When I saw beautiful red peppers at a great price at my local market yesterday, I knew I had to make a batch of Peperoni Sotto Olio.  (Lest you be confused, peperoni is Italian for peppers, not what we think of as pepperoni on your pizza.)  My wonderful friend, Thelma Gambino in Rome taught me how to make this.  It's a delicious appetizer and especially nice for a dinner party as it is best made at least a day ahead.

The very first thing to do is roast the peppers.  Slice each pepper lengthwise into thirds, removing and discarding stems and seeds.  Place them skin side up on a foil lined pan and place in the oven on the very top rack under a hot broiler.  You'll need to watch them carefully, and maybe switch them around once in a while so they char evenly. ( This can also be done outside on a grill.)

When it comes time to peel them, you'll discover that those that were seriously charred peel the easiest.  So don't be afraid to really blacken them.

When you think they are charred enough, remove them from the oven.  Immediately bring the sides of the foil together, being careful of the heat, steam and any hot liquid that may have accumulated on the foil.  I often used tongs to help me clamp the hot foil closed.  Leave the foil package to rest for about 15-20 minutes.  This helps steam the peppers and further loosen the skins.

Now that the peppers have steamed and cooled down a bit, you'll find them quite easy to peel.  Remove and discard the charred skins and what remains are beautifully roasted, glistening pieces of heavenly smelling red peppers.

Now it's time to gather our few remaining ingredients and put the whole thing together.  You'll need fresh garlic, sliced paper thin, some flat leaf Italian parsley, good olive oil and fine sea salt.

(By the way, since we'll be consuming the olive oil, "raw" in this recipe, it is vital that you use a good olive oil.  This one comes from Lungarotti, a winery which produces great Sagrantino wine in Umbria and also makes olive oil.  I love to take groups for tastings here.)

PS:  Do you love my ceramic salt cellar?  I can take you to the shop where I bought that as well!  :)

Now, all we need to do is layer it all together.  Place a thin layer of olive oil in the bottom of your dish and place a single layer of roasted red peppers on top of it.  I slice my pepper pieces one more time lengthwise each, into thinner strips.  When you have a single layer, sprinkle on a little sea salt, lay a few slices of paper thin garlic on top, and drop on a few leaves of Italian parsley.  Drizzle on that good olive oil, then start your next layer, laying the red peppers down crosswise to the first layer.

Keep making layers of red pepper, salt, garlic, parsley and oil until you've used up all your peppers.  Put a lid on it, and stick it in the refrigerator.  Be sure to bring it to room temperature so the olive oil is completely liquefied before serving.

This is one of those dishes that gets better and better as the days go by.  Just be sure any leftover peppers get pushed under the oil.  It makes a great appetizer with cheese and crackers, and a wonderful topping for bruschetta.  It's great in a pasta dish and a good accompaniment to meat dishes.
And once you've consumed all the peppers, don't you dare throw out the oil!  Think about what you've done here.  Not only have you made a great pepper dish, but you've made a truly heavenly infused oil.  I use every bit of that oil up to drizzle on pizzas, saute veggies in and add to casseroles.    BUON APPETITO!

Fall has finally arrived in Rome.  I’m not sure if this is typical weather, but the last couple of days have been glorious; 60’s and bright sunshine during the day, upper 40’s at night.  Cool and crisp just like fall days should be.  Prior to this, we were still in the mid 70’s and I was still wearing a skirt every day.  But by wearing my daily skirt, I was showing a little of my foreignness.  By the first of October, the locals were already bundled up every day regardless of the temperature.  I trekked along in my short sleeves and skirts receiving curious stares as the locals were in jackets with scarves wrapped around their necks.  It’s fall for heaven’s sake.  Why was I still wearing summer clothes?   I am obviously an Oregonian at heart.

