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by Carmel MacPherson A few weeks ago my son, Callum, rang me to tell me that their beloved Aussie bulldog, Bella, had just been diagnosed with cancer and was not expected to live for more than a few weeks. Everyone was devastated. My grandchildren had known Bella all their lives. In particular, it was Bella who had stood guard on the family home whenever my son was “out bush” with his army comrades. Bella slept under my daughter-in-law’s bed, just to be sure that she need have no worries about who stood watch over her and the children in Callum’s absence. In thinking about Bella, I was reminded of a very moving video I saw recently where residents of an Aged Care facility were each given an animal to care for. The health benefits were marked for both animals and residents. Residents spoke of the sheer joy in having a living being to hold, touch, and stroke. They felt needed, loved. They remembered what laughter was. So, how do you prepare for the imminent loss of a beloved pet? Bella is still bringing joy to the family even though she is in her last days. She is happy—never complains. She is being carefully medicated to control any pain, however her movements are slower and she is tiring more easily. So what is it that creates this special bond with our animals? At its best, they take us back to the carefree days of childhood when we could laugh, play, be silly—no matter what our current professional status. They don’t care about our tough days, but they do care about us when we bring the results of those days home. They are waiting with unconditional love, reminding us that we are important. We are valued. The relationship reinforces all the best in terms of recognizing and nurturing the values all families and communities need to thrive: loyalty, commitment, trust, forgiveness, compassion, discipline. I don’t know how Bella’s final days will be. But I do know that she will pass away surrounded by those who loved her deeply for herself and for the joy she brought into the family. For my grandchildren it will be a rite of passage that will be one of the most important that they will go through: thanking Bella for what she gave them over her 12 years with them and learning how to deal with grief. Thank you Bella. You made us all better people. You brought us joy.

by Derek May YIN: A WRINKLE IN TIME Though the title would ring a bell, I wasn’t terribly familiar with this work other than knowing they’d been trying unsuccessfully to develop a movie adaptation of the book for decades. With the imminent release,I finally read the book in both preparation and curiosity, and I realized quickly why I hadn’t known much about it before: I was definitely not its target audience. My girlfriend, however, adored the book as a kid, wholly elating to the awkward, sometimes-volatile girl coming of age while desperately trying to save her father. From my perspective, however, I found the writing stilted and the protagonist off-putting. So my enthusiasm for the film was tempered to say the least. However, I admit I was pleasantly surprised by Ava DuVernay’s take. After years of being dubbed “unadaptable,” the film manages to retain the essence of the story while tweaking and expanding it into a more universally relatable and less-caustic experience. Both the script and the star-turning presentation by Storm Reid soften the edges around young Meg as she navigates the dual burdens of learning to accept herself and traveling the cosmos to save her stranded father—no easy tasks to balance. Though the book presents Meg in all her youthful angst, arguably to the point of coming across antagonistic and harsh,Reid delivers a masterful performance far beyond her years to capture that struggle and insecurity while imbuing her with a sympathetic nature with her natural delivery. While the book meant to present a reflection of the struggles of a young girl, I would argue that Reid and DuVernay present a much more universally relatable character. Anyone—male or female, young or old—I think can recognize the youthful awkwardness that leads to insecurity and follow the struggle to accept your faults as your strengths. DuVernay highlights this as a key theme and entry point into the story, in some cases even at the expense of smaller plot lines. Several key sequences from the book are significantly altered or removed, for better or worse. The pacing of the film is much improved, setting the heroes off quickly and keeping the adventure steadily moving forward. Some changes, like the stuffy Central Central Intelligence building now becoming a crowded beach, become almost confusing in tone, but ultimately don’t detract from the narrative. The downplay of Charles Wallace’s and Calvin’s psychic abilities does lessen their characters to a degree: CW is more a tag along than a driving force, and Calvin is relegated to occasional emotional support and love interest. But this does serve to leave the focus onMeg