by Maureen | Sep 17, 2009 | Canals, Discoveries, Journal, Quips
Just had an hour and a half bike ride. A BIG snake crossed my path. Little frogs jumped out of the mud puddles in front of me as I approached. Something rustled in the grass next to me. No muskrats tonight, but the cats all perked up their ears and looked at me when I squeaked at them. It smelled like a cooling Fall evening in Eastern Washington, with the absolutely delicious scent of poplar pitch, and the not-so-delicious scent of fruit rotting on the ground. Old men fished along the bank of the canal. The usual group of skirt-and-dress-clad elder women were clustered closely and on their slow stroll.
As two “serious” bikers – Ciclisti Milanesi – with their tight calves, tight back ends and snug, sky-blue lycra passed me, I picked up the pace, pulled in behind them and enjoyed the scenery. As we approached an intersection, I jested to them, in Italian, that I should take a picture! They slowed to my side, I repeated what I had said, then whizzed on in front of them. They took the paved bike lane; I opted for the rugged, rutted, puddled route, and thus, encountered the leaping frogs.
by Maureen | Sep 11, 2009 | Canals, Discoveries, Featured Articles, Journal, Photos
When I rode along the canal the other day, sure enough, the corn field had been cut bare. There were two men out gleaning, walking up and down each corn row looking for remnants. They had filled their wheel-barrow full.
They seemed puzzled about this woman in her hot pink bike top stopping in the corn field. I held up my camera and yelled to them that I was taking photos. They nodded and continued on. So did I.
by Maureen | Sep 10, 2009 | Canals, Discoveries, Featured Articles, Food!, Journal, Photos
I HAVE made “Muskrat Cacciatore” before, but that was long ago and far away. It was pretty darned good, (yes, it DID taste “just like chicken”) but I think this big guy might be a bit tough. He’s got to be TWICE the size of my head, the granddaddy of them all.
There’s a group of seven muskrats that I see every evening that I go for a ride along the canal. They have a favored spot with some brush for cover if they want it, but they seem fairly used to the bike and foot traffic going by, and nonchalantly continue to forage for roots at the tree bases in “their spot”. They don’t seem to be bothered by anyone (hunted or trapped). There are “no hunting” signs posted along the bikeway.
Imagine, 15 minutes by bike south of Milan – a major, international, cosmopolitan city – and there are “no hunting” signs and muskrats having the time of their lives!
*Acknowledgements to B. Kliban and his wonderfully bizarre humor.
His book title came immediately to mind.
by Maureen | Sep 8, 2009 | Journal, Quips
Hi. Just a few questions for you about how you wander around on this blog site.
Do you use the search box? (Did you even notice that there IS one? It’s pretty subtle.)
Do you click on the “tags” in the “tag cloud” at the right on article pages (the jumbled pile of linked topic words)?
Do you click on the 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5 at the bottom right corner of the home page photo? (Do they show up for you? Do they link?)
Do you look at the “archive” at all, or just go down the list of articles at the left of the home page?
What DO you click on?
What’s most interesting to you?
by Maureen | Sep 6, 2009 | Canals, Featured Articles, Journal
When I take the subway home, I hop on the M2 Green Line with “Abbiategrasso” as its final destination, roughly due west of Milano. (The subway train goes south from the center of town, then cuts west.) All this time, last summer included, I’ve seen the name but never seen the town. Wanting both a good ride and something a little different today, I decided to ride the mostly-bike route along the Naviglio Grande instead of my usual, smaller Naviglio Pavese.
What a ride! It was a lovely late-summer morning when I started out, cool enough that I was glad I’d be riding hard. (I’ve never felt it that cool in Milano! I’ve only been here in the summer.) From Milano to Abbiategrasso is 24.6 k (15.2 miles) and the length of it travels past city and country, old buildings and new, rice paddies and industry.
THIS was where people were on their Sunday morning! Bikers were either decked-out-serious or casual peddlers. There were walkers and runners. And the morning sun made it all so pleasant. I was in “that space” and soared. Zoom, Zoom.