We all know Italians are fashion conscious.  Way back in August before I went back to Oregon for a few weeks, I knew this fall’s colors were going to be charcoal gray and purple.  In early August there were great end of the season summer sales.  I was even able to pick up a few bargains with the exchange rate being bad.  But by the third week in August, it was time to think about fall.  And here, fall means charcoal gray and purple.  I’m not talking mauve, eggplant, or lavender.  I’m talking PURPLE: purple handbags, purple belts, purple shoes, purple, purple, and more purple.  And not just for women.  Oh no.  For men, the lining of a suit can be purple, and most definitely the socks.  Scarves can be purple, and purple cashmere sweaters are a “must have” item.  At first, I thought it a striking combination.  But now that every storefront has these colors, and most everyone on the street is wearing them, I just can’t bring myself to participate.  Purple is ruined for me forever…….not that it was ever my favorite color.  I am so un-chic.

Fall is a wonderful food time in Italy.  It is olive harvest time, and the season for truffles and chestnuts. Regarding olive oil, we were discussing the other night how we simply cannot believe how much of it we have consumed since we’ve been here.  I sauté with it, marinate with it, and drizzle it on the finished meal.  I’ve been sampling artisan olive oils purchased in the countryside searching out the ultimate oil.  I still haven’t found it, but we’ve had some good ones……and we drizzle it on everything.   If you’ve read my previous blogs, you know we’ve relished our experiences with steaks smothered in black truffle sauce.  I have yet to cook with them though.  Chestnuts are a childhood memory for me.  During all the years I lived on Guam, we used to travel to Japan quite often.  And if I was lucky enough to go during chestnut season, I was in heaven.  I would buy paper sacks of them from street vendors.  Here, in Rome, they’re sold in paper cones.  The first time I saw a chestnut roasting man near the Trevi Fountain, I knew fall was in the air.  Even the local gelato man has added chestnut flavored ice cream to his repertoire for the season.  And recently, we stopped by a wonderful chocolate shop featuring chocolates from Naples, and one of our purchases were shaped just like a chestnut and filled with chestnut crème.  I’ve recently purchased some from the local market, and am planning on roasting them myself in the oven.  I’ll keep you posted on how that goes.  Oh, and pears…….  The fall pears here have been simply delicious….juicy, sweet and firm.  And guess what?  The gelato man makes pear ice cream too!  It’s the best!


Rome is called the “Eternal City” supposedly because it has been a seat of power for so long.  To me, it’s called the “Eternal City” because you could live here an eternity and never see all it has to offer.  At night, it’s a different city than it is during the day.  It’s still abuzz with people but what makes this city different than most other big cities I’ve ever visited is the lack of harsh neon lighting.  Rome positively glows at night.  Every monument you saw during the day takes on a soft golden wash when the lights come on at night.  All the little side streets are lit by soft old fashioned lamps.  Every piazza’s fountain glitters.  If you think Rome is stunning by day…….wait until the sun sets.

Written Nov. 2008

Life in Rome is simply full of wonderful things to see, hear, taste, smell and feel. It literally assaults the senses.

We are lucky enough to live in the heart of ancient Rome. Our Monti neighborhood affords us immediate access to the Coliseum and Roman Forum among many other sights. Our every other day jog has us running alongside ancient ruins, and there is one corner in particular that takes my breath away every time I turn it. After we pass a gelateria, we run a narrow side street, and when we hit the corner, the Coliseum comes into full view right in front of us. Every time I see it, I can't believe I'm here.

With supposedly somewhere around 900 churches in Rome, you can sure hear the bells toll! But that's not the only sound I love. Everything closes down between 1:30-4:00pm. Everyone goes home for lunch. With the fabulous weather we've been having you can hear the clink of dishes and the sizzling of hot pots on the stove through everyone's open window. It seems like never more than a minute or two can go by without hearing a scooter on our tiny street. Oh, and the lady who lives in one of the apartments across the street from us.....has one of the loudest sneezes on earth. Seriously.