and her father, both in her desire to find him and in her realization that he may not be as perfect as she’s made him out to be, helping to lead her along her journey of self-actualization. The film itself is quite lavish in its grandeur and effects,even if DuVernay makes some unique and at times just plain baffling directorial choices. A plethora of oddly framed close-ups and unusual angles serve to give the movie a unique visual stamp, but also somewhat distracts from the experience. At first I thought she was creating a distinction between the tight, claustrophobic existence of our Earth with a more grandiose contrast of the other planets. But the angles and frames continued throughout. It neither ruins nor enhances the film, but does give it a sort of oddness, which perhaps is appropriate. The CGI skews towards the youthful demographic of its intended audience, and that’s not a bad thing. It works perfectly to visually engage and excite the kids, and nothing is overly scary. The elevation of the themes of rising up against darkness, hate, and self-doubt might seem heavy handed to adults, but I think are just the right note for young viewers, and a worthy message. Along the way, the story definitely hits all its emotional beats, due in no small part to Reid’s captivating and often subtle reactions and Pine’s passionate performance (some of his best work). The three Mrs. all depart heavily from their origins, but retain their essences. Surprisingly, it’s Witherspoon, not Kaling, who provides the comic relief, while Winfrey commands the screen with authority and compassion. Young Deric McCabe gives an admirable turn in a difficult role, and will be one to watch in the future. Overall, the film is faithful to the original story while expanding and elevating its themes and adventure to be more visually and emotionally resonant. While certain characters might have done with some extended development and some directorial risks might not have all paid off,it’s a fun, impactful, and enjoyable adventure in grand Disney tradition, with star-making performances and important themes of positivity and self-love. Whether a fan of the book or going in cold, I think this movie will be worth the price of admission. YANG: A FUTILE AND STUPID GESTURE This little comedy may have slipped past most people,released as a Netflix Original on the streaming platform. But for fans of raunchy, absurd comedy, it might be a little gem worth watching. The story follows Doug Kenney (played by Will Forte), one half of the duo who turned the Harvard Lampoon magazine of 1970’s into the powerhouse success of National Lampoon media. We follow Doug’s trials and tribulations as he reinvigorates the magazine at Harvard and launches it into a national publication, radio program,and record-breaking movie label responsible for classics like Animal House and Caddyshack (to name but a few). Over the course of his journey we cross paths with numerous now-famous collaborators like Chevy Chase, Gilda Radner, Harold Ramis, Bill Murray, and John Belushi, all excellently captures by their modern avatars, including a wonderfully meta turn by Joel McHale as Chase (Community fans will get that). The comedy is choc-a-block of one-liners, zingers, and absurd bon mots, not only perfectly in keeping with the humor and tone it references, but making for a hilariously original laugher. If, that is, that sort of humor is to your liking. If not, it’s unceasing assault could become tiresome to say the least. And it’d be practically equally absurd to portray life in the comedy heyday of the 70’s and 80’s without a massive smattering of sex, drugs, and pool parties. You have been warned. But as a contrast, woven within this silliness is a dramatic and often sad exploration of Kenney’s internal demons. Struggling to be not just relevant, but revered and validated by both his parents and the world at large,Forte deftly layers many of the gags with a hidden pain. His journey from brilliant slacker toward his ultimate fate is competently realized, supported by director David Wain’s surprisingly deft pacing. A giddy assortment of talented humorists from across the genre join in to provide a master-class in comedic timing. Half the fun is picking out the players as they drift in and out of Kenny’s life, and not all real-life personas are portrayed in a favorable light (Chase did a LOT of cocaine). But all serve to provide a fascinating insight into how NationalLampoon began and how it came to gift the world with some of the greatest comedies of all time. It’s a sad realization that it had to come at the expense of Kenny’s talent and brilliance, but as the movie ultimately suggests, Kenney would much prefer you not dwell on the sadness, but on the joy and laughter of this absurd world. So if curious about the Lampoon’s origins and in the mood for some R-rated silliness, sit down with a beer and some pie (preferably thrown into the face of the one you love), and check out this stupid movie.

