Will they fit?

I pick up the jeans again and examine the tag. Fit 2,  size 14,  Landsend skinny leg jeans. Will they have shrunk overnight or my belly swelled in the dark? Is it possible that I don't wear "extended", "plus" or "woman's" sizes anymore? I slide my legs into them, pull them up, fastened the button and zip. Simple as that. No tugging, pulling, inhaling deeply, struggling, gasping for breath red faced with a vein pulsing in the side of my  temple or neck. I am amazed..  Every morning I have been amazed for the last year and a half.

From the time I was 10 or so it was clear to me that I'd been beamed directly from outerspace into my family. All my girl cousins were thin, petite, with typical Chinese waiflike figures. I, on the otherhand, towered over my older cousins soon to be cut out of the hand me down loop as my shoulders grew broad, my arms long and my baby belly fat stubbornly held its position. My mom and her sisters were all slim and petite. My mother's wedding gown had been a size 4 which had to be taken in for her wedding day and by age 10 it was clear that she could not dream of me walking it down the aisle again. My Aunt Liz was slender like my mom and it was said that when they were younger people always thought that they were twins. My Aunt Bo was the youngest of the sisters, slightly taller than the others and a Chinese American version of Marilyn Monroe. She had the beauty mark, the heart-shaped face and had even been a runner up in the Miss Chinatown pageant.
Their eldest sister was Aunt Ruth. She had a well proportioned figure, much like Barbara Stanwick and like she, had been known to have turned a head or two when as a young woman she worked at Ragel's Pharmacy in town, but she never married and dedicated her life to taking care of  my great grandmother and my grandparents, after a long life of caring for her younger siblings, cousins, then nieces and nephews as well as the ranch.

On weekends when my family made the journey back to the ranch in Fairfield, I would be reunited with my cousins and aunts and the reminders that there was something wrong with me. Looks were an important part of discussions among my mom and her sisters. Gossip when evaluating a woman's looks would inevitably include comments like, "She looks so chinesy. She needs to do something with her hair." or " She's pretty, it's too bad she got those squinchy eyes from her dad." I had done ok in the eye department, I had a double fold and my eyes had the asian tilt but still were considered larger by asian standards. My sister had not faired so well in the eye department according to this criteria, but she was petite and slim and her hair was much better than mine. Her hair was that nice,  thick,  glossy black hair which could grow long and full of body. Mine was fine and thin and wouldn't grow much. It seemed to break off before it would grow, just like my nails.

Aunt Bo took me on as a project, I think she was seeking a potential future for her Miss Chinatown pageant legacy.  The  backhanded compliment that would be served to me again and again from that point on in my life was, "You have such a pretty face, why don't you lose some weight?" I was put on a my first diet by her at age 10. A tablespoon of  lecithin granules to proceed all meals and she somehow talked my mother into buying some sort of natural meal replacement powder for me. My body was changing and that puppy fat clung on stubbornly as it prepared me to blossom at the too young age of 11.

And so, 30 years of dieting began.  In high school I examined and tried almost every diet published in women's magazines, then Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, protein shakes, meal replacement bars, Ayds, the Scarsdale Diet. At the beginning it was possible to follow the hard boiled egg and salad diets for  a few weeks or months and drop 15-20 pounds. Then it became harder and harder. I went to the gym, Richard Simmons and Jazzercize, aerobics, diet pills and though I was a size 12 or14 in high school it wasn't a 5 or 6 like my cousins. There was obviously something wrong with me.  My grades were very good, I worked every summer at the ranch, from age 12  I paid into Social Security. Sometimes in the winter I helped out at the accounting offices where my mother had a job and the summer I turned sixteen helped out in my cousin's dental lab. In junior year of high school I got a part time job as a dental assistant which lasted until I graduated. Throughout school I had been in choir, studied piano for 12 years and  for a short while I studied flute and played in the orchestra. I had a short but successful season in Speech Club specializing in impromptu speech. I had performed in a number of musicals both at our girls high school as well as the associated boys high school. "Performed" is probably a good word for that time in my life because I performed and performed, trying hard to be what I thought everyone expected from me and knowing inside that no matter how much I achieved, I was a fraud.

My mom insisted that I get a home perm for the first time in 6th grade or so to remediate the hair problem. I remember skeptically telling her I'd only do it if it came out like my teacher's hair, soft, springy waves that gracefully accented her face. My mom was thrilled that her coercing finally paid off, promising me that it was only a "body perm". When I stared into the mirror at a black brillo pad on my head I was unconsolable. I didn't want to go to school and when I was escorted there,  my mother tried to enlist the help of my teacher to convince me that my hair looked good, telling her that I had wanted to look just like her. I could tell by the horrified look on my teacher's face that it was obviously not what she thought and in the 70's atmosphere of accenting natural beauty I am sure that she was appalled. I didn't need to be gifted to know that it looked horrible.