The taste of Rome! Where to begin? It would be far easier to count the number of bad meals we've had over the number of good ones. There's our favorite pizza spot around the corner, and just down the street from him is a fabulous gelateria. In a future post I'll talk about our favorite restaurants, one of which we went to night before last for fabulous Sicilian food in Trastevere. I'm cooking more now, and finding that my cooking has changed. I'm not sure if it's because I'm only cooking for two, but my cooking is simpler, never planned more than a day or two ahead, because I can't shop for more than that amount ahead. My refrigerator is quite tiny by American standards. It means everything is fresher and more seasonal.....and quite delicious if I may say so myself. Fresh pumpkin soup for lunch today!

Rome is a big city. Therefore, it has its share of bad smells along with good ones. But mostly, they're good. Come lunch time, it's hard to walk a straight line down the street as your nose leads you zigzagging from one window to another. There's nothing quite like the smell of home cooking, and when it involves garlic, onions and tomato sauce, well, it's hard not to go begging at strangers' doors. And then there's wine. Those of you who know me will come to a screeching halt here. What? Wine? Irene doesn't drink. Well, she does now! And she loves red wine.

And finally, there is the feel of Rome. It takes me back to my childhood. Having spent four years in the Canary Islands as a child, I have fond memories of hanging out at the local piazza after dinner. My parents would have drinks while my sister and I would meet friends. I would be running around and pestering the local news kiosk man for English versions of TinTin comics. Now I pester the local news kiosk for the International Herald Tribune which I can only afford to buy three days a week. The pace of life is slower here. People linger over lunch and dinner (but somehow are able to knock back an espresso in record time). It's hard to walk fast when there's something fascinating to see around every corner. Maybe it's just me......taking life slower. But I'm loving it. If you stop by, and I'm not home......just head down the street to the piazza. I'm probably there licking a gelato.

written Oct. 2008

Dennis and I have decided to try and take occasional weekends away from Rome, hopping a train bound for who knows where for an overnight trek.  The following is about a trip we took to the hill town of Assisi the last weekend in May:

We pick Assisi as one of our first destinations.  Why?  Because even though it’s been at least ten years since I’ve been there, I’ve never forgotten the art of a particular artist which I fell in love with.  (I fell in love with the art, not the artist :)  I’m sure I can find my way to his studio again if there’s any chance it’s still there.

Not having a backpack or a suitcase small enough for an overnight trip, we pack our few things in a plastic shopping bag and set off to the train station.  Two hours later, upon arrival in Assisi, we are grateful for the bus which takes us up the long hill to the town center.  We splurge on a hotel in the heart of town right next to the San Francesco Basilica.  When asked if we need help with our luggage, we show them our plastic shopping bag, and say “it won’t be necessary”.

How to describe Assisi?  A religious experience, a tourist trap, a culinary wonder?  It’s a little of everything, I think.  After dropping off our “luggage”, we set off to see the Basilica.  Having visited SO many of Rome’s churches, my very first step into the Church of Saint Francis shows me how different this one is. I’ve always found the violence depicted in the artwork in churches so disturbing……seemingly counter intuitive to the concepts of forgiveness and kindness that I think religion should be offering.  The artwork here is almost chalk-like.  It’s soft, done in brick reds, royal blues and gold.  It’s stunning, yet it makes you feel calm and asks you to walk slowly, maybe sit awhile, which I was happy to do.  It’s hard not to cry.  I see why people make pilgrimages here.

We spend the rest of the day exploring the hill town on foot.  There are lots of galleries to visit, ceramics to buy, churches to wander into, and gourmet food stores galore.  We put in lots of miles going up and down hills, meandering down side streets unsure what will be around the next corner.  We eventually climb to the highest point to find a ruined castle, and search for a dinner spot as we make our way back down.  We find a restaurant advertising a panoramic view, which they offer to show us before we commit.  The view is amazing, and we can only hope the food is as good.  In our effort to cut back our potential for massive food consumption while living in Italy, we decide to share a steak.  I wish we hadn’t.  After one bite, I really want my own.  It’s cooked to perfection; juicy, tender and smothered in a black truffle sauce that simply makes me swoon.

By the way, we did find the artist’s studio we were looking for.  Obviously the years have been good to him.  His name is Massimo Cruciani, and if you google www.cruciani.com, you will see his art.  I find I still love it……the depth of the colors, and the uniqueness of the fact that in lieu of canvas, he paints on glass.  One of these days…….

