foodies

This post has been languishing in my drafts folder for over a week. It felt too negative to press send. Too raw and ragged. Not so much like me. I live to laugh, and this wasn’t funny. 

You see, we ignored all the stories, signs, and butt clenches that should have warned us away from foreign travel this summer—so I’m here to reinforce any trepidation you may be feeling about going abroad. Listen to it. And if you must travel, temper your expectations, pack your patience (in your carry on with an air tag) and steal yourself against disappointment, because if you’re at all like me—it will be your constant companion. XOX

In her novel Eat, Pray, Love, Liz Gilbert immerses us in her love of all things Italian, including the language and how gorgeous the words are in their full expression. At the end of her year-long journey of self-discovery, Liz chooses her favorite Italian word, attraversiamo—at that point a word dripping with nuance, (the literal definition being, to cross over)—as the word that best defines her. 

That being said, while I’d love nothing more than to brag to y’all that we are one millimeter as deep, insightful, and self-realized as Liz—we are not. Still, there are a couple of more pedestrian things my husband and I do share with Liz— her love of Italy, and the act of defining ourselves with a single Italian word. Ours is scarpetta. 

Now, by no stretch of the imagination is scarpetta as gorgeous, sexy, or fraught with hidden meaning as attraversiamo.

Nope, the Urban dictionary considers scarpetta Italian ‘street slang’.  In Italian, it means sopping up all the sauce left on your plate (or in the pot) with bread. Italian waiters love the word. Basically, anyone who feeds us in Italy (oh, who are we kidding, anywhere in the world), takes one look at us, hand us a basket of freshly baked bread, and whispers, “scarpetta” to us like a prayer. They identify us as kindred spirits. People who love to eat. Foodies. We are their kind of people—and believe me when I say—we do not disappoint. And while I am simultaneously humiliated and proud to admit that no plate has ever left our table that we haven’t scarpetta’d so clean they didn’t have to wash it—upon refection I like to think it says more about us and our quest to savor “everything good in life”, than gluttony, so please humor me.

Normally I would just leave us here, fat and happy, reminiscing about savory sauces, clean plates, warm bread, and everything wonderful about Italy. 

But we just returned from a short visit, and while we happily scarpetta’d our faces off all through Tuscany, I could not help but notice that just like the rest of the world, post-pandemic Italy is different. Travel sucks. Service sucks. The infrastructure is a gazillion times more broken than it normally is. Covid is everywhere, our luggage was missing for three days, and the locals, who are normally delightful, were all out of shits to give. Oh, and it was hotter than the any place without air conditioning has any right being.

I honestly don’t know what I was expecting, but I gotta tell ya, it hit me hard. 

Hidden just below the surface was so. much. shit. 

Chaos, turmoil, anger, and grief. 

And Italy reflected mine back to me in spades. 

I have a bestie, Steph, who is obsessed with the etymology of words, their origin, and how their meanings have changed throughout the years. Normally I leave that up to her, but she’s rubbed off on me enough that I remembered that the literal meaning of scarpetta is, “little shoe, or child’s shoe” which comes from thinking that just like dragging bread across a plate will sop up every scrap, a shoe will pick up whatever is on the ground. 

You know, the dregs, garbage…dirt…shit. And since that sounds awful, I’d always ignored that definition.

That, and the one that says, ‘scarpetta was born from scarcity. That the poor were only allowed the scraps’. Gahhhhhhh! 

Those just didn’t jive with the “savoring the good” parts of my narrative—until last week. And now, in this year of our Lord 2022, I regret to inform you that I must add the word scarpetta to my list of things that have turned more bitter than sweet.

The world is nothing like it was in the before-times. Not yet. And maybe,(gasp) it never will be. Don’t get me wrong, everybody’s pretending it is, they’re wearing their best Mona Lisa smiles,(possibly obscured by a mask) but it’s all smoke and mirrors with a cauldron of I’m-not-sure-what-the-fuck-is-happening roiling just below the surface.

Sometimes it smells like fear, other times rage, mostly it reeks of disappointment. 

But you know me, I’m the eternal optimist, the perennial Pollyanna, so I’ll be giving the world like, a hundred more tries to get it right. And I suppose that after a shit-ton of trials and errors, I’ll know right when I feel it. Until then, I’m determined to stay closer to home, manage my expectations, and hold out hope for the best.

Who knows, we have a wedding to attend next year in Positano. Maybe by that time, Italy, and the world, will be more warm bread than shit-shoe to me again.

Carry on, 
Xox Janet

This is the dating “us” circa 2001.