I already knew from consulting any of the beauty and fashion magazines of the times that there were severe flaws I would never overcome. I had inherited my mom's family's distinctive flat, broad nose, which was upturned just enough to give a glance of nostril, my torso was boxy and my calves were large. I pored over the sections in the magazines which first advised how to disguise or camoflage these defects with clothing or makeup, then later the magazines which described the cosmetic surgery which could help. I dreamed of breast reduction and tummy tucks, nose jobs.  I tried to compensate for these defects in other ways, so I performed and performed.

By the time I was at university I was exhausted from performing. While taking my educational leave at college after my Chemistry 1A fiasco, I voluteered for and was accepted to a weight loss program which combined behaviour modification through the Psych department as well as the Heath and Nutrition department. I was weighed under water, put on a personalized diet plan, kept a food journal and met regularly with a psychologist. This helped to some extent but the first signs of my metabolic disorder started to be detected.

It wasn't until decades later after being diagnosed with polycystic ovaries, insulin resistance, high blood pressure, a multinodular thyroid gland which was removed along with a fibroid filled uterus here in Italy that I started to understand all the money spent, the pounds I lost which promptly found me again and brought along friends. After a thyroidectomy and extensive care at the University of Pisa Medical School, Metabolic Disease sector. I dropped from a size 22 to a size 14. This personal hell which had shaped so much of my life might not have been only a lack of character and discipline. It was a great liberation from the great burden that in this case it might not have been my fault but the destiny of fate.

Ya oughta be in pictures!

Tomorrow the first episode of Masterchef Italia 4 will air on SKY tv and I won't be there.

I want to break out in song like Gladys Knight singing "It shoulda been me..!" and  I probably might. I won't be featured in the show amongst those 100 out of 18,000 who applied, but I did make the first cut. I was featured in a number of their  promotional videos on their website, so I can say, I was there.

It is a testimony for me: how far I have come. How Italian I have become and how comfortable in my skin I have become. I have been working on another "grain" for this blog which talks about the before me. Uncomfortable in my skin,   the me who walked past store windows quickly, head down, so as not to see the defective form of myself passing by. The self conscious me who feared judgement of those not like me. It has been a difficult grain, as it talks about a me who has in some way been put to rest. A destructive part of myself who has perhaps found a little peace. 

I won't be competing on Masterchef Italia 4, but I feel in many ways victorious. Many of you have read  (and re-read, and re-read, sorry) the story of my journey below. But this journey was the catalyst to making these next steps happen and it's always said that the longest journey begins with the first steps. I want to post these to this blog to remind me of who I have become. The whole process was a wake-up call to keep moving forward on my path to me.  

If you missed it- here it is, one more time...

My (Short) Masterchef Italia Adventure

La Speranza è l'ultima a morire

Hope is the last thing to die...

Many friends and family have been following my somewhat cryptic posts on Facebook and wondering what craziness I had involved myself in this time. Well, reluctantly, because that little voice whispering "yes" in the clamour of the sea of "no's" is still just faintly audible in my head; I'll reveal to all what many already know.

For a tortuously never-ending, brief  49 days I was a candidate in the final selection for the cast of Masterchef Italia season 4.  At the encouragement of guest and now friend, Chef Peg Schaefer, I filled out the online application to participate in the show. I'd  announced to Luciano my intention, what I was doing, bit by bit, blow by blow and he'd interupted his evening television viewing just a long enough  to reply with a sarcastic smirk or chuckle. "Hey! I 'm pushing the send button- I'm applying!" met with the patronizing " Yeah, yeah- push the button (ha ha ha)."

After an aborted first attempt, I filled it out again and attached the only photo I had of myself that was recent, the profile pic from Facebook. I sorted through the various photos of food I had posted on my page, mainly pastries and cakes from breakfast, but I had  recently ventured into rediscovering some of the flavors of my Cantonese Chinese-American roots, so I had a few pictures of  some typical dishes as well.  After reflecting on  which of the photos showcased my familiarity with various cooking techniques;  I selected some chocolate easter eggs I had made (naturally with poodle decorations), a birthday cake decorated with buttercream roses and two bowls of wonton soup. I discarded the gingerbread houses, might seem too crafty I feared. I attached and sent it all away, Date:  March 30th.

