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Anna Riva -these little handbooks are invaluable.

Eden Gray -the only tarot books you'll ever need are authored by Ms.Gray.

Linda Goodman -I'm not an astrologer but her lush writing really paints pictures that illustrates both human nature and astrology. Her insights have stayed with me for over 25 years!

Fr.Augustinus Thaumaturgus -his writings make it clear to us that we don't need to go outside our faith to find magic! See the box below.



I can't possibly list them all but this does give me an idea for another project!



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How interesting that they are either coming from mass or going into the church to hear the word of God, and yet, they are busy talking about how someone’s daughter who’s getting divorced, how awful one’s hair looks, how someone’s too old to be wearing the short a skirt, or how someone took off black to soon from their mourning period, (the rules state it’s at least a year, if you really loved them 3-5 years and if you’re over 70 then you’re doomed to be in black for the rest of your life).

These little old ladies have lived their lives doing this, its part of their ritual on a Sunday morning. As men go to their coffee bars every day, the old women have their Sunday’s which are sacred to them for their gossiping.

We all do it; gossip to me, is giving updates to your friends about what’s going on in the lives of others, yet these women take it to the next level. For they are gossiping and spreading lies and rumours about others in front of the same place they go pray and confess.

So every evil deeds and dirty secret about others are disclosed, whispered about, the stories get bigger and they always begin with “did you hear about….”

I’ve always thought that those that have the bigger secrets and the most evil of deeds are the biggest gossipers. They see the confessional booth as their way of being able to be absolved, so they can go about doing it all over again the moment they leave church.

These women truly take the old saying of “to err is human, to forgive divine” to a whole other level. For they really believe they are forgiven and can begin spreading their stories the moment they leave church and within 5 minutes of getting home to their families they’re telling them of the wonderful sermon the priest delivered whereby we should all be following the way of the Lord.









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Ingredients:

Basic pizza dough. I make mine from scratch in my old breadmaker. Remember how popular they were in the 90's? Just pop the ingredients in and walk away. Come back 90 minutes later and you're ready to stretch it out.

Canned whole Italian tomatoes, and NOT that nasty, tangy (read acrid), jarred/canned pizza sauce. My pizza sauce is raw. To a can of tomatoes I add a pinch of dried marjoram, a pinch of dried basil, and a pinch of dried oregano, a couple tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil. After breaking up the tomatoes with my bare hands I give the 'sauce' a good mix and leave it to mellow for about an hour on the kitchen counter.

Buffalo mozzarella (6 oz). Buffalo mozzarella is an imported product from the region of Campania (Italy). It looks like bocconcino but the resemblance stops there. It is both light and creamy, fresh and unctuous all at the same time. It's a little spendy, so I often substitute with fresh mozzarella. When I say fresh mozzarella, I mean the white one. Not that yellowish rubbery crap normally used. Hey, I use it too, but this is a 'special' pizza, okay?

A sprinkle of grated Romano cheese.

A sprinkle of coarse sea salt.



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I traveled quite extensively in the northern part of Italia, which is beyond description. Being a lover of ancient civilizations, I walked the streets of Rome, visualizing and sensing all those that walked the same road I was now on.

I kept asking myself, how many horses galloped along with Caesar’s army? What strength did the women walking with baskets upon their head have as they transported water or food and the children that played on these streets what games did they play?

As one travels from ancient Rome, to the beauty and splendor of a Renaissance city like Florence with its architecture, art and light, to the incredible beauty that is Venice which must be seen by everyone at least once in their lifetime, one is only filled with pride and joy that in some small way one is a part of this culture.

The place that felt most like home were the streets of Pompeii whereby as I walked along the ruins I felt I was there, in another lifetime. Perhaps a vendor selling fruit, maybe a street walker selling her wiles, or bartering goods in the market. All I know is the depth of emotion that encompassed my entire being is something I had never felt before.

While travelling south 2 things are forever etched in my mind and that is the fertile ground that vineyards and olive trees come from.

I have never seen anything more beautiful than an olive tree. When the sunlight falls upon the leaves they appear to be silver and one cannot help but be grateful for this abundance in beautiful Italia! As are the acres and acres of grapes that become fine wines all over the world.

The train from Naples took me to Termoli (a city which is about 20 minutes from my father’s hometown of Guglionesi) which is situated along the Adriatic coast in the region of Molise and his stories flooded my mind and several times tears came to my eyes as I reveled in being a part of this wondrous place.

I would soon be at my zia’s house, see cousins I had not seen in over 20 years, meet their spouses and boyfriends and children and know that we all come from the same “pasta”.


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The time was the spring of 1980, waiting for the same girlfriend, but this time sipping a Brio and sitting on a plastic covered sofa.

We were about to go do what a lot of teen girls did growing up in an Italian suburb and that was to visit our local coffee shop, (Tim Horton’s was only an idea back then) smoke endless cigarettes (when you could still smoke in public places) drink mountains of coffee (and they’d keep refilling) sit in our favourite booth and go over the recent news, gossip and events of the week.

While shifting my body the plastic made all sorts of strange noises resembling bodily functions and I was reminded at how lucky I was that I was half Italian, half English so my mom’s anglo half truly did influence the décor in our home and there was no plastic anywhere!

The door opened and my friend’s twin brother Gino waltzed in, all 5’7” of Italian, machismo. His hair black as coal, his eyes the deepest brown with a penetrating glare, his skin the colour of a delicious café latte. Short, but good looking which is what his father said. As if being good looking made up for being short, and yes in most Italian households it even made up for being smart!

How often I heard this from my own “nonna’ how a woman could be smart, but not too smart, or at least don’t show it. A guy could have less looks, and be very smart that was ok, and he should be “getting it” from someone, that was the consensus in every household.

We were all 17 in our last year of high school and while waiting I could hear the voices of my girlfriend Angie trying to convince her mom and dad that staying out till 11 pm doesn’t make a girl a whore.

Snippets of the conversation traveled upward as I sat on the first floor and they were down in the basement (which for most Italians was where they really lived). Here’s a little insider information, Italians bought duplexes and triplexes, so the first floor was like a museum and they slept there. But they lived, ate, fought, watched tv in what others called “a playroom”.

Close by, was their cold room where the fathers wine was readily available and their mom’s homemade jars of sauce, vegetables under oil (or “sotto cetto” as they are called) were kept.

It was a phenomenon really, something I never understood how hardworking Italians bought these homes spent a small fortune on decorating and entire floor they never used, but it really looked good when people got the “tour” for the first time.

As the yelling continued, Gino came over to me and said, “What the fuck’s going on downstairs?” in an accent that resembled Joe Pesci in Goodfellows.

I glared at him and said, “They’re fighting about the dance they don’t want her to go to, as according to them only whores stay out past 8pm”.

He laughed and said, “What’s the big deal? Us guys we go there to see who we can end up with in the car by 11pm anyway”.

The fact that his English was both atrocious and embarrassing I wanted to yell at him and then thought twice at the energy that I’d waste on someone who was a product of his parents and would never understand. What frightened me was he would be a man with a family one day and I hoped he wouldn’t have daughters.

Stay tuned for part II



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