I met my husband through the most old-fashioned of means—the blind date.
I know in this time of hooking up via the worldwide web this sounds as antiquated as sidling up to a bar and ordering absinthe. Oh, wait, that’s a thing again, isn’t it?

Anyway, here is how it worked—friends fixed us up.
My friend Sharon was dating his friend Bert, and when she met Raphael she thought of me. Nice, right?

I’ve often wondered about that though. How much thought is put into a friend’s fix-up?

I wondered if it was pondered thoughtfully, carefully… like a wine pairing? Or was it knee-jerk, impulsive like, “You read books and John mentioned that he read a book once, so…”

In our case, my friend knew I liked European men and his friend knew he liked big boobs, so, yeah, what our fix-up lacked in depth and substance it made up for in that personal touch—two people who actually knew us thinking that we would make a good match.

Bert was a serial fixer-upper and at the time that ours was suggested Raphael had a serious case of blind date fatigue. Nevertheless, when Bert uttered the code words, big boobs, it triggered a deeply embedded Pavlovian response in Raphael which overrode all of his reservations and prompted him to ask for my number and give me a call.

Now on dating websites, I’ve heard that hours of very careful consideration are given to filling out the personal profile. I’ve known people who’ve hired a ghostwriter in order to convey just the perfect blend of desperation and disinterest.

As far as the photo goes, I have friends who have been known to enlist the services of a professional photographer. As I understand it, lighting is a life or death proposition. There is one guy in town who has a waiting list as long as one of Donald Trump’s ties because he manages to give everyone that “bewitching hour” glow.

You know, the kind that renders you unrecognizable even to your own mother.

Giving our friend’s good judgment the benefit of the doubt, without the ability to Google each other, or the benefits of viewing each other’s carefully crafted social media narrative in advance, (because neither of those things existed), we agreed to meet at a bar in Brentwood. Here is a frame of reference for you: Brentwood happy-hour was used as the basis for the movie The Hunger Games. It is savage. It is every man for himself. You try to escape with your soul intact—and nobody eats.

That is except for me.

I was the new improved, fully revised, 2.0 version of blind-dating Janet, which meant that after surviving nearly twenty years of this contact sport I had decided to reinvent. To adopt a new and audacious persona. I had decided to just be myself.

So, after nursing a glass of wine while we exchanged pleasantries, I determined that I liked this Frenchman enough to sneak out and let the valet know he didn’t need to keep the car running—and because I was STARVING I also agreed to have dinner.

This sent a shockwave throughout all of Brentwood and any “wood” within a twenty-five-mile radius. You see, as I would come to find out, women in the metropolitan Los Angeles area do very little eating on first dates. And if by some magical twist of fate you DO find yourself seated across from a man by the dinner portion of the evening—you do the sane thing—you order a salad.

Leafy greens.

Never carbs. Carbs are strictly forbidden. They are horrible and terrifying, and they scare women to death.
You may as well just order a bowl of live snakes.

I could tell I’d broken a cardinal-dating rule by the puzzled look on Raphael’s face as I dug into my pasta entrée with gusto.

As soon as the shock of this spectacle wore off enough for him to speak, he educated me on the dating habits of the West Los Angeles female in the 20th century. It started off with this pronouncement: “Oh my God! You EAT!”

He continued, “I am SO SICK of watching a woman push a piece of salad around a plate. Honestly! There is so much incredible food out in the world to share!” He shook his head, bewildered, as he tore off a piece of the warm focaccia and dredged it through the pungent, green, extra-virgin olive oil.

I nodded enthusiastically while at the same time sucking a stray piece of linguine drenched in the most delicious clam sauce through my puckered lips.

Sensing he was in the presence of a fellow foodie he went further. “Or… they order the most expensive thing on the menu, poke at it and take it home. What is with that?” His lightly accented voice was filled with genuine curiosity.

I couldn’t answer because well, my mouth was full.

“You eat with appetite”, he declared, a huge smile hijacking his entire face. “I like that!” Then he said something so perverse I almost dropped my fork. “I like women to look like women”, he said, “To have a little meat on their bones. None of those skinny-waif, teenage boy looking women for me.”

Had I heard him correctly?

Well, you’re in luck mister because I am none of those things…except the meaty woman part… I thought as I smiled back broadly, daintily dabbing at my lips with the cloth napkin. Damn. Who knew this being myself stuff would pay off so well?

Then I swooned. Or at least I think I did. Having never really swooned before I did my best impression of a swoon. It probably looked like I had gas.

Undeterred, he continued, “We share a passion for food, that’s obvious.” His swoon-inducing sweet-talk continued while he deftly reached for the bottle of wine. “I’ve always felt that passion translates into every aspect of life. Work…play…even sex.” His eyes sparkled as he re-filled our glasses with the hearty Cabernet.