April 3rd, ( had it been April 1st  I would have been sure it was a joke)  the cellphone rang on my way to the grocery store..."Hello, this is Francesca from Masterchef , I am calling you about your application. Can you talk?"---"I'm on my way grocery shopping but I can talk a while"...an appointment was made for the next day instead for a phone interview...the first day which  transported me back nearly 40 years in time,  the years of adolescent angst when life's meaning hanged in the balance of a telephone call.

April 4th, 5:30 pm- the phone rang. "Hello!"

Concern was expressed about my profession, I run a bed and breakfast and taping would take place between May and July, lodging in Milan would be provided, could I, would I be able to be away from my business that long? a bit of waffling on my part- "do you need to think about it?" "No, we'll make it work."

A few more confirmations of the information previously sent, discussion of my food pics. A bit scarce in the "plating" department. Would it be possible for me to plate some of my food this weekend and send pictures? Sure.

Already slightly shell-shocked by the fact that I had actually been called on my way to the grocery store, Luciano started to express his disapproval. Was I crazy? Who would look after the B&B? This would surely  in his mind send the business into a downward spiraling demise. What did I think I was doing?

It was one of those moments in my life when I didn't quite know what I was doing but gut instinct told me it was the right thing to do. After 24 years, 10 months and 13 days of marriage my husband and I had come upon an obstacle which was "non-negotialble". Continuing on this journey was something I had to do.

Over the weekend he grudgingly ate pappardelle with ragu, which had been twirled and mounded just so, presented on enormous presentation worthy plates, primped-up and fawned over, and of course, photo documented before they were to be eaten. Homemade ravioli with asparagus sauce, a grilled pork chop with peperonata. I fretted as I had done my shopping for food before the plated food request had been made and I had to make due with what I had in the fridge. All the plates had that hearty trattoria look to them rather than the elegant, ethereal ristorante presence which made me worry. The chocolate  lava cake with strawberry coulis and whipped cream looked dainty enough- so I sent off the photos Sunday night. Overtaken with doubt the next morning I snapped a quick picture of strawberry waffles and bacon and eggs I had prepared for a guest and sent those off as well.

Late that  afternoon I received the call. Congratulations! you have been selected to participate in a pre-selection of candidates for the transmission. Please come to Rome on Saturday. We start at 8 am but be there early because we will be handing out numbers ahead of time. Bring your dish fully cooked and you will have only a microwave available to prepare your food, you may bring a friend if you like. OK-

My mom taught me to dream and dream big, there was no way at 52 nearly  53 , I could let this train pass me by and so I grabbed on tight  bracing myself for the ride. I needed to come up with a plan which could maybe put my husband's mind at ease.  As I tried to piece together a plan A, just in case I actually went forward, I was pleased as our best friend the retired baker was encouraging and said not to worry, he would take over homemade baked goods. My friend who had been practicing English conversation with me offered to take over breakfast service duty to help English speaking guests , and the few close confidantes  with whom I shared the news of the journey I was embarking upon all cheered me on and encouraged me. Should this impossible dream become a reality, I knew I had a village of people who had my back.

I  became more and more convinced that my participation was destined to be. After 20 years, I remembered a session with a psychic in Berkeley, California, Karen Lundegaard.  Karen had made a number of predictions about my life here in Italy. All had come true except one which I thought far-fetched at the time " I see you cooking on television". She had forseen the success of Frances Mayes still unwrtitten book, she'd predicted the spotlight it would cast on Cortona, she had seen my  15 year career as a tour director specifically working with university alumni, people who would become important in my life-why couldn't her last prediction for me come true?

I had 6 days  to plan a dish, find a hotel, and the courage to believe in my dream.

Me on a plate

For those of you who follow Masterchef, whether the US, UK, Australia or Italia versions, one of the recurring questions posed to contestants is "what  dish represents you on a plate?" As I was planning the dish I would present at my audition in Rome, this question really stuck out in my mind. Besides something that would be as delicious as possible re-warmed, I wanted to be sure that it "represented me on a plate".

 I tossed around many ideas in my head, it was Monday evening and I would have to depart for Rome on Friday. Whatever I brought would have to hold up to the trip and  wait to be re-warmed the following day. I called my high school friend and confidante of nearly 40 years Carmen, to share the news and see what she might think. We both like to believe we share a spark of psychic ability which flares into an illuminating light every now and then when we are together. At the end of our phone conversation we both thought the same thing- duck. Why duck?  And so duck became the springboard to the creation of me on a plate. It also meant that it had to be ordered from the butchers' and not available until Thursday.

My early years in Cortona, especially the first year, was one of discovery; of the country, the people and most importantly myself.  It had been probably the most significant leap of faith I've ever taken when I decided to follow that gut feeling and stay in Cortona after my study abroad experience here ended, without a plan, against all common sense. What better inspiration than my beginnings here?

