Friends and Unicorns {Roll the Dough}

Our Italian friends love to talk at the beach; you would love to lie down, listen to the sound of the lapping waves, let the sand flow through your fingers and engage in a monologue with the smiling sun or even take a nap (sacrilege!) - nada.

In less than five (Italian) minutes, you will be surrounded by energic, talkative and smiling Italians and without even noticing you will find yourself engaged in all kinds of invigorating conversations: food, parenting, traveling, baking, reading, designing, doing sports, cooking, shopping...

Food.

Baking.

Cooking.

In Nigellissima (p. 182), Nigella Lawson refers to the Italian tradition of baking ciambella (ring shaped yogurt pot cake). Really? Even though I cooked this marvelous cake a dozen times in the past, I had never heard of such a thing in Italy, but it is undeniable that it might take an external eye to find out about yourself, your country, your people.

Guess what? Nigella chatted with me at the beach. One of our friends mentioned quite naturally that in the evenings she bakes so that her (oh so lucky) son has his breakfast cake ready the next day. (No wonder Italian men stay with mommy for so long.) 

There, with toes deep in the warm and silky sand, I was holding my unicorn.

Funnily enough, and as though I needed the confirmation of a native, only after this conversation did I embrace the possibility of baking my very own breakfast ring cake and shine in a new kitchen tradition.

Guess what (again)? No sooner had I returned home to a working Internet connection that I stumbled across an inspiring recipe by one of my favorite bloggers (I talked about Barbara Toselli and her talented friends in one of my previous posts).

Blueberries are part of our September stock (not for long, I am afraid) and the rest of the ingredients as listed here are regular staples at The Daydreamer's.

Thanks to real and virtual friends this how this dense, delicately fragrant and curvy ciambella came to   be about a week ago - a myth come true.

Note: I religiously followed Barbara's recipe, so instead of copying it here, I think this calls for a jump directly to her ridiculously beautiful and interesting blog (written in Italian, if you need help, you know where to find me).

Credits: TheDaydreamer

Torments and delights for the heart {Discover}

What better way to come back to the hectic urban life announcing Fall than to sit at the opera and reconnect with music and lyrics at their best?

Do not get me wrong: I am no opera connoisseur, but I can sing a few airs with naive delight and with my dad's leading voice ringing in my head, he who has always loved the opera.

Here we are, on a date night with hubby, at the modern Opera Bastille in Paris to enjoy the latest version of Verdi's La Traviata - and what's probably one of his most famous operas. The introduction and its delicate first keys softly puts a smile on my face: how many times have I heard dad hum it? How many times have I played the CD my brother offered me many Christmases ago?

Act I is quite unsettling and somewhat representative of my overall impression: it is supposed to stage a party with courtesan Violetta, but it looks rather gloomy since all the participants are dressed in black and stand still  in the background. Are they here to embody the stiff rules of the bourgeois and the upcoming drama with Violetta's sacrifice and death? The choices made by French film-maker Benoît Jacquot are surprising, if not my favorite since they seem to take away the initial liveliness of the opera.

The lead singer playing Violetta Valéry, Ermonela Jaho, is the actual drama for me: I do not manage to understand a single word she sings and need to resort to the translation appearing on the screen above the stage. Her beautiful voice is impalpable despite her impeccable technique; it lacks intensity and makes her presence on stage somewhat subdued.

Frustration starts creeping in.

It settles definitely in when Violetta's array of expressions and emotions seems to be pretty limited: where is the passion, intimacy, love...? The father of her beloved, Alfredo Germont, Germont père (Dmitri Hvorostovsky), crushes her in their fascinating and cruel exchange: he suddenly adds a deep presence bringing just as cruelly her airy frailty to the foreground.

I do enjoy a touch of humor in classic operas (remember the Barbiere di Siviglia?) and have to say that this Traviata managed to become inspirational with the whimsical and playful scene of the gipsy dance at Flora's grand party: the bearded ladies were an unexpected nod to the Spanish Eurovision winner, Conchita Wurst. Why not?

However, it is also my belief that you can allow yourself this kind of crative digressions only if/once you've mastered the key points perfectly, leading role included.

I have left the opera house with a sour-sweet taste in my mouth and the certainty that this version brings both "torments and delights for the heart".

Have you seen this opera? Do you think I am being too harsh?

Credits: TheDaydreamer

Instagram Digest II The Green Land on Steller {Geeky}

The Green Land Cover on Steller

Just a few days ago I tweeted about the last #blesssummer series post here on the blog. I now realize this second post about Instagram Digest on Steller could have been the final post of the series because it is the green quintessence of my summer spent in this part of Italy. 