“Cheers!” I toasted in agreement as our crystal glasses clinked together melodically. “Salute” he replied, locking eyes with me in a charmingly wicked way.

We have been savoring life together ever since.

The moral of this tale? Ladies, order the damn pasta!

Carry on,
xox

“I know a man who gave up smoking, drinking, sex, and rich food. He was healthy right up until the day he killed himself.”
~ Johnny Carson

I had a startling realization about myself recently, I am to the diet/health connection what the deniers are to climate change/global warming. I know that all of the studies are true—it’s just so fucking inconvenient!

Case in point.

I love to eat. Food makes me happy. Almost happier than good sex with bad boys.
Most of the time I try to eat healthily but I’m far from fanatical about it. Unless you count donuts. Donuts are my Kryptonite and they are banned from entering my house lest I devour an entire dozen, naked and dripping in raspberry jelly in the space of an hour. And here’s the thing, my body doesn’t react in a negative way at all, at least not in an overtly obvious way. I’m sure the blood sugar spike is off the charts, I just can’t see it so it doesn’t exist. The only thing I CAN see is the shame on my face in the bathroom mirror so that is deterrent enough for me.

Denial. That has been my default setting up until now.

Last week my husband and I did a cleanse. Not one of those highfalutin celebrity cleanses that promise you clear skin, shiny hair and an ass you can bounce a quarter off of. Nope, my husband absconded with some literature (basically, the how to’s—whys — and what for’s) of a client’s wildly expensive, doctor supervised cleanse.

Never ones to take things at face value and because we happen to be as cheap as the day is long, we decided to follow the basic tenet of the program—but morphed it to our liking.

Instead of their spendy protein shakes twice a day (at breakfast and dinner), we drank what we had on hand, our old faithful, Shakology.
We also included coffee.
And pumpkin pie.

Just kidding, No pie.

The rest of the day you are required to juice and I know how lazy I can be, especially when I’m in full victim mode, like during a cleanse, so I went to the grocery store (ours has a juice station in the produce dept.) and bought some juices to go so I’d have no excuse.

The cleanse advocates a healthy lunch of fish or a lean meat and filling up on tons of fresh veggies and fruit. My husband was great about that especially since the dinner of a protein shake loomed large for him.

Me, not so much. Once I get in full deprivation mode I tend to run with it in a religious pilgrim kind of way. I swing to an unhealthy extreme. If I was into pain I’d self-flagellate.

I know, what can I say, I need help.

All week for lunch I switched between albacore tuna out of a can, a baked sweet potato, or raw apples and celery. Instead of juicing them I ate them raw so I had something crunchy to gnaw on in lieu of my own foot.

We were both diligent. Our stick-to-itiveness impressed even me and I have impossibly high standards.
He was dropping weight at a slow and steady rate. I don’t weigh myself (long, violent story. A lot of scales were killed along the way so I won’t tramatize you with the details). Suffice it to say my skinny jeans moved out of the torture device category and back into fashion where they belong.

Then this happened. Nothing. At least not what I expected.

I didn’t get tired. I was filled with energy.
I slept great. I woke up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (I finally know what the means).
I wasn’t angry about anything. My moods stabilized, giving me a perpetual skip-in-my-step giddiness.
I barely pooped and when I did it smelled like violets (okay, maybe a slight exaggeration).

I figure it even changed our character a little. We didn’t cheat. Not even little. And we kept on going through the weekend which is unheard of for us. It’s just a thing we’ve silently agreed to. We use the weekends, which of course start Friday night and last through Sunday, as neutral territory. Nothing sticks. No fight, no diet, and no freaking cleanse. Duh.

Except for some reason, this one lasted until a baby shower we were both required to attend on Saturday late afternoon.
I was reluctant to eat. I felt tentative around the crudites. Skittish. I eyed the cheese with suspicion.

He piled his plate with fresh bread and a perfectly ripe camembert but passed on the red wine.

Did you hear me? He passed on the red wine!

Who were we?

We were the freshly cleansed. That’s who.

After the smell of the dark, freshly baked bread took up residence inside my nose, hanging drapes and laying carpet, I caved too.

Cut to a couple of hours later with me in the car, prone, my pants unbuttoned, moaning.
I felt like shit. Worse that shit.
I felt like the foul smelling shit on the bottom of shit’s shoe.

When we got home I went straight to bed without my shake. So did he. It was 7:30.

Never in my long and illustrious life as a foodie have I noticed the connection between food and how it affected the way I felt more than I did that day. It made me a believer. A convert. And now a zealot.

