Liver + Europe = Bad Combination

Liver. Yes, that nasty meat-like substance that every mother of the 1960’s fed to her young because “it was good for them.” To build iron, or some such malarkey. Actually I think that youth-fed liver is the primary reason for sky-high baby-boomer cholesterol levels. Do you know how much cholesterol there is in liver??? Not to mention that the bribe for eating liver was the accompanying bacon and fried onions. We needed a side order of lipitor to make the meal complete. Actually, my brother Joe didn’t need the cholesterol meds, as he devised a clever hiding place for his liver. We discovered it mummified years later when the family dining table was disassembled to be refinished. He should have been called home and forced to sit at the dining room table until he ate his liver…never mind that he was pushing 40.

Handsome husband swears that liver was the first meal served to him by my Mother while we were dating. He despises liver, but he put on a cheerful face and ate not one helping, but two. And he STILL married me! Now, that's love.

At my house, we’ve been thinking of liver a lot lately. Unfortunately, it’s not the kind wrapped in plastic in the meat section at Kroger. No, this is the kind embedded in the abdomen of my daughter, Emily. Perhaps, hereafter referred to as “Liverella”. Some sort of viral gastroenteritis (for the non-medical, a bad case of the ‘rrhea and “vomicking”) seems to have affected her liver – causing it to grow to ginormous size. I mean GI-normous. You can feel it, without any trouble at all. Just hanging out, below her right rib cage. I may have to invest in a truss of some sort.

We missed the entire jaundice phase of her illness, as Liverella was in Austria, in the midst of a semester of study-abroad. Supposed to be having the time of her life. Riding the Eurorail, bopping in and out of European countries, collecting photographs, and a large assortment of luscious European chocolate to bring home to Mom. Instead she ended up bopping in and out of the Austrian healthcare system and collecting lab reports.

Imagine the experience. Hospitalization with most of the staff speaking English-lite, at best. On the night of her admission it seemed that the only English phrase the physician knew was “Have you always had trouble with your liver?” as he asked it repeatedly, despite her assurances that up to that time she and her liver had been on the best of terms. Intimate friends as it were.

Her tales of ultrasounds, x-rays, and lab work being accomplished via a medical version of pantomime would be funny, if she wasn’t family. OK, they are funny anyway, but don’t tell her I said so.

After a 3-week subsistence diet of crackers and a variety of Austrian juices, we determined that coming home might be for the best. Austrian juice sounds most interesting. Liverella reports that nearly all juices contained carrot juice, and many contain sauerkraut juice. Please tell me that sauerkraut is a generic word for cabbage. She said that the absolute worst was the beet-carrot-sauerkraut-and onion juice. She heated it up and pretended it was soup. She is now my hero for even trying to consume it. I am now her hero for buying good ol’ American apple, cranberry, and pomegranate juices. If only motherhood were always so easy.

It’s like we have another child now. We talk about her liver as though it was its own entity, with a room of its own. “How does it feel today?” “It is angry?” “Does that food make it happy?” From my perspective this is more work than a colicky baby. Luckily, (or not), it is Liverella who has to do most of the work, toting the colicky baby 24-7.

Like infant colic, we’ve been told that with time, rest, and fluids Liverella will once again return to her sweet alter-ego, Emily. In the meantime, wish her well – and please, no bacon and fried onion jokes.

Waiting for the Pope

Me and one of the three men in Rome worth standing in line for.

Italian Men - PC?!

When and how did Italian men fall prey to the wave of political correctness? Why am I always “a day late”? Or decade….? To quote a 1997 piece from The Tattoo: “Too many Italian men have no pride, shame or tact. They do not just flirt, they follow, grab, pinch…” Sounds to me like the last site on planet earth where a chubby, middle-aged, long-married woman might experience a bit of flirtation.

Okay, okay, I really didn’t want to be pinched. I would have settled for a wink. A kiss blown across a crowded metro. An unexpected “Ciao bella…” Sigh.

I believe that I am as much of a feminist as the average woman. But one simply cannot be a fan of movies of the 1950’s and 1960’s without developing a fine fantasy of Italy, and therefore, Italian men as sexy. Consider: Roman Holiday, Rome Adventure (a bit silly), Summer Time, Seven Hills of Rome (musical), and Three Coins in the Fountain. Even more recently: La Vita e Bella (Life is Beautiful), Only You, A Room With a View, Bread and Tulips, and Merchant of Venice.

Need I say more? I’ll wait while you fan yourself and recover from the mere mention of those fantastic (and sexy) films.

Well, I’m back from a week in Rome with an accurate report. Pinches = 0, Winks = 0, Blown Kisses = 0, Ciao Bella = 1, then I realized he was speaking to the woman next to me on the metro. Since they boarded together, and were both wearing wedding bands … well, you figure it out.

During my stay in Rome there were only three men worth standing in line to see: Michelangelo's Zeus, the Pope, and Steve. Since Steve came home with me, the count is now 2. None of them pinched me. Steve does wink and blow kisses, but never could master “Ciao Bella” – his version sounded a bit like “Cowbella”. Also, I do believe that Steve is much more fun to stand in line with than either Michelangelo or the Pope would be.

Rome is a city of opposites,

• The most beautiful artwork countered by more graffiti than New York City. The wall surrounding Vatican City had been “tagged”.
• Spotless table linens in restaurants, from the finest dining to the casual trattoria, countered by litter. Litter everywhere – even in St. Peter’s Square.
• “La Dolce Vita” – the sweet life – where all are encouraged to linger at dining tables, to talk, laugh, and argue over a lengthy meal, no hurry to turn the table quickly, countered by Italian traffic. Frenetic, buzzing, urgent. Pedestrians scurry as crossing signs have little meaning to drivers, especially Vespa drivers. The key to crossing the street – “never look ‘em in the eye, never let ‘em see your fear” (from my study-abroad daughter, Emily).
• The approach of waiters in “keeping your tab” as you dine. It goes like this: you mime that you want your tab and then wait another 30 minutes, or so (see bullet #2 above). The waiter appears at your table with a blank sheet of paper and asks what you have had. You tell them, they write a number on the page, you pay, rounding up to the next even Euro, and everyone is happy. To counter this mealtime honor system are the ever present pickpockets, fearless and bold, on the streets, the metro, the busses, and in lines. I was told that the average Roman resident has their pocket picked eight times per year.

So, given this tendency toward opposites, I am writing this to all handsome Italian men (especially Romans). It’s not too late! Political correctness is well…correct, and no, women do NOT want to be pinched, groped or otherwise manhandled. But, would a little wink to a middle-aged tourist hurt? Go ahead, make my day.