by Ippolita Douglas Scotti: Spring is my favorite season. I love to wander through the olive tree fields and lay down on the fresh grass to look at clouds and fall asleep with the birds singing. I used to do it when I was a child, and I still do it with the same joy. Our countryside is glorious during this time of year. Wildflowers blossom everywhere, and all around you can smell the perfume of fresh herbs and flowers. Irises, daffodils, daisies, and little wild orchids color our hills. Everything looks like Botticelli’s “Primavera.” Firenze is full of flowers. Every terrace and little balcony is festooned with potted flowers and plants. Going to the street market is a feast for the eyes. The farmers arrange fresh vegetables in such an artistic way, and the market is a triumph of color and freshness. I always come home with heavy bags full of fresh vegetables and fruits. Most of the time when I shop, I don’t have a particular recipe in mind. I just buy what inspires me and believe that with such beautiful veggies, every recipe I improvise will turn into a success. Ribollita This recipe is a traditional peasant dish of my hometown, Florence. It is genuine, delicious, and it has an old story: During the medieval banquets in Tuscany, the feudal lords did not use dishes. They used round flatbread as plates and utensils. The servants and the farmers wrapped the leftovers in this unleavened bread and reboiled (ribollita) it with beans and other vegetables. This large amount of ribollita lasted for days. There are no rules about the ingredients of this ancient dish. In the modern version, I add tomatoes, but the secret is in the stale bread. 10 slices stale bread 1 can cannellini beans 2 carrots, diced 2 yellow onions, diced 2 cloves garlic, finely minced 1 lb. dark cabbage, cut into dice 1 tomato, diced 1 celery stalk, diced 4 tablespoons olive oil 1 qt. vegetable broth Parsley Salt & Pepper Combine celery, cabbage, carrots, onion, and tomato in a large soup pot. Add beans and broth. Cook for approximately 40 minutes. Add water as needed. Stir in garlic, bread, salt, pepper, parsley,and olive oil. Cover and simmer until liquid is almost absorbed by bread. Serve, drizzled with olive oil. Serves 4

By Bradon Alter: Spirituality is super popular and trendy right now. There are crystals for sale in Urban Outfitters and there are tarot cards on T-shirts, and everyone is walking around calling themselves a witch or a psychic or a healer. And on one level this is true because WE ARE ALL witches, psychics, and healers. But that doesn’t mean that we need to subscribe to the current narrative about spiritual practice. Because your spiritual practice does not require you to buy a single thing. You do not need to own a single crystal or have twenty different decks of oracle cards or even a yoga mat to have a spiritual practice. All you need is you. Yes, these tools can help us to connect the energies we have trouble feeling. But the truth is we can connect to anything we want through ourselves, through our breath, and our hearts, and our spirits. You cannot buy your way to spiritual freedom. Even if you can afford a reading and a healing every day of the week, even if you own a hundred crystals, it's not what you purchase that brings about growth. It's the day in and day out commitment to your soul that transforms your ordinary life into a magical one. I wish freedom were something that just happened to us; I really do. I wish it weren't always so hard and requiring so much discipline to break through our outmoded habits and patterns. But if it just came knocking on our doors, would we value it? Probably not. So here's the root, you are the force responsible for unsnagging yourself. Of course there are mentors and tools to help you on your path. But they are not a replacement for your own effort and devotion to releasing yourself from your ego, your wounds, and your false stories. A spiritual practice does not need to be showy to be successful; what it needs to be is sincere. It’s about getting quiet. It’s about listening to your body all the time. It’s about checking in with your heart and really paying attention to where your thoughts are coming from. It’s about aligning with a positive worldview and remembering that you are a miracle, and miracles exist every day. The core of my practice is about constantly reminding myself that life is magical and interconnected and that I am an important part of it. At the deepest point, your spiritual practice is for you and nobody else. It doesn’t matter what it looks like, it doesn’t matter how it compares to others. All that truly matters is how it feels, on the inside. Is it supporting you? Is it nourishing you? See here’s the thing, when you get right with spirit it doesn’t matter what anybody else is doing. When you get right with spirit you don’t need to buy anything, because you already have everything you need.