I’m currently on a writing vacation with my tribe, happily eating my way through Nashville but I have to confess– I can’t wait to get back to my cleanse and the way it made me feel.

Has this ever happened to you? I need to know.

Carry on,
xox

Hey guys,
Here’s a holiday favorite that this year I’ve been able to put on the Huffington Post.
Take a look. If you know him you’re going to smile and if you don’t, well, I think you’ll want to.

The big French guy who stole my heart — and then hijacked my favorite meal!
Cheers!
PS. REAL men use pink rubber oven mitts! Bam!
xox

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/how-my-french-husband-hij_b_8547286.html

It happened over several years, with the subtle finesse we’ve come to expect from the French.

He entered our family just under fifteen years ago.
He is a foodie extraordinaire and an accomplished cook in his own right, but he ingratiated himself in the beginning, acting as the sous chef for my mother who is the culinary queen of our family—then slowly, skillfully, and sneakily—He hijacked Thanksgiving.

The only demand he acquiesces to is that it must be an ORGANIC turkey.
“No antibiotics, no hormones…no taste” he sing-songs sarcastically under his breath as he places the order every year.

I suppose we should be grateful that he hasn’t decided to switch fowl on us yet. Next year it could be pheasant or duck in the center of the table.

See, that’s the thing, we, my siblings and I, we LOVE and crave all year ‘round, my mom’s traditional Thanksgiving feast.

The one we ate as kids. The meal whose perfection is so sublime it should never be messed with. EVER.

Yet…the now reigning chef in our holiday kitchen—the one with the red passport—HE  little by little, year after year has modified each dish so completely that it bears little if any, resemblance to the original.

And my mom doesn’t give a hoot!
She’s just so thrilled that someone has taken over the culinary heavy lifting; along with the fact that I finally found a husband—and he’s French—that she sits back and happily eats what she is served; doling out the compliments like Tic-Tacs at a cigar shop.

Benedict Arnold.

This European guy feels no sense of urgency—he doesn’t start the turkey until late morning.

I remember waking up as a child, the house already heavy with the aroma of a turkey that had been in the oven for hours. Now I sit and watch the Thanksgiving parade, eyeing him suspiciously as he lingers over his coffee and sudoku.

You can’t rush the French—about anything, most especially cooking—it shows disrespect and they just won’t stand for it.

Yet…he shows the old hen no respect. He’s rude to her, slathering her with butter and olive oil and then flinging her, breast down, legs in the air (the turkey, not my mother) into a 500-degree oven for the first twenty minutes.

His mashed potatoes are loaded with creme Fraiche, truffle salt, and a pound of butter…yet oddly enough—not a single calorie. Oh, the French.

His vegetable of choice is the brussel sprout. The recipe is so elaborate,  with shredded bacon and gruyere in a balsamic reduction; that he’s only allowed to make them every other year.

That allows us to have the green beans in mushroom soup with the dried onion rings on top for the alternating years. He would never deign to eat that slop. We, on the other hand, squeal with delight in gleeful anticipation of this mushy mess of soupy goodness while his face assumes that pinched look of French disapproval.

Maybe the worst atrocity against the holiday is the stuffing; or lack thereof. He was raised in France. They don’t know from stuffing. They have bread pudding.

This year he is repeating the mushroom and leek bread pudding that he served last Thanksgiving. It really is delicious, don’t get me wrong, it’s just not my mom’s stuffing and it doesn’t go well with gravy – if you can imagine that.

As long as we’re talking gravy. His gravy is ridiculously smooth and savory, I’ll hand him that.

No one can figure out how he does it and I still haven’t caught him in the act of making it. I’m convinced it is delivered by Trappist monks to the back door just before we sit down.

Yams and sweet potatoes are not his things either so he’s given us the okay to make my mom’s killer Sweet Potato Casserole. It is heart-stoppingly delicious. La petite mort— it is THAT good.

It’s been ten years, and I’m just getting over it.

Nope, no Norman Rockwell moment at our house.

Instead, with knives so sharp they can slice a tomato, he carves the turkey up in the kitchen like a skilled butcher, arraigning it artistically by sections on a white platter; placing the drumsticks on the sides like exclamation points. I’ve actually come to appreciate the expediency of serving the bird this way.
White meat on the left, dark meat on the right.
Voila!

But this is a day about giving thanks and although He has hijacked this most American of meals, I must admit that we are lucky and ever so grateful to have this Frenchman in our family.

Every. Single. Year. He takes us on another culinary adventure, expanding our palates by spending weeks shopping, hours chopping and delivering to our family such a carefully thought out and meticulously prepared and delicious feast.

We love you!

Now let’s eat!

Happy Thanksgiving!