I decided that an Asian style soup dumpling would travel and heat well, but I wanted  them to contain my Italian experiences. I decided to create a triptych of original dumplings which would be pre-cooked in broth, presented dry,  each one garnished in a small bowl with various herbs, flowers, vegetables and fruit chosen to complement each one. At the time of serving, I would pour hot broth from a tea pot over each dumpling, letting the garnishes infuse the broth to complement each dumpling-or at least this was the  idea.

Dumpling 1- "O Mare Mio"  Oh Sea of Mine... a scallop and shrimp filled  dumpling . I  rolled out the wrapper dough layered wtih small,  whole parsley leaves - Translucent when cooked so the pink shrimp and scallop coral filling was visible. It's crescent shape curved to resemble the crustacean inside. Garnished with grated fresh ginger, thinly sliced green onion threads and parsley leaves it was probably the most traditional tasting and represented my nostalgia for  my home town, San Francisco's seafood. Of course if available, I would have stuffed it with dungeness crab.

Dumpling 2. " Un ricordo di Janna" - A Memory of Janna  was a dumpling that told the story of a spring day with my Russian/American apartment mate for a time in Cortona. We could pay the rent, but our pantry was pretty bare. We would take long walks all around the city, up to the fortress to pass our days  One early spring day we were walking in a meadow below the fortress and found it to be filled with sweet smelling wild mushrooms. Janna  was certain they were edible. We started gathering as many as we could, we didn't have a basket so she took off her black velvet wrap (it was 1986 and she was rocking Madonna)  we filled that then we both gathered more into the folds of our long skirts. All the while I interrogated her - How do you know they are edible? "My grandfather always took me mushroom hunting." - "In the US?" "No, in Russia." "But didn't you say you immigrated to the US when you were 9 ??!!"  I refused to eat any until we brought specimens to the local bar/pizzeria where I'd washed dishes and waited tables to be examined and a verdict could be given. The usual afternoon clatch of  card players gathered around to view our spoils, some were fungaioli  (mushroom hunters) but a bit unwilling to pass judgement on any mushroom which wasn't a porcino. Claudio, a county police officer and mushroom enthusiast dropped by to visit his sister, the owner of the bar and pronounced them edible, Brumani gentili he told us. A triumphant Janna quickly gave me instructions on how to prepare them in a casserole with potatoes as they did when she was a child in Kiev.

I wanted to capture this day and  my fond memory of Janna in this dumpling. I prepared the noodle wrapper with a smattering of poppy seeds and enclosed a filling of brumani mushrooms procured for me by friend Chef Matteo Sciarri, chopped savoy cabbage and chinese dried cloud ear (mook yi) mushrooms. This one I garnished with finely julienned borage leaves ,  a few of the miniscule, bright periwinkle borage flowers and  fragrant fresh thyme leaves. I sealed the dumpling with a series of pleats to form a round dumpling with a small top knot.

Dumpling 3 " Odo ad Otello" Ode to Othello . An ill- fated duckling was the inspiration for my final and what I feel was the most successful dumpling. Filled with  duck meat roasted in  porchetta spices and sauteed finely diced apple and fennel bulb.

 Porchetta spices in this small corner of  Tuscany/ Umbria is unique from any other place.  A blend of fennel flowers or pollen , is chopped finely with garlic salt and pepper and a bit of rosemary. This spice blend is used on the whole deboned roast pig sold at market stands, on duck and rabbit and on the large Regina carp caught in the Trasimeno lake.  Moving to the west or north the blend of spices changes- the rosemary increases and the fennel flower disappears. I wanted to use this distinctly Cortonese flavor in my last dumpling. I pleated along both sides bringing them together in the middle to form a leaf shape. I decided the garnish would be fine matchsticks of apple and fennel bulb with a few airy fronds of fennel leaves. I took the skin from the neck and made it  crunchy crispy  to add as the final touch of garnish.

My first winter in Cortona I found housing  3 1/2 kilometers outside the city at the farmhouse of a German family. In lieu of rent I found myself the custodian and caretaker of  4 hens, 2 ducks, 7 penned geese and their pet crow Iago. Prior to their departure to winter in Germany I was given instructions in their very rudimentary and broken Italian. My Italian linquistic skills at the time were pretty much at the same level but in some way I understood that the free range animals were to be accompanied to their stall every evening, the light left on in the chicken coop for a few hours after dark, then they were to be  released in the morning. The mean, hissing and frightening geese were to be fed every day.Iago's cage was to be put out in the morning and taken in at night. I had a small electric water heater which held 10 liters of water for showering and for heat I had a wood burning stove in their studio guesthouse which I would need to buy coke fuel for or I could (or so I understood) cut wood to use in the stove. I saw more snow that winter than in all of the  28 years I have lived in Cortona.