When out on my bike, I set my own pace depending on my mood, but once in a while, one of those “serious” bikers will pass me (always men) and I’ll take the bait. Someone to set the speed and make me push myself! I notch it up, pull in behind them and move it. Doing so tickles me and I get a good workout.
Today, two men passed me, and I took my cue. I followed them tight for several miles, even having to put on my brakes so I didn’t crowd them too closely. Then, the very unfortunate. The forward biker hit a metal cover in the path and went down. His partner got out around him, and I, being all too close at that moment, JUST managed to get out past the two of them and avoid being part of the pile. I pulled over and stopped to see how the guy was. He had quite dramatically shaved the skin off the side of his knee. Ugh. After a few moments, seeing that I couldn’t help in any way, I left with the speed-demon in me tamed for the day. (Once home, I added some first aid items to my bike bag.)
I pushed on, and enjoyed the canal-side view. Only once in a while did I stop for a photo or two. I wanted the “brass ring” of Abbiategrasso, so didn’t tarry. After I arrived in town, I had a short, little conversation with another biker where the canal split southward into Naviglio Bereguardo. I wasn’t prepared for that ride today, so I turned to go home. No, I didn’t actually explore the towns along the way. I’ll save that for another time. But I had a gorgeous time, talked to the ponies, saw the Swiss Alps in the distance, poked my head into a few old gates, plucked some ready-to-harvest rice and saw a part of Milano I hadn’t seen before.
I like this place.
The town of Gaggiano had an immaculate cycling path and the church of Sant’ Invenzio.
I’m just a sucker for old buildings, and when I saw that this one marked my imminent birthday, I just had to stop.
And these gates are right nearby…
As I started to get back in toward Milano, of course things got a little tighter, and newer. This was an area near Corsico that seemed very pleasant.
I just HAD to pluck some rice since it encircles Milano. (Risotto anyone?)
When I stopped, my red and chartreuse feet with the yellow circle amused me.
At the end of the good day riding, I cooked the shrimp and veggies from yesterday’s Saturday Market. It was perfect.
by Maureen | Sep 5, 2009 | Cheese, Discoveries, Featured Articles, Food!, Journal, Shopping & Markets
I’m not joking when I say that one of my consistent sources of stress here is in grocery shopping. It’s easy to take for granted the comfort of knowing WHAT I’m shopping for and HOW to shop for it. And when I don’t know those two things there’s an absolute and certain anxiety aroused. That may sound ridiculous, but it’s true.
It’s one thing to shop at the grocery store. I’ve greatly improved in that realm. At least there are labels and I can pick up the items to read and figure out what I’m looking at, what to do with it and whether I want it. I’ve gotten better at discerning ingredients listed in Italian, and labels these days often feature a photo which gives a hint of ingredients and serving suggestions.
Someone finally told me how to order my favorite, bresaola. It’s not ordered from the meat counter by the slice, it’s ordered by the gram. OK. Fine. But how many grams do I need? I was raised with ounces and pounds. How big of a pile of paper thin bresaola would 100 grams amount to? As it turns out, 80 to 100 grams is about right for me to order, and I now know what it amounts to. I can order bresaola and prosciutto with the rest of them and not sound completely like I’m from outer space.
In the produce department, it’s absolutely forbidden to handle the fruit and veggies with bare hands. There’s a ritual in buying produce and I had to learn that first thing! I go to the little stand to get my wispy thin plastic gloves. THEN I select my fruit and put it in a plastic bag. THEN I make note of the code number for my item and take it to the scale. I punch in the code and the machine spits out a UPC label. Very simple. But if someone hadn’t told me about that, or if I forget and get up to the checkout stand with unmarked produce, heaven help me!
