Lost in Translation

Ever wonder how different pastas got their names?  Their shape, of course.

Here is a list of pastas.  If you are a foodie, as am I, you will recognize the literal nature of each name.

Cannelloni: Large Reeds

Cappellini: Little Hats

Farfalle: Butterflies

Fettuccine: Small Ribbons

Linguine: Little Tongues

Manicotti: Little Muffs

Orecchiette: Little Ears

Penne: Quills

Ravioli: Little Turnips

Rotelli: Little Wheels

Spaghetti: Little Strings

Tortellini: Little Twists

Vermicelli: Little Worms (my personal favorite)

Dogs, by the way, came up with this first.  What subject in any dogs vocabulary is not directly based on the visual?  In English it’s squirrel; in Italian it’s scoiattolo.

Dogs call it like it is: scurrier.

Come to think about it, I’m betting both the English and the Italian were derived from the Dog.

Philologus narro, as it were.  Look it up.

Chow.

The Two Sexes

An Indiana University study has demonstrated that when men listen, they only do it with the left side of their brain (where speech is located).

Woman apparently listen with both halves.

I suppose that this explains why, when a man says something, women hear much more than was actually said.

Me, I listen mostly with my nose.  Tone of voice means something, of course, but the aroma in the hand means everything…

Chow.

AH-Choo

I hate sneezing.  

First of all, I don’t understand it.  It goes totally against all standards of wild behavior, after all.  Dogs who gave away their positions on the Savannah way back when simply didn’t make their mark in evolution….at least not in a way I covet.

Second of all, if one is targeting a flea in a difficult area of one’s flank, even a small sneeze will throw it off the trail.

What IS the reasoning behind this convulsion?  To clean the nose?  To scare the daylights out of the hegemony? To blow the fluff from the corner of my dog-dish?

All valid but none, necessary.

I fear the act may be going the way of Darwin: phased out over time as runny nosed dogs simply don’t survive.

Solution: give the sneeze true purpose.  Use it as an emotion, any emotion. Make it cute, like one’s presence at the dinner table, wide-eyed and ears perked at the possibility of a crumb.

After all, cute survives, no?

Hairless Chihuahuas not-withstanding….

Chow.

Rats

The fossilized skull of a rat the size of a car has been found in Uruguay.  It’s about 4 million years old and weighed about a ton, so big, in fact, that it probably spent most of it’s life submerged in water: a giant Hippo with a long tail and pointy nose.  

They nicknamed it Mighty Mouse.

Apparently, the largest living rodent now is Capybaras at 60 kg fully grown…now, that’s a meal.

And here’s a new reason to travel to New Guinea:

Where’s my passaport0?

Chow.

Gathering Nuts

The squirrels are out in full force up in the Pincio. There’s nary a nut to be found now.  They’re all squirreled away, if you will.

I sit and watch the dizzying creatures, mostly.  Chasing them is fun, but it becomes tiresome after a while.  Squirrel, tree, squirrel, tree, squirrel, tree.

So, I muse of other ways to use this rodent.  Below is one of my favorites.  It’s design reminds me somewhat of a machine Leonardo might have developed had he simply switched his obsession from flying a human to flying a squirrel:

Then there’s the commercial amusement of providing the squirrel with a different take on an e-ticket Disney ride:

Either way, I want one of each, please.

Chow.

BYOB

Dogs are ubiquitous in the bars and cafes of Italy.  

Who do you think cleans the floor? It keeps labor costs down and subsidizes the feeding of urban canines.

Brilliant, no?

But bunnies in restaurants?

Take a lepus to lunch? Bring your own bunny.

Chow.

Ciao, Ciao, Chanel.

Chanel has died.  Not the fashion (even though it’s not Italian, it seems eternal) nor the designer, herself (Coco is long gone)—but the dog.

Chanel apparently was the oldest living dog at 21 years of age.  That’s 147 in dog years.  She lived in New York.  Her favorite dish was boiled chicken and rice, clearly a Manhattan thing.

No pastrami; no corned beef? And she called herself a New Yorker…

No pasta; no red wine?  Why even live to a ripe old age without the satisfaction of these staples, I ask?

Though I see the appeal of the pullet, rice is a bit like eating an old sock, and a clean one, at that.  At least pasta is sauced.