By Darcy Liddell: Hi, I'm Darcy, one of Lizzie Gracen's good friends. She recently reached out to ask if I might be interested in blogging for her website, so here I am, taking the concept out for a spin. Getting my cyber sea legs, as it were. Lizzie and I met back in the late 90s at a who's-who dinner party in a snotty Parisian restaurant. We thankfully were seated next to each other amid all the self-important madness and became fast friends. We both felt like, "New best friend, where have you been? I've been looking for you all over the place. About time you showed up! Let's blow this pretentious popsicle stand and go be friends together." So . . . we did, and we have. I think the reason she asked me to do the blog thing is because I come from a long line of yarn-spinners, love a turn of phrase, and have been an expat living in France for some decades now. It's been an ass-over-tea kettle approach to life, but has so far worked out pretty well for me. All that to say . . . I 'gots' me some stories about being a lone expat wolf stumbling her lanky way through European life, and maybe you wouldn't mind hearing a few of them. Time will tell! A Darcy Fun Fact: I'm unnecessarily tall. Six foot two and three quarters, to be exact. Did I mention that I live in Europe? And not the Viking, Thor part . . . the Napoleon part. I lived in Paris for years, and now the countryside. Joan of Arc country. I dwell in, and regularly visit homes built by, people of yore. Diminutive people. That's the message I'm trying to get across. It means I spend a lot of my time hunched over, Quasi Modo style, avoiding low beams and door frames. You get used to it. Adapt or die or wind up with another bump on your noggin. So, yeah, I have a lot of stories. Like peeing in cups to get work permits, passing a driver's test which takes two years and hanging out at a nudist colony where it is not just a nudist beach, but a whole way of life. What? Too soon? Okay, I'll reel it back. Agreed. Too soon. We should really get to know each other first. Some background on me might be helpful. I grew up in a dusty agricultural valley in the semi-deserts of Central Washington. A sweet town with not a single elevator. A place where tumbleweeds being dragged under cars and the combined smell of grapes, apple blossoms, hops, rendering plants, skunk roadkill, and cow shit were something you never even noticed because they were so ubiquitous. That heady perfume seemingly concocted by a (twisted, avant garde, olfactory-less) perfumist just for us. It was our signature scent, and we wore it with hometown pride. Kinda like a hair shirt. You'd think a healthy, tall, small town girl would be the captain of the girls' basketball or volleyball team . . . and you would be wrong. I was an accident-prone klutz. A bit like Bambi on his legs for the first time or a St. Bernard puppy that has yet to grow into his Big-Mac-sized paws. Growing incessantly, I never seemed to get used to being in the latest, taller version of myself, so I tended to fall down a lot. Plus, I have a ball phobia, so getting my letterman's jacket was out of the question. So, I became a model instead. I was handed a genetically predetermined meal ticket to ride on for a while, so why not? It was either that or work at the local Safeway as a shelf-stocker—specializing in only the top shelves. When those adult diapers go on sale, they need to call in the big guns. "Darcy to aisle 4. Darcy, aisle 4." So, a week after I graduated from a class of 200 (go Grizzlies), my Dad put me on a Greyhound bus with tears in his eyes, and I went to carpe my diem. Seattle, L.A., NY, finally arriving in Paris when I turned 20. I am now 50 and have lived in my tiny village of 1,000 people with my French husband and teen daughter for twelve years. It's as beautiful as you imagine. Throw a rock in any direction and you'll hit another castle. Yawn, I know. I'd love to share the wonders of these places with you, along with curious cultural traditions and local mysteries. If you'll have me. But, for now, I will leave you with this. . . . Back when I was that 20-year-old farm girl, walking around with mouth agape along the rues of Paris, muttering things like, "Gosh," and "Golly," and "Holy shit!" (I tend to cuss. You'll get used to it. My mom never will), I decided to confront two fears in one fell swoop. Fear #1 : Eating in a restaurant alone Fear #2 : Ordering my own food in French from a French menu I had made friends by now, and as a PYT alone in Paris, was often invited out to dinner. People always kindly translated the menu for me, and in turn, ordered desired dishes on my behalf. Well, not this time. It's down to me. You got this, Darc. I headed to 'Le Gamin de Paris' ('The Kid of Paris') in the Marais, because I'd been there before with friends. Fun ambiance, and I absolutely loved their duck breast—thinly sliced and served with fig on a bed of potato puree: Tres yummy! I took a deep breath before opening the door and walking in. I hate this part. Really, in any establishment I walk into in France, I'm met with this group gaze thing that happens—every time, without fail. I'm tall for an American girl in America. Take that same girl to France, and it's Le Freak Show coming to town. Cue the rubbernecking and loud whispers and less than subtle finger pointing as I make my way through the crowd to be seated at my table. ALONE! I'll admit I cheated on my personal challenge a bit. Part of feat #2 involved me reading from a French menu. At that time, I didn't speak nor read French. But, I already knew what I wanted. When the indifferent waiter handed me the menu, I pretended to peruse it with discerning interest. The joint was loud and smokey and the stares subsided. I can do this. The waiter came back with his pad & pen at the ready and said, "Foo, foo, foo. Ploo ploo ploo." My eyes widen. My heart relocates to my throat. The room spins. I say nothing. There is this awkward silence that seems to spill out to the tables nearest to us. Conversations simmer down to murmurs as eyes get all gazy at me again. I could feel them all over me like red sniper dots. I suddenly blurt out, "Je voudrais magret de conard." The room grew COMPLETELY silent. Literally, you could hear knives dropping on plates. Then, people burst out laughing. Something gave me the feeling they were laughing at me. Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you, right? Come to find out, instead of ordering 'thinly sliced duck,' I had ordered 'thinly sliced asshole.' Oh, what a difference a vowel makes.