There are handy tote-along plastic bins on wheels at the entrance to the store. Pretty handy because I usually don’t need a big cart. They have a compact “footprint” and are pretty deep. Therein lies the problem. The produce is at the entrance to the store. I go in, get my tomatoes, peaches, plums, rucola and other delicate, soft fruits and vegetables and put them in my bin. As I continue shopping for yogurt, milk, cheese, wine, bottled water, the heavy things either get piled on top of the fragile things, or I have to constantly shuffle the contents in my cart to put the heaviest at the bottom. I could get my cart, walk immediately to the end of the store, shop in reverse, end in the produce department, then walk back to the cashier at the opposite side of the store. I suppose I could try that and see how it goes.
Then there’s the checkout! This is when I need heaven to help me. I think the checkout stand at the grocery store is the epitome example of Italian speed-demon impatience. I walk up and stand in line with “all the other Italians” (ha ha ha). When it’s my turn, I empty my cart onto the conveyor belt trying to get the heaviest items out from the bottom of the pile and put them on the belt first. The cashier asks me if I want a bag and if I do its extra cost gets added to the tab. (Take note, Seattle.) Well-trained, I always have my own bags, so I say “no”. While I’m still unloading my little cart, my grocery items are flying out the other end and rolling down on top of each other into a big pile. Believe me, I unload as fast as I can so I can immediately start loading up my bags as fast as I can. Invariably, the cashier finishes the race before I do, there’s a line of people waiting, my total is rattled quickly in Italian (I’m getting better all the time at hearing and understanding euro totals), I don’t have my reading glasses on, I can’t see the still-unfamiliar coins to know their denominations, and I haven’t even finished loading up my groceries! It would almost be funny if it weren’t so anxiety-producing!
I’m always glad to get out of the grocery store.
Ahh. Then there’s the Saturday Market I discovered for the first time today. Open air. Lovely, end-of-summer weather. Picture-perfect produce, meats, seafood, cheeses, breads and sundries. This market makes Seattle’s Pike Place Market look like nothing. (Really. Sorry, but it’s true.) Everything is arrayed so beautifully, all so artful. I shot photos for the first hour or so. All so gorgeous.Idyllic, right?
Then it was time to shop. Uh oh. Trouble. New rules here. No labels. No handling the products to investigate. And it wasn’t clear what the buying process was. Who do I talk to and when is it my turn?
After wandering around dazed and afraid for a while, I got bold. What I wanted was simple and recognizable: tomatoes on the vine, fresh figs, prunes, green beans, onions. I told the guy at the front, but then he told me I had to go off to the side to pay for it first. OK. But when standing in line, I watched them fill bags with other people’s orders. They take this beautifully displayed fruit and THROW it into a paper bag! There go those nice tomatoes, those ripe peaches, those soft, fresh figs. After watching this for a couple of minutes, I walked away, telling the guy I decided not to buy any. After having been a farmer for so many years, I just can’t bring myself to buy fruit and veggies from someone that is throwing my food. And I don’t get to select it myself, so don’t know until I get home that the figs are overripe and smashed open, the tomatoes punctured and the prunes bruised. Let alone not yet having the vocabulary to tell them I want just one vine of tomatoes, not a whole basket, etc. When they don’t allow us to pick up the food, I don’t have the opportunity to select 4 nice tomatoes and gently place them in a bag to be coddled during my walk home.
Yearning for good seafood, I found the fish booths down at the very end of the street. (Maybe other vendors don’t like the smell at the end of a hot day so the fish vendors are ostracized.) But I don’t recognize any of the fish, (only the shrimp, octopus and squid). I don’t have a good filet knife in the apartment and I don’t know the flavors of what’s in front of me. (Is it strong and “fishy”?) By this time I was feeling paralysis rather than excitement, so I ordered what the little old lady in front of me ordered: fresh shrimp. I can deal with that for now. I guess that, next time, I’ll just buy myself a fish, drag it home, throw it on the fire and see what it tastes like. (And maybe I should pick up a good filet knife in the meantime!)