Literally on every corner of my daily walks and itineraries I felt like taking out the phone and its accompanying grains of sand and snapping pictures at will. On every single corner.

The colors under the fierce sun are vivid, alive and fascinating in all their hues. The sweet perfumes of flowers, trees and fruits just permeated my every thought and step. The combination of the two, made my head spin in sheer delight.

Hopefully, a drop of summer happiness will seep through The Green Land flipbook and come to rest in your hand. 

Credits: TheDaydreamer

Bless Summer Series: 9 On Stage {Look Around}

Medea by Frederick Sandys

Vengeful Medea was to be our guide in the small village of Roca, just along the Salento coast. The village looks serenely onto the sea, but is also doomed by the costal road - the only one - that cuts right through it and takes part of its charm away. Travelers tend to follow the road and not to stop into the village.

I am one of them: for years, I just passed by, headed north or south, but never to Roca itself. Not looking to the portion of village to the right or to the left of the dividing road.

It took a cruel Greek wife and her evil plot to make me stop and open my eyes: Medea was to stage her ravenous passion and anger in the old square of the village. Greek tragedy was to unveil to us the mysterious charm of old stones and locals, while underlining once more the historic ties between Apulia and Greece. While thanking Euripides for the opportunity, on we drove and - for once - we stopped in Roca. 

The only problem was: we did not know where to stop. Where is the square ("la piazza"), the agora that still hosts a few silhouettes and debates? A lovely couple, all dressed up for the play to be staged, kindly showed us the way. We followed them in eager cultural anticipation, while pondering on the absence of a crowd - the crowd you would expect on play night.

Instead, the square is home to a few olive trees safely grouped and sparse buildings with no charm other than that of the local, easily workable limestone, the "pietra leccese"; to the left, the land sinks into the silent and dark sea; on the stoops, the carved silhouettes of elderly people stand out - most of them are wearing plain black dresses or loose trousers and shirts. This is no cliché; this is their life. And as we drive very slowly by, their heads turn, their eyes are riveted on us and show no expression. 

The play and its actors are nowhere to be seen. There is no stage, no lighting. No tragedy.

We ask a couple of elderly ladies crossing the piazza: one of them mentions that the village next door is celebrating its patron, so obviously Roca is not up for any challenging event like a play. We meet again and exchange a few polite words with the first couple we had met just earlier; they seem disappointed.

I am not: the play and its actors are everywhere to be seen. Roca is their stage, the moon their lighting. 

This is their comedy as they watch us getting lost, looking for Medea and reading on a sheet of paper taped to a lamppost: the actress who was to play the princess part has had an accident. 

Credits: here (painting by Frederick Sandys)

Bless Summer Series: 8 The Voice {WorldWiseWords}

"La sua era una voce morbida. Decisi che me la sarei portata dentro come un tesoro, per ritrovarla ogni volta che avessi sentito venir meno le forze lungo il mio cammino."

-- Andromeda Heights, Banana Yoshimoto

Credits: TheDaydreamer (book cover detail)

Bless Summer Series: 7 Ephémère sieste {Fairy Talk}

Depuis que nos filles sont nées, la sieste est devenue un moment incontournable de nos journées (comme le goûter, mais ce dernier ponctue nos journées depuis la nuit des temps, nuance) ; dormir au cœur de l'après-midi pour moi n'est pas toujours synonyme de bien-être, alors je prends mon mal en patience, surtout depuis notre retraite méridionale et ses heures brûlantes qui invitent sérénité et somnolence au banquet du repos quotidien.

J'observe. J'écoute.

J'observe l'air immobile qui se fait dense, les feuilles qui soupirent, le vent qui s'agite et le blanc qui s'embrase de mille reflets et aveugle passionnément.

J'écoute la nature faite de milles soupirs et voix qui en chœur s'élèvent et chantent un hymne au soleil et ses serviteurs.

L'heure est propice à la sieste, au recueillement, au repos des guerriers et à la lecture réelle ou virtuelle de quelques pages. Les mots scandent les minutes et les pas muets et soyeux à la plage, la respiration se fait lente, cadencée et hétérée.

Le temps, lui, fait une pause et retient sa course au zénith pour mieux rebondir alors que le soir glisse, timidement encore, ses premières notes, douces et bleutées. Elles ricochent sur le profil endormi d'une sculpture éphémère pétrie dans mille grains de sable par des mains habiles et néanmoins inconnues.

...Leurs légères paupières frétillent alors, leurs cils s'étirent et leurs pupilles chatoyantes s'ouvrent, prêtes à voir venir l'heure suivante.

Photo : TheDaydreamer