By Westley Steele: Let’s face it; everyone comes to Los Angeles, CA, with a dream that will change their life. However, many of us are not prepared for the “Roller coaster ride” of a career in the L.A. Entertainment Industry. So, to celebrate my "1-year and change LA-Versary," I’d like to share 3 tips to successfully survive as a creative in Hollywood. 1. Creating a Foundation A few years before I executed my plan of moving to Los Angeles, I dedicated my time in making small trips. During these “Mini-Vacays,” I began to network with friends who were already living here, as well as churches and companies that sponsored Entertainment Industry gatherings. It was at one of these meetings that I met the person who introduced me to the composer I landed my first assistant-ship with. Being 31 years old at the time, I knew that I would need other sources of income while working in my dream career. So I decided to look for positions in the private music teacher sector and eventually found an opportunity that provided the green light I needed to relocate. 2. Saving for a Rainy Day Relocating from Virginia to California comfortably takes some serious coin. In order to establish the correct amount of savings, you’ll need to decide what your lifestyle will be. In my case, I took the single route (no roommates). To be safe, I would personally recommend saving anywhere between $15–20K before making the journey out West. I know others who have saved far less, but remember the keyword here is 'comfort.' 3. Remember why you wanted L.A. Being able to say that I’m an artist living in Los Angeles speaks volume to the evolution of my artistic growth and endeavor. In the words of the great British Activist Nicholas Winton, “Some people revel in taking risks, and some go through life taking no risks at all.” Simply stated, L.A. will push you to be your very best at all times. Realize that people you meet and allow yourself to be surrounding by make your journey that much more fulfilling. Be proud of who you are while staying true to yourself. Because in L.A., anything is possible. You just have to survive.

by Ippolita Douglas Scotti: 'Firenze' means the "city of flowers," and it was founded in springtime. It is for this reason that the coat of arms of Florence is represented by a glorious scarlet lily. Botanically, it is the representation of the Florentine variety of the Iris Germanicus, a spontaneous perennial iridacea, common in the area in violet and white colors and also called in Florentine slang, giaggiolo. The most accredited theory around the heraldic emblem dates back to the foundation by the Romans of the city, in the spring of 59 BC, and would also explain the etymology of the ancient 'Florentia' name of 'Firenze.' The legend is linked to the spring celebration of the Floralia, wild orgiastic pastoral theme games in honor of the goddess Flora. These Ludi Florales were also characterized by theatrical performances, where women were dressed in bright colors while the men decorated the garment with garlands of newly bloomed flowers. The actresses of the mime representations used to undress their colored peplums at the request of the spectators, implementing an early kind of striptease called the nudatio mimarum, licentious shows that emphasized the metaphysical link between human sexuality and plant fertility, by which stimulating one through the sacred ritual, it would be stimulated also for the other. But the flower, in addition to celebrating the rebirth of the spring, was also linked to the meaning represented from the archetype of the purity of the lily, which is said to be born from a drop of milk poured from the breast of the goddess Juno while she was feeding Hercules. During the month of May, in which the spectacular bloom of the iris takes place, there is the International Competition of Iris. Each year in the Piazzale Michelangelo, in a fragrant and colorful garden dedicated to this delicate flower, florists of various nationalities show off new, spectacular flowers born by hybridization and polyploidisms. Iris was the messenger of the gods, which is also the personification of the rainbow. The Garden of Iris really looks like a magnificent spring rainbow. I simply love it! Linguine al Limone (Linguine with Lemon Sauce) This pasta is very delicate, full of the freshness and the marvelous scent of the Sorrento lemons. It's also very cheap and chic. I usually cook this linguine as a ‘primo piatto’ before a fish ‘secondo piatto.’ To add even more scent, place a little grated lemon rind on top of every dish. Serve with a fruity white wine. 1 pound linguine Salt and black pepper 1 cup cream 2 tablespoons lemon juice 1 cup chopped parsley 2 tablespoons butter While pasta cooks according to package directions, heat cream and butter in a saucepan. Season with salt and pepper. Remove from flame. Add lemon juice and parsley. Combine sauce and pasta. Mix well. Serve immediately. Serves 4