I must say that the cheese displays were beyond belief and I finally stopped at one on the side street, not the main drag of the market. This little shop was extensive and more personable and homey. I asked the cheesemonger “which one should I try?” He replied “all of them!”, and we both laughed. He gave me a little sliver of a soft cheese, but it was more mild than I had in mind. He had a huge round of pecorino with several bands of black peppercorns through its middle. He gave me a sliver of that one, and it had power to it. I bought the small wedge that had been sitting waiting for me. He weighed it and said it was 2,40. “2,40?”, I asked, wanting to make sure I heard correctly. “Yes, dear” he said in Italian, and he waited patiently while I squinted at my coins to count out change. I decided, then, to have him slice some bresaola, too.
by Maureen | Sep 5, 2009 | Featured Articles, Ireland, Journal
It was the late 1800s in Ireland. Potato crops kept failing and food was scarce. Imagine being a little boy, held in your mother’s arms in the midst of a big commotion as your older brothers, just ages 16 and 17 or so, left down the narrow lane, heading for a new life in America.
Those Manley brothers ended up in Wisconsin, Alaska and Washington. They never returned to Crockawaddy Glebe and their parents never saw them again. That little boy was Thomas, my cousin Tom’s grandfather.
This is the narrow Corr’s Lane the boys traveled down. (#2 on the large map.) Roughly 150 years later and having heard that story, standing in that now-paved lane was a pretty heady experience. Imagine the hunger, the heartache, the sadness and yet the hope. Imagine fearing that the farewell was indeed the last.
I’m still piecing together the puzzle of the Manley Clan and where I fit, but from what I gather, my great-grandmother, Bridget Manley, was born at Crockawaddy Glebe. Perhaps she was sister to that little boy, Thomas. Clearly, I need to ask further questions of those that know!
That narrow lane now ends at Corr’s house, though it used to wrap around behind and all the way through to Crockawaddy. Today, the paved road disappears in the overgrowth, but a gate remains, surrounded by brush to show the old pathway.
by Maureen | Sep 4, 2009 | Featured Articles, Ireland, Journal
Crockawaddy Glebe is west of Rosslea, north of Aghadrumsee in County Fermanagh, west of Belfast, Northern Ireland. “Crockawaddy” is the name of the Townland (a unit of 50-70 acres), and “Glebe” indicates that they had to pay rent to the Protestant Church of Ireland.
#1 – The farmhouse at Crockawaddy Glebe (the small, black square in the middle of the circle)
#2 – Corr’s Lane, the “Road to America”. Corr’s house is at the top end of this lane and there used to be a road connecting it with Crockawaddy.
#3 – The Schoolhouse of Corranny Primary, where cousin Tom went to School
#4 – The small town of Aghadrumsee
#5 – The Carnmore Viewpoint
For those (family members) wanting a detailed map of this area, look for the “Ordnance Survey of Northern Ireland, Discoverer Series: Upper Lough Erne, Sheet 27”. © Crown Copyright 2008. http://www.osni.gov.uk/mapstore.htm. The scale is 1:50,000, with Townland Map on Reverse. These can be purchased at “News Agents” and bookstores in the area. (Thanks to my childhood friend, Eva, for telling me about these maps.)
Here’s a view looking southwest from Carnmore View Point (#5) toward Carnmore Lough.
by Maureen | Sep 4, 2009 | Featured Articles, Ireland, Ireland, Journal
It was so moving to be halfway around the world from my birthplace, and be greeted with hugs at the doors of my unknown, distant cousins. Family roots are deep and strong.
First, there I was sitting in a little coffee shop in Aughancloy, Ireland, waiting for Tom to arrive. “Are you the lady from America?” And he gave me a hug hello. Then I followed him to Clones and met his wife, Mary who was as open as they get. Another dear. We had dinner at their home together. (And lively pup, Mollie, loved having a new person visit the house!)
After our meal, we went to their son and daughter-in-law’s house, Thomas and Carmel, and we all chatted through the evening before I turned in for a cozy night’s sleep.
During our driving tour of Country Fermanagh the next day, Tom took me to meet Manley Clan relations. He had called ahead to say we’d be coming, and again, it felt remarkable to be so warmly received. Maggie and her daughter, Sabohan, greeted us, and then Maggie’s son, Gary, came by and joined the conversation.