Now that Chanel is gone, a new contender has taken a stand: Max, a 26 year-old mixed breed Cajun.  I’ll bet his diet features more spice: Louisiana Rat Gumbo, Squirrel Etouffee.  

Now, that’s living.

Dinner tonight in Rome?

Pasta Puttanesca. My key to long life:

1 lb. Spaghetti, cooked and drained.

Saute 5 cloves thinly sliced garlic in 1/3 cup Olive oil until soft.  Add 2 teaspoons anchovy paste, 1/2 tsp. hot red pepper flakes, 1-28-oz can whole tomatoes in juice, 1/2 cup pitted Kalamata olives. 2 tblsp. drained capers, pinch of sugar, 3/4 cup chopped basil.

Toss with hot pasta and serve 4-6 people with, of course, a glass of Chianti…or two.

Chow.

English

I like words.  

Latin is great. Audio, video, disco is one of my favorite sayings.: “I see, I hear, I danced in the 70’s….”

Italian makes anything sound appealing: Se masticare una cosa io ti uccidero (“If you chew up one more thing I will kill you”).  Is there any other language that delivers a death threat like a love letter?

English has it’s own merits.  My Contessa is well versed in that language and those words spoken through the lilt of her accent are pure charm.

Easy English words are my favorite: good,walk, nap, go, stay….God.  English must really be the heart of communication.  What other language associates the dog with deity so closely (Dog/God, God/Dog.  I mean, there MUST be a missing link here, right?)

But, I think eat is the most exciting English word of all, and not for the obvious reason.  Not withstanding the words neuter and tutor, which should NEVER be mistaken one for the other, it’s the rhyming I find so fascinating.

Etymologically speaking, nearly every word that rhymes with eat is appealing to the ears of a small dog.  Treat, meat, teat, seat (plush and velvet covered, of course). Neat is really the only word that suffers a bit.  Neat is not aspiration but inspiration: a cause to rumple, tear and chew, therefore functionally fascinating, as well.

Any English words that ring in your ears?  Italian; Latin?

Ego sum canis, ergo ego sum.

Chow.

Election 2009

The Roman exodus that began August 1 is yet in full swing.  The streets are oddly quiet; the heat is turned to high and, up on the Pincio, the vendors of small squeaky playthings have even closed up shop until the cooler days on late September.

Thunderstorms roll across the city like thick blankets from time to time.  The air becomes 99% water and it’s hard to breathe, especially at ankle level where the rain hits the hot cobblestones and steam rises like fog.

So, I am content (I guess) to stay in the air conditioned appartamento. I roll the ball around a bit until it ends up under the low slung couch.  I check the dirty laundry by the washer for my Contessa’s underthings.  My nose searches out an empty breakfast bowl.  Finally, I turn to the computer and use one particularly long toenail to search “cute dogs”.  Eccolo!

I go to “the gallery” and click:  Up comes Axel!

Axel

My old pal from across the hall stands in the snow, a fuzzy, green ball in his mouth, cutting quite a fine figure (though he’s put on a kilo at least since we last ran on the Pincio together.)

Seems he’s trying to win a contest for cutest dog (I’m afraid I have that title…alas, I am not entered).  Grand prize will pay for his trip back to Rome. He says he misses pizza…real pizza.  And Rome has just the spot for that.

So, if you care about a small dog and his pizza (not to mention the fact that if he makes it back to Rome I will have something to do other than modifying my Contessa’s silky things…),

VOTE FOR AXEL by clicking the cute dog link above. Send the link to your doggish friends.  You can all vote once a day. Let’s send Axel to Rome.

Chow.

Paradise, Lost

Beautiful and clear today on Lake Como, but the radio on the bar by the pool suggested clouds for the rest of the week.

Thunder, lightening, rain.  Time to head for home.

We used the rest of the afternoon to pack up: my lambskin, my ball, my chew-toy and a marrow bone I picked up via the waiter at dinner last night.

A last swim in the lake; a final patrol of the manicured gardens; one more chase of the hotel cat.

Drinks on the terrazzo (more Martini olives, garlic stuffed this time) under a waning moon.

Tomorrow we begin the dreary ride home, nodding off to the sway of wipers across the windshield.

Paradise, lost.

Chow.