I woke each morning and let the ducks and chickens out of their stall. I went to feed the hissing geese and took Iago's cage into the courtyard between the main house and my guest house. I washed up with ten seconds of warm then freezing cold water, cut wood if neccessary for the evening fire, then started the 1 hour walk towards Cortona to have a hot lunch in exchage for dish washing and waiting tables at the pizzeria/bar. Not too long after lunch, before it got dark,  I would walk back to the farm, for nearly two weeks  that winter there was snow on the ground which made it a difficult yet beautiful walk.. Not having children to torture with this tale of my character building past  has become a deep regret.

As you can imagine this San Francisco raised girl  had little experience in raising livestock. After a few days, I came back from town to find that one of the ducks was on it's back in the stall. I knew enough to surmise that this was not right. I took him into the house, found a box, wrapped him in a towel and stoked up the stove to keep him warm. I made a mush of water and feed  which I hand fed him through the night, sleeping close by. He was still alive the next day and looked a bit perkier. That morning  the German family's neighbor, Signora Ida came to visit. She had been told that I would be staying there alone and she had come by to check and see how I was doing. Her visit  pleased me, most of all I was anxious for her expertise in caring for the sick duckling.  I showed her the little creature, and anxiously strained my brain to comprehend her advice in caring for  him. "There's only one thing you can do..." Yes, tell me, tell me... "take it over by the side of the road over there"  hmm - is there some special medicinal plant there? I wondered..."Then take it by its leg...." she circled her arm over her head " and throw it as far away as you can" Noooooo!  I was horrified! Uh thank you ,  I think I'll see if he gets better first.  As she bid me farewell she repeated her advice "It's the only thing to do."

This horrifying thought was put out of my head later that day when a dark blue Giulietta pulled into the courtyard. My friend Alessandra pulled up and stepped out, her Doc Martens crunching into a leftover patch of snow. She had come to accompany me to the discotech near Arezzo where I made a little cash by running the coat check. Alex looked over the runt duckling who was starting to move around a little more. As the crow was named Iago, she decided that the duck should be called Othello.

A few days later a call came from Germany- it was the mother of the family - how was I ? Fine, but the duck was not doing too well. What should I do?  Without missing a beat she said "You can make a roast."

And so poor Othello lived on borrowed time. I stayed on with the family another month or so after they came back from Germany. I proudly showed them that Othello was still alive, however they seemed to be more concerned by the fact that Iago had done a disappearing act one day from his cage (never to be found again) and that I had been expected to go out to the woods to find suitable pieces of wood to cut for my stove, not use the dry pieces they had stacked away which were cut to the proper lengths for their stove.

It was clear that it was time to move on when I came back to the farm one afternoon to find a yellow orange pair of  little webbed feet sitting on a sawed off tree stump.

Fast forward to April 11, 2014.  I 've tucked away  these stories of my  Tuscan life into 3 bites or so, hopeful that these little bundles will tell my story, open the conversation for me to tell my story. Open doors to a new part of my story.

Uno, Due, Tre, "Masterchef !!!!!" (applausi)

It's 7:40 am , April 12, 2014- I'm outside the Sheraton Roma with roughly 300 other hopeful candidates for the cast of Masterchef Italia 4.  Upon arrival at the hotel with my friend Donatella, about an hour before, aside from the 7 foot illuminated posters outside, we found little evidence of  what would become this now bustling mob scene. Just the few people seated in the lobby with ice-chests, grocery bags and nervous looks of anticipation on their faces had indicated that  this was the place. At home, Luciano wasn't 100 percent "on board" with my decision and  I had been getting whiplash trying to keep up with his feelings regarding my participation. One minute he was ranting and raving about my lack of  judgement in moving forward with this crazy idea, and the next he was offering his opinion about how my dish should be presented.

A pretty girl from Naples had come down to the lobby in her pajamas shortly after Donatella and I  had arrived.. She had slept at the Sheraton and told us that the television judges/chefs   wouldn't be there. She also revealed that there had already been an audition in Milan where more than 3000 candidates had attended. According to her source of information the meetings had continued on until 9 pm there. A blond woman in a blue wide brimmed hat  overheard her report and expressed her worry that she might miss her plane back to Sardegna if this was the case today and that she had been told that there was the possibility of facing a "Mystery Box" challenge. I started to worry, I had obviously not done my research about this event. I had not been made privy to any of this insider information. .