From there we drove to the home of “little imp”, Lily, who had married Gerard Manley. She and I had a playful, teasing banter from the very start. (We’d probably have a lot of fun together if we lived closer by.)
Here’s a picture of young Lily on her wedding day to Gerard.
Lily’s got a sign saying “Crockawaddy” on the front of her house (although she no longer lives at the farm). She and Tom strike a pose.
by Maureen | Sep 4, 2009 | Featured Articles, Ireland, Journal
There is something deeply stirring about standing on the farmland of the homesite where my great grandmother, Bridget Manley, was born. I had hoped simply to find the region and share a glimpse of what she saw as a young girl. To meet distant cousins, tour the county and drive up Corr’s Lane to the home site, was more than I had dreamed of!
My godmother, Mary Fran, my Mom’s cousin, had given me the names of “cousins”, Tom and Mary. (I still haven’t found everyone in the genealogy, but after a point, “cousin” will suffice.) Just days before, I had made a call from up north, which boiled down to: “Hi. My name’s Maureen and we’re cousins. I’m visiting Ireland from the United States. May I come see you?” Four days later, I drove south and Tom met me in the small town of Aughancloy, near his hometown of Rosslea. He greeted me with a hug and I followed him home to dinner with him and his wife, Mary. More cousins, I met their son, Thomas, and his wife, Carmel, and I slept cozily at their home, after we had talked into the evening.
The following day I got the full tour of County Fermanagh, as Tom took me to all the noted family sites and told me stories along the way. The home of my great great grandparents, Crockawaddy Glebe is west of Rosslea, north of Aghadrumsee in County Fermanagh, west of Belfast, Northern Ireland. “Crockawaddy” is the name of the Townland (a unit of 50-70 acres), and “Glebe” indicates that they had to pay rent to the Protestant Church of Ireland.
One of the original white-washed stone buildings still stands and is being used for farm storage next to the cow barn. It likely had a thatched roof when first built. The house where Tom’s great grandfather had lived had been “tossed” a few years back, but its outline still shows (under a trampoline and clothesline). A field next to the house holds grazing cattle and is the site of past gardens.
(The next day, when visiting cousin Lily – Aunt? – I notice she had a decoupage clock on the wall with a photo of Crockawaddy before the house had been torn down! So here’s Crockawaddy as a clock. The whitewashed stone building I show above is at “8 o’clock”.)
County Fermanagh: Green all around in a rippling landscape of fields and thorny hedgerows. I think it’s probably changed little in these past two centuries. Tom took me to the Carnmore View Point, just an Irish field’s stone’s-throw north of Crockawaddy, from which I could survey all the countryside. I nibbled a few bilberries (much like a huckleberry) on our way along the path. (I’ll bet my great grandma had her favorite berry-picking spots.) From the top of Carnmore “Mountain”, Tom pointed out Crockawaddy, not too distant. (On this carved-stone map, he points to the farm’s location.)
From Carnmore View Point, looking southward toward Crockawaddy Glebe.
by Maureen | Sep 2, 2009 | Ireland, Journal, Quips
I know. Long time no post… I haven’t posted much in the week since I got back from Ireland even though I have a hundred ideas of things I want to write about and post photos of! Oh, the images! Stone Circles, Malin Head, Crana Knits, Crockawaddy Glebe, Thatched Roof Houses, Old Stone Buildings, the Fermanagh Tour, Grianan Ailigh, Distant Cousins, Great-Grandma’s Birthplace…and “The Road to America”! (And all of those things mean nothing until I actually SHOW you!)
And then there are the 7 HUGE muskrats I saw along the canal the other day when out for a ride. They weren’t river otter at all like I had originally thought. There was one granddaddy muskrat twice as big as my head!
The “Italian Contemporary Society”, “History of Design” and “Italian Language” classes at NABA have to be wedged in there somewhere, too! The Fall 2009 Semester began this week and it’s great to see people back on campus, and to see Milano lively again. It got awful lonely around here in the month of August.
But, you know…there’s such a thing as WORK! First things first.
