, cumin, feta cheese and an assortment of olives to delight my children.On Sunday’s you’ll catch me at home make fresh yeast doughs, tabouleh salads and lahmaçun.

I love going there, but I do notice that I am considered just another ‘Hollander’ by the Muslim brothers. My skin colour tells them all they need to know, apparantly. But, how can they know I spent two decades in Africa, and that I draw my own conclusions? All these preconceptions were put to the test in the situation I experienced yesterday:

This is what happened: I cruised up to the door of my “supermarket” on my bike, yesterday, Sunday, happy to find it open as usual. The fruit and veg was on display outside – fresh and exotic. I saw a young guy standing at the entrance chatting to someone. I did not know this, but it was the new owner. I was very surprised by what I saw next: as I looked, I saw him turn his head and casually spit into an empty veggie crate. Well, better in there than on the ground in front of the entrance, I thought. I parked my bike, looking over there while I locked it, and then: I see him pick up that same crate, walk inside the shop and casually put it down on top of the foremost stack of food in the centre of the shop.

Now, for shopping purposes, I have a front carrier frame on my bike, and often “just grab a crate”, load it with my groceries, and carry it home like that. I found him in a side aisle and gave him back his crate with a soft-spoken but firm explanation. Amazingly, he was less than interested. During the course of what became an outspoken debate he made the following statements:

1. I should not be picking up boxes in his shop.

2. It is his shop, and he doesn’t care what I think. I am ‘just a customer’, and replacable.

3. He is a ‘foreigner’ and therefore “above Dutch law”

4. He couldn’t care less what my opinion was about cleanliness in his shop; according to him, he did not do it (spit), and invited me to inspect the box.

5. I was “a little bit crazy in the head”. (now, that really gets me going.)

Yes. Well, I hastened to inform him that I was a foreigner, too. (Which he didn’t believe). It is true that he was no older than 25 years, and at that age they generally do not appreciate being admonished by a woman, which I can somehow understand. But, although I had spoken to him softly and privately at first he did not back down from the odd haughty superiority which were his protection in the beginning. I am happy to say that he became the laughing stock of his personell even though they did not show it. They did laugh openly when I started doing my comedian’s interpretation of the Moroccan Dutch accent when they feel they need to make bold statements. I had them all in hysterics, acutally, except the owner, who was only mildly disgusted with my demand for cleanliness on his premises.

I am thoroughly assured that this was the stupidity of an individual, pained by the hunger of the Ramadan period. I would not and could never hold an entire nation responsible for such idiocy. The result however, was that I did go over to the neighbouring Turkish supermarket to do my shopping there instead. In spite of having been supporting that little shop for years now, with its constant change in ownership.

Oh, how some people, disregarding the help of their enduring and profound culture, can be such fools.

Have the Dutch treated the Turkish/Moroccan population with painful disdain? I don’t believe so. They have happily brought their culture with them, for which I am so very grateful. I think that cultural discrimination, no matter how useful as a tool in human interaction, exceeds its mark on the best of Sundays.

Some of my favourite ingredients…

 

ACN Aug 2011