Now,  pressed close together, the hotel staff had long ago shuffled everyone from the lobby outside to the island across from the main entrance . We stood packed together, shoulder to shoulder, clutching  insulated food bags, styrofoam ice chests, picnic baskets, portable battery run refrigerators, plain old grocery bags. Before leaving Cortona the evening before, I had  nestled the little "nuggets of me" in glass bowls, frozen, wrapped and bubble wrapped in an insulated bag along with a jar of frozen broth for my dish ; I'd carefully packed them into a small wheeled shopping bag, and,  to be on the safe side I packed 2 of each dumpling so I had spares, the Girl Scout instinct dies hard.

Cherry picker cameras were mounted facing the garden courtyard outside the hotel. Someone who carried himself with an official air announced that soon we would be given stickers with numbers on them. We were to attach the large number to our clothing and the second half of the sticker should be kept for later. The typical Italian conical line had formed and as the line moved forward more late comers attempted to push their way in from the sides. My years of training at the bank and post office paid off. I was amongst the first 10 people who'd  arrived at the hotel and I was able to stand my ground and snatch away one of the first 50 sticker numbers. Some of my Girl Scout spirit has faded a bit.

After receiving our numbers we were requested to position ourselves in the small garden area to the right of the entrance near a small gazebo. As we filed by to take our places I noticed that there were photographers as well as video cameras documenting the event. I also noticed that I stuck out from the crowd which was mainly dressed in black and gray.  I had a light suede jacket and  red coral colored polka-dot tee, Donatella was thrilled and sure that this was a great omen. Although unintentional on my part, there were others who seemed to have made their wardrobe selections  to intentionally stand out from the crowd. An older man with a pronounced Naples accent sported a  rather garish shirt  and bolo tie, a heavily tattooed, middle aged woman with  Crayola red  hair coiffed in a geometric spiky hairstyle was dressed in black leather, a thin, waiflike young man wore  leggings under an oversized tee shirt and was wrapped with an enormous colorful chiffon scarf. Hundreds of people, young and old of different ethnicities and walks of life had their sights set on becoming  the next Masterchef Italia.   Soon, when all the numbers had been given, the cherry picker camera went into action. A man gave directions with a megaphone:  "On the count of three, everyone shout "Masterchef !!!" then applaude,  hands over your heads!"

As the cherry picker camera flew about above us, we were incited to repeat this war cry. Again and again- Hey, you people sitting (and smoking) on the wall over there, we can see you - we need everyone to pay attention here-look at the camera.  "Di nuovo, uno, due, tre, Masterchef!!! (applausi)"  Bolo tie guy:  "Come on now! Do it right or they won't pay us!" Two guys standing near me:"Next New Year's Eve we'll be screaming 'Masterchef!!!' instead of Happy New Year"  After our  third or fourth attempt a sleepy eyed, bare-torsoed man came to the window of a garden-view room. I am sure he did not put in a request for the Masterchef wake-up call.

The director seemed satisfied  (and probably encouraged by the hotel front desk staff to be so) with their external shots. amd we were then herded back to one side of the entrance to the lobby. We were informed by another of the casting company representatives that  we would be called in small groups to the meeting room they had rented on the lower floor of the hotel. I had been stopped for a few minutes after the Masterchef chant by a video camera and interviewed- name, where was I from and whiy I wanted to be the next Masterchef. If I could describe myself as an ingredient what would it be? I had felt at ease until this question stumped me for a moment...." Uh...a Dungeness Crab!"---what a stupid answer...I was being given directions ...look into the camera and say "I want to be the next Masterchef Italia" I did so and tried to load my statement with as much determination as possible.   As I was dismissed and turned to walk away, the woman who had stopped me for the interview said, "oh, and by the way, I'm Francesca, I interviewed you on the telephone." It was not until that moment that I realized that this was a finely orchestrated mob scene. This was confirmed and I was even more heartened when I was summoned from the entrance to an isolated spot back in the garden to take some still shots as I was coached to make the "buono" gesture, my index finger pressing into my cheek.

As other startled guests of the hotel attempted to maneuver and exit the lobby, we were led out of the way inside to wait to be called upstairs to the audition space offices. The downstairs room was basically a waiting room. So many hopeful people waiting and waiting. There was a bit of comic relief for us when Donatella was whisked back outside with my overnight bag by one of the casting crew, we were both perplexed, Donatella frightened that we may have infringed some rule. However, when she returned  relieved, she told me that they had found my bag to be the most attractive one there and  they wanted to photograph it outside on the grassy area. I called Luciano to tell him that if I didn't make it on the show, maybe my bag would..

In small groups candidates only  were led upstairs to another audition area and more waiting. By observing what the others were doing the new group would surmise what was to be done.When called one was to go to a prep room, with table stations and microwaves ready to prepare and plate the food.  After that was the meeting with a chef and representative of the casting company for tasting.  I was surprised when still waiting for my turn to go to the prep room that I was asked to stay a little longer after the tasting  for an additional interview.