I love the hill town of Todi, in Umbria for many reasons.  A decade or more ago, we took the boys there, and met up with my sister’s family and my mother.  We had a most fabulous meal at a restaurant overlooking the verdant valley below.  It was one of those moments where you actually stop time, take a step back, and say to yourself, “Life is good.  I need to hold on to THIS minute.”  Of course, time doesn’t actually stop, does it?  It moves on.  In fact, it speeds up.  Though my life is currently at half pace, I swear time is passing at hyper speed.

About two months ago (it feels like yesterday), Dennis and I decided to revisit the town of Todi.  One of his business friends is from there.  His friend, Daniele, who loves food as much as we do, has recommended a restaurant, and even told us what we should order if we go there.

We arrive on a Saturday afternoon (mid-August) for a two night stay.  Upon arriving by train to the tiniest of stations, a little bus comes by to take us to the top of the town.  It lets us off in a little piazza, where there happens to be a charming little hotel.  We go in to check availability and price.  It’s a little higher than we want to pay, so we tell the man we will check a few others before we decide.  “Did you arrive by car?” he asks.  “No”, we reply.  “We came by train from Rome and took the bus up.”  “Did you know there are no other hotels in the town?  All the others are outside the city walls in the countryside.”  Well, I guess that bit of information makes the decision easier for us.  Actually, he kindly gives us a nice discount, and a lovely room which includes a nice buffet breakfast.

Though it has been sweltering hot and humid in Rome, it’s lovely in the hills.  The humidity is gone, and there is a breeze that actually requires a light sweater in the evening.  Todi is very small and very walkable and though Daniele’s directions to the restaurant seem quite simple, it takes us a while to find it.  When we do get there, the owner is thrilled to know that Daniele has sent us, but they are filled for the night, and so we make a reservation for the following evening.  We go instead to seek out the restaurant of a decade ago, and actually find it much more easily.  We talk with the owner telling her that we are repeat customers, and she explains to us all the changes that have been made to the restaurant since then.  She seats us along the edge overlooking the verdant valley below, and as we munch on a cutting board of cheeses and salamis and savor a fabulous pizza, I think to myself, “I need to hold on to THIS minute.”

The following day, we start off just exploring the town.  We walk everywhere, snapping photos of picturesque streets, beautiful views, and charming scenes.  I hate to describe it this way, but Todi is almost like Disneyland.  It was SO charming, SO clean, and SO well restored, as to be not real.  We wander aimlessly along hilly, winding side streets stopping into shops to buy ceramics, wine, and olive oil.  We find a beautiful city park overlooking the beautiful valley filled with beautiful well-behaved Italian children with their beautiful, well-dressed parents.  Dennis and I look at each other.  “Is this place real?”  But it is, and it’s fabulous.

This day is an important one in the history of Irene.  It’s when I have my red wine epiphany.  We were looking for a place to have a small lunch when we came across a little enoteca with a sandwich board out front advertising appetizers different from those we’d seen before.  “Not the usual fare” we think.  This is the place for us.  We order a plate of peppers and sundried tomatoes stuffed with fish, and another of crostini covered in melted gorgonzola cheese, drizzled with local honey.  Dennis decides to try a red wine, and at 6 euros a glass, I decide to have water. The fish stuffed tomatoes and peppers are quite yummy.  But some strange and very powerful chemical, emotional, reaction occurred between my mouth and my brain when I took a bite of that gooey crostini and washed it down with a taste of Dennis’ red wine. POW!  Ecstasy!  Why did it take me nearly fifty years to discover this?!  I flag down the waitress.  We need another glass of that wine.  She smiles knowingly, and is back in a flash with a goblet of ruby red elixir.  Well, as it turns out, I have good taste.  It’s a Sagrantino from a vineyard called Lungarotti.  We buy a bottle for 25 euros because Irene has fallen in love, and has discovered the secret of red wine; it’s not just the wine, it’s what you eat with it.