by Ippolita Douglas Scotti: Ciao! from my beautiful hometown—Firenze, Italy! My name is Ippolita Douglas Scotti di Vigoleno—a very long, slightly obnoxious name—so please call me, Ippo! For many years now, I have been friends with Elizabeth Gracen. I call her 'Flapper,' and she calls me 'Hoochie Mamma.' Together we've survived some of life's daunting challenges, and we've learned to laugh through it all, our bond strong and full of joy and mischief! She's asked me to write this blog for Flapper Press and tell you about my life, my love of cooking, culture, and Italy's amazing history. So, here we go! Andiamo! I was born on a windy night in Florence, shortly after New Year's Eve. My father, no doubt a little tipsy from the holiday celebration, declared I would be named after 'Ippolita,' the infamous queen of the Amazons. I am a Contessa, but don't picture me as a bored, noble lady, nibbling caviar and sipping champagne—although I love both! Though I am descended from a long line of eccentric aristocrats, I am a modern-day Contessa. I have a noble title inherited from my ancestors, but I do not live a life of privilege. My kingdom is not a castle; it is my kitchen—full of exotic spices, well-worn pans, fresh flowers, magic, music, love, and happiness. This is where I reign supreme and take great joy in finding magic in normal, daily routines. My beautiful apartment is a 15th century palace in the center of Florence, where I live with the man of my dreams and three cats. We are close to Brunelleschi’s Duomo and the Academia de Arte—where gorgeous ‘David’ stands in his marble glory. Every day, my eyes gaze on magnificent architecture as I stroll under the Uffizi arches and walk the historical ‘Viuzze’ (tiny streets) of Florence. The best homemade ice cream is made but a few doors down in the Gelateria Vivoli (established in 1930), and I shop for fresh veggies and tasty, rare cheese and hot bread in the historical San Lorenzo market around the corner. I’m truly Italian, but I’m a mix of various ancient cultures: Tuscan, Sicilian, Northern Italian, and I have a few drops of Arab and Greek blood. The noble title and my last name come from the Scottish Highlands, where my family’s story is more than a thousand years old. I belong, on my father’s side, to the Clan Douglas, and one of my ancestors fought for the independence of Scotland with Robert the Bruce and good-old William Wallace. In the chronicles of history, you’ll find James Lord Douglas saying to The Bruce: “Forever my king, this knight to follow, brave heart." Douglas came to Northern Italy and established the Vigoleno castle, where he was made a Count. There, he became a templar and an alchemic healer. I thank Sir James Douglas that I was born in one of the most wonderful places on this planet. Unfortunately, many years later, in 1908, another Douglas lost the Vigoleno castle playing a game of ‘Baccarat Chemin de Fer.’ For him, I have a few spicy Italian words that are not fit to print in a cooking blog! I’ve learned the art of cooking and the love of hosting from my family. My mother is a wonderful authentic Florentine cook who can organize a banquet in less than an hour (including an elegant table setting). As a little girl I watched her and loved to help out in our kitchen. I remember when anyone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I always said, quite sincerely, “A gourmet!” My grandmother, Maria Francesca, was a noble Sicilian lady—a true one-of-a-kind. She was funny and full of positive energy, my ‘bright star.’ She loved to cook her fantastic ‘manicaretti’ (delicious food) for a house full of hungry people, and she taught me many of her secret recipes. She always told me, “Sicilian cooking is a ritual. Dishes take time. Every gesture is ancient, pondered, and almost religious. Even the simple act of filling an 'arancini' or garnishing a 'cassata' with colorful candied fruit takes on a mystical quality.” I’m lucky enough to own her villa, the Villa Douglas, on Vulcano Island, where the Malvasia dessert wine and the caper berries are divine. The sun and the earth of Sicily give food and wine an incredible genuine taste, and I adore spending my summers there. I'll talk more about Vulcano in a later post. I’ve also spent quite a bit of time far away from home. I visited India (where their beautiful way of cooking is sacred like in Italy), Thailand, Laos, China, Morocco, Tunisia, Seychelles, Australia, USA, Mexico, Yemen, and all around Europe. Travel inspires me. Every place I go, I steal culinary secrets and never hesitate to grab authentic ingredients and native spices. I’ve experimented with my travel recipes, combining them with classic Italian techniques. It makes for one-of-a-kind dishes that are instantly unique and memorable. I enjoy these exotic tastes, but I will always return to my love of the Italian way of cooking. You see, Florence is, and will always be, my home. Tuscany has instilled, deep in my bones, adoration for Italian wine, soups, and ‘bistecca!’ In my life, I’ve had many grand adventures. I’ve been a writer, a musician, an actress, and an antiques dealer—but at heart, I am a cook! Only when I see my reflected image in the bottom of a frying pan do I see the real me. When I cook, I always improvise. Part of this stems from the fact that my home is very open. I never know who or how many will show up to my dinner table each night! I insist on privacy as I cook and go into a sort of trance in the kitchen—like some alchemic wizard. I experiment with fresh ingredients and with whatever I have on hand. Sometimes I try to follow recipes from cookbooks, but it never fails that my hand adds a pinch of this and a pinch of that to make it my own. Only when my apron is completely stained and all my guests are enjoying themselves around the table will I finally relax and pour a glass of good Chianti and revel in their company. This blog is my personal culinary diary. Some of the recipes are traditional, and some are my own creation. Others are variations on dishes I’ve tasted during my travels. The recipes are divided into seasons because I always cook with seasonal fruits and vegetables. I always try to shop in the farmer’s markets whenever I can and recommend you do the same. There, you will always find the freshest products, and you’ll be doing your part in preserving our glorious planet and its people. I believe in using everything available and hate to waste food! In this blog, you will find many ways to turn your leftovers into tasty, original recipes. For instance: stale bread is a precious ingredient for a lot of traditional savory Tuscan soups. You can also crumble it over other beautiful dishes, or you can share it with the birds. I want to share my cooking and life experiences with you and let you in on the little secrets that turn a normal recipe into a magical meal. I also want you to understand what real, traditional Italian food is—the food we Italians eat everyday in our homes, in every region of my great country. Most of all, I’d love for you to fall in love with good food and the relaxing, fun, easy experience of cooking, creating, and personalizing your own dishes. There is such joy in hosting and in the daily ritual of cooking for those you love . . . where every bite should be like a kiss of love. Love your cooking as you would love the people who will eat it. Love is the key . . . always. And now it's for our first recipe. Something warm and comforting for the cold nights. Risotto ai Funghi (Risotto with Mushrooms) There are a lot of risotto recipes in Italy. They all come from the north, they are all good, but this is my favorite. I always keep a handful of dried porcini mushrooms and a little vase of parsley in my kitchen. This is a perfect recipe for last-minute guests. You can also sauté the leftovers the day after. It was served in this way to the Royal family and important guests during the shows at La Scala Theatre in Milan. Delicioso! 2 cups Arborio rice 1 cup white wine 4 cups stock broth 1 cup dried or fresh mushrooms, chopped 1 shallot, minced 4 tablespoons butter Salt and pepper Fresh parsley Brown shallot in butter. Stir in rice and mushrooms. Gradually add one cup of the broth. Stir and cook for 15 minutes. Add another cup of broth and stir until evaporated. Keep adding broth, one cup at a time, until rice is ready—around 20 minutes. Add chopped parsley and serve.