While prepping my food I noticed there was a camera man and a photographer documenting it all while Francesca asked me questions about my dish. After a few minutes I was ready. Three glass bowls with my three garnished dumplings arranged on an olive wood board, the hot broth waiting in the small teapot. The  photographer took the last shot  and  I awaited mine.

The chef was cordial and the casting representative asked just a few questions.  I was encouraged when the chef asked about the broth I'd used, the method of making the duck skin crispy. I couldn't resist asking him after he'd tasted all three what he thought...he only replied cryptically, " I can't say."

I was then led to a final room for the additional interview/audition. I was told, "This is only for fun, we have a website, a blog, we might use some of this footage here, but remember this is only for fun.."  I was instructed to give instructions for classic Italian dishes, then give the instructions without talking, then mime  different pasta shapes. I was quite proud of my interpretation of a tortellone .

By about 1:30 pm, my audition was over. The last step was having a head shot done and the casting company representative told everyone that we would only receive a phone call if we were selected and by the end of  May.

I didn't know it then, but my journey had ended.

For the next forty plus days I dreamt and dreamt big, waited for the phone to ring,  hoped and really believed it would.  I worried about the arrangements to be made before leaving Cortona,  I fretted about what I would need to bring to Milan. As the countdown closed on the end of May, I clung desperately to any driftwood of hope in the ocean of doubt  that was swallowing me.

And now on June 11, 2014 these are the things I know for sure. I know I can cook, I know I can dream and I know that there are many more people who believe in me than don't.

And I'm still counting on Karen...

* My bag which has star potential---keep your eyes open for it!

The Whole Earth Festival

It was April 24th 1986, I sat on a formica covered kitchen high stool, like the one we used at my grandparents' house at the farm in Fairfield, California, when someone was getting a haircut or  a home perm. I was sitting in the middle of the UC Davis campus quad, cumin and frying oil permeated the  wafts of breeze coming  from the falafel truck and mixed with the smell of fresh cut grass and the dust raised by the many Birkinstocked feet as folks shuffled through the various stands offering patchouli and other essential oils, ceramic mugs, votive holders, clever butter pots, windchimes, unisex 100% organic cotton overall garments, rainbow kites and windsocks. I was in the section of the astrologists, the rune and palm readers, tarot card readers, I was seated in the hard backed, high rise chair while a woman who looked much like a mousy  librarian peered into my eyes with a small penlight,  referred to a laminated carboard chart then examined my eyes again. The chart had diagrams of eyes divided into sections like pie wedges and the position and shape of random spots in the pigmentation of the iris revealed the past, present and future of the inquirer.

I had already visited the man reading runes in a tent. After I had shaken the cloth pouch filled with etched stones, I drew them out one by one as he instructed. As I plucked each stone from the pouch I placed them in his palm and he arranged them in the appropriate divining pattern on the ground in front of him and as he did he  became more and more excited.
" Are you going on a trip soon?" he asked. "Yes,  I'll be going to Italy for a study program abroad."  I  told him. "This is a fantastic spread ! I would love to have this spread. This combination here means that you have found your life path." The rune reader stared down at the stones enthralled and seemed to be in awe of this apparently fate altering turn my life was about to take. He seemes almost self absorbed as he asked if I had any further questions as he kept his eyes fixed on the spread of stones before him.  I obviously had not felt the monumental power of this reading and self consciously said I couldn't think of anything, but thank you and left the tent.

I had been searching for maybe a more palpable answer. Would I find a job? Where should I go to find one? What would I do with my fresh BS in Environmental Design?  Where was the big X that marked the spot to begin my path to a successful career? Obviously, this information was not to be found with the rune reader so when I saw the sign for the iridologist  I thought I should have another go at it. I was graduating (finally) from university and  needed some help finding  direction. I was the first person in my family to do so. I had alwas done well at school as a child and had the misfortune of being labelled a "gifted child" at the tender age of 3.  I had taught myself to read, or at least my parents' habit of reading to me everynight before sleeping, usually Dr. Seuss books had helped me learn. The label of  "gifted"  was a great source of pride to my parents, especially my mom. It became for me one of the biggest burdens I had to carry throughout my childhood. In my mother's mind a gifted child was born to become a doctor,  a dentist, some sort of scientist or at the very least someone bound to make a mark in this world.  I had done very well in school through high school. I applied to and was accepted to Brown and UC Berkeley, but I was too frightened to go away as far as Rhode Island (not to mention the expense)  and it  felt too familiar and cliché to grow up in San Francisco and go to school in Berkeley; so I threw a curve ball at my parents and went to UC Davis.