Oh, and dinner that night?  Fabulous!  The owner seated us at the best table on the terrace overlooking the lights of the valley.  The steak Dennis ordered on his friend’s recommendation was another one of those juicy slabs of beefy wonderfulness covered in black truffle sauce.  We used every bit of bread to mop up every bit of sauce.  Life is good.  This is the moment.
(Written Aug. 2008)

If you stop by the Rome apartment around 8:00am, I’m more likely to see you coming before you see me.  That’s the time of day you’ll find me hanging out of the fourth floor window, with a beautiful ceramic coffee cup in hand.  No one ever looks up.  I watch the flow of life; the beginning of the day from my somewhat secret vantage point. 

In the heart of the city, we’ve managed to find a lovely quaint neighborhood to live in.  The Coliseum may only be a few minutes walk away, but we live on a quiet back street with its own cast of characters.  Rome is a late night city.  When people are sometimes just sitting down to dinner at 10:00pm, it’s hard to be out the door by 6:00am.  So you can’t blame the Romans for sleeping in a little.  We may begin to hear a few scooters around 7:00am, but the street really comes to life around 8:00am.  Prior to this people have been rising, dressing, and sipping a cappuccino with their cornetto.  But it is around 8:00am when people really start their day.

Window shutters begin to fly open and often bedding and pillows are draped over the sill to air out.  Elderly women in flowered housecoats can be seen sweeping out the doorways.  The first signs of laundry begin to appear if they were able to get a load in the machine during breakfast.  I’m lucky enough to have a terrace to hang my laundry out on.  Others drag their drying racks close to the open windows, or have lines hanging out their windows up high.  Personally, I’d be afraid of dropping a pair of underwear on a stranger’s head below.  The woman across the street from me always manages to get her laundry out to dry before me.  It might be because I’m too busy hanging out my window with my coffee watching everyone else’s life.

Lots of dogs are being walked now; their owners begging them to do their “dooty” before they have to be cooped back up in the apartment while they are at work.  One petite woman in heels a couple of doors down always gets walked by her dog.  Some are better than others about picking up.  City dogs are amazingly well behaved.  They are used to seeing lots of people and other dogs all the time.  The best don’t even need leashes; they just saunter behind their owners out for the morning stroll.  I have two favorites; Lulu and Pasquina who live around the corner and belong to the two men who run the parking garage there.  Lulu is a mixed breed of some sort, always lying in a sunny spot near the garage.  She welcomes a rub on the head and sometimes rewards with a little kiss.  Pasquina is one of the ugliest dogs I’ve ever seen.  Such a pretty name for a ……….I don’t know what.  She’s short and stumpy, like a sausage with little feet, and black and white and somewhat aloof.  But I think I love her all the same.

A couple of mornings a week, the trash collectors come.  A toy trash truck makes its bumpy way down our narrow cobblestone street.  One person drives, two people pick up bags left along the side of the street and the last person comes along with an old straw witch's broom and actually sweeps the cobblestones, collecting as many cigarette butts as possible. 

The lumpy, loud sound of metal shutters being rolled up is everywhere.  Businesses will be open soon and owners are arriving to get ready.  The front doorstep is being mopped free of dust, the front door is being wiped down, and the plants are being pulled out to reach the sun.  

Children head off to school about this time.  Some are old enough to go out the door on their own while others still need a ride on the back of mom or dad’s scooter.  I love watching a little boy across the street clamber his way up onto his mom’s scooter seat.  Once there, she plunks a helmet on his head, and away they go with the little boy’s arms wrapped tightly around her waist.  Two brothers exit a building with their father.  Dad gives each boy the Italian kiss on each cheek.  Then the two boys give each other a long embrace, clinging to each other’s neck.  And they’re off.  It brings tears to my eyes to see the affection between these family members who are only parting ways for a few hours until everyone meets again at home for lunch. 

I admit, I am a spy.  I have been privileged to peek in on the comings and goings of my many neighbors.  Rome: 8:00 a.m.  It’s a busy place, just beginning to burst into life.
(Written in Rome 2010)

The first time I tried to order a coffee in Italy, I almost ended up with a glass of milk.  The day I arrived, I walked into the nearest bar and ordered a "latte".  The bar man looked at me oddly and asked me a question.  Not speaking a word of Italian at the time, I'm sure a pretty blank look appeared on my face.  He walked over to the refrigerator and pointed to a bottle of milk.  I said, "No, no....coffee please!"  He smiled and responded, "Un caffe latte."  Yes, the word latte simply means milk in Italian.  You need to add that extra coffee word or you're not going to get your morning caffeine fix.

Coming from Oregon where coffee and urban coffee culture reigns supreme, I found Italian coffee culture to be quite different.  The first thing to learn is where a good bar is.  In the U.S. we go to bars for alcohol.   In Italy, the bar is where you go for coffee, oh and also for alcohol......even combined sometimes.  Bars range from tiny local dives to Gran Caffes with gleaming wood bars, brass rails and suited waiters.  In Oregon, we order giant size coffees and lounge around on couches while chatting or surfing the web on laptops using a coffee shop's wifi.  In Italy, you belly up to the bar, knock back your coffee and go on your merry way.....several times a day.

In Oregon I always hear people making the craziest coffee orders......grande half-caf mocha no whip, tall soy latte with 1 pump hazelnut syrup, venti skinny latte no foam. ( Yech!  I'm a purist myself.....give me all the caffeine, whole milk and nothing else.)  In Italy, there are no sizes.  Very rarely is there a choice of skim milk vs. whole.  There are no flavorings to add.  Don't ask them to hold the foam.....that's what it's all about!  That and just plain old good coffee.  The best part of all is that it ALWAYS come in a real cup and saucer.  You're not expected to get it to go.  Why would you when you're just going to quickly gulp it down, head back out and return in a few hours for another one? 

Usually, you order at the cash register, get a receipt, find a spot at the bar, give the receipt to the barista and tell him what you want.  He tears your receipt nearly in half and places it on the bar as a reminder that he's already taken your order.  He slaps a saucer on the bar in front of you, places a tiny spoon on it and moments later, he returns with a luscious cup of joy; whether it be espresso, cappuccino or a caffe latte.  Nearby there will be big bowls of sugar packets for you to choose from.  Slurp it down, leave a €0.10 or €0.20 coin as tip next to your empty cup, head out the door, and start looking for the next bar.

In a local bar you can expect to get your coffee drink for as little as  €0.80, the equivalant of just over a dollar IF you take it at the bar.  At bigger, more touristy locations it will be more like 1 euro.  If you decide to rest your weary feet and sit at a table for a while, then a waiter will serve you.  You can then expect to pay at least twice, if not four times as much.  I have gotten away in some places with ordering from the bar, carrying my coffee to a table myself, and returning my empty cup to the bar in a timely manner.   You should never pick up your coffee from the bar, use a table, and leave your empty dishes there after paying bar price.  Better to rest your weary feet over a nice long lunch.

As I mentioned earlier, the bar is also where alcohol is served.  Usually, mid morning, you can find shopkeepers and other local workers stopping in for a caffe corretto, something I personally could never get used to.  It's a shot of espresso with a shot of grappa.....something to reinvigorate those who have been up since the crack of dawn.  Most Italians don't drink cappuccino after about 11am, but they will certainly make one for you if you order it.  If espresso is not to your liking, try a caffe macchiato.  It means "stained" and it's a shot of espresso with just a dab of milk to tame it down a little.  Or you could order a caffe americano which is generally an espresso topped up with hot water, making it more like our version of drip coffee.

Regardless of your coffee tastes, if you go to Italy, get thyself to a bar right away and as often as possible.  Scout out which ones have the best cornetti, the sweet croissants that are perfect for breakfast with your coffee.  I love walking the streets of Rome listening for that telltale clink of coffee cups on saucers.  Really.  You can hear it from the streets and know that a bar is nearby.....sustenance is just over there.