At the time I was under the mistaken impression that one looked at the catalog of classes and would find classes that would lead to a set path or vocation. Follow the path and you will have success. When I realized that pre-Med and pre-Dent were not going to work for me I was in a tailspin until I latched onto Design and the last bits of my self confidence. Now my university career was ending and I was floundering for my next step.

 So there I was, perched on the chair in the middle of the quad as this slender,  woman in her late 30's? early 40's? peered into my eyes for  some answers. Her ordinary brown hair had a few silvery strands and was pulled back into a bun, her grayish eyes carefully observing me from behind her wireframed glasses. "You have issues with your mother." Very astute I thought to myself, how many 20 year olds don't have issues with their mother. Then I reflected on the angry phone conversations, terrible screaming matches at times which were not probably the way most women interacted with their mothers but unfortunately the only way I seemed to be able to communicate with mine. I would feel bad when just the ringing of the phone would make my blood pressure rise as I imagined it might be her. Conversations would start calmly enough, my mother would chat about the latest family news or gossip, then they would escalate as they became a clash of wills. My mother first subtly then not so subtly insinuating what I needed to do and offer instructions to make my life spectacular (in her mind), first starting with Aunt so and so says, or Uncle so and so's son is working in, you should look into ...
I realize now that she was frantically grasping at snippets of information to try and give me direction to succeed in a world she knew nothing about. Advice which trickled down to her through her network of friends, relatives and acquaintances with children who had preceded me to college. The epitome of Chinese American success at the time was to become a doctor, a lawyer, maybe an engineer- most important was there had to be a good job attached which afforded  a showcase home to be discussed and not so hushed conversations about the salaries earned and at the very least bragging rights to how good your child was treating you. Large anniversary parties, treating parents to trips or cruises were the rewards for good parenting. From the bright star of hope my mother had garnered from the word "gifted" I had resulted thusfar to be quite a disappointment. After the shocking wake up call of a C in Chemistry 1A, I found my aspiration (and my mother's dream for me) to become a dentist shattered and my world shaken up. I was a little fish in a big pond and lost. Luckily, I'd found my way to the campus counselling center and found the courage to drive another nail in the coffin of my mother when I announced a few times that I was taking a planned educational leave from school to work a while and decide what my next moves were. She suffered as silently as she could, but braved through it (though she couldn't resist sleuthing around and actually contacted my psychologist at the counselling center).

 "You are about to embark on a new adventure that will bring you much success. I see that you'll be working on computers and teaching languages" the iridologist continued. I resigned myself to the idea that I had just thrown away 20 bucks. My Computer Science 1A experience had been so dismal I walked away from the class and teaching languages, well the thought had never crossed my mind.

And so, 28 years ago my path to me began. Amid the drums of the Hare Krishna, and hippy throwback wannabes, the smoke of incense, odor of pot, magic brownie vendors, unaware, I had found the X that marked the spot of the beginning of the journey to my new life. A life where I found myself programming computers, replacing parts of computers, designing accellerated language courses and yes, teaching English. My study vacation to Italy started that May of 1986 and hasn't ended yet. Among other things I was able to throw a large birthday party for my parents a few summers ago and they do proudly refer friends and family to my bed and breakfast, so maybe I am on the right path.

Finding my way home

I was born in 1961 in San Francisco, CA  to a family of  2nd and 3rd generation Americans of Chinese descent. I was given every privilege and opportunity that my solid middle class parents could afford me and after finishing (finally) a Bachelor of Science degree from UC Davis in Environmental Design their generous graduation gift was a studies abroad trip to Cortona, Italy in 1986. It is a trip from which I have never returned.

It is a trip that has continued for decades now and although it led me far away from home, it also brought me back home to myself. Growing up when I did in the United States, even in San Francisco, it was confusing at times  to reconcile who I  really was and what my place in American society was. I needed to travel far from home, to take stock and really find the kernel of who I am, liberate myself from the self-doubt and many times self-loathing. 

I'm now at a  place where I decided the time is ripe to start to collecting the grains of this experience, i chicchi di riso, "the grains of rice or laughter" as can be translated from italian. I had always been intrigued by the fact that this word in italian had a double meaning which was so appropriate to my life- rice and laughter, nourishment for the body and soul.

I've collected a few short stories of my experiences here in Italy that I have been wanting to gather together. Some on old floppy disks of the 80's, in lost long ago notebooks, in the corners of my mind, in fancy leather bound notebooks waiting for me to have the courage to indelibly set my hand to them. After waiting and waiting, I am jumping in and starting today to journal the grains of life, which have brought me nourishment for both my body and soul.