It's all about the glove...

Produce shopping in Italy is not for the fainthearted. It is not for the feebleminded. And it is definitely not for the uninformed. If you're going to be buying fruit and veggies in Italy, here's what you need to know:

1. The glove--Before you even think about touching an apricot or a green bean, you need to back away from the produce bins. Slowly. (We don't want anyone getting hurt). Now pick up a plastic glove (available next to the plastic bags). Put the glove on. Then, and only then, can you deign to touch the produce.

I learned this lesson the hard way with my newly-arrived-in-Italy friends, Dana and Cathy. We hadn't been in the country for more than a week when we decided to go for some produce reinforcements. As soon as our fingertips brushed the apple skins, the owner of the little grocery shop started yelling at us. Of course, we had no idea what he was saying at the time, but we did get the message when he pointed his stubby finger at the box of plastic gloves. I later came to find out that this man was particulary grumpy, so his reaction wasn't typical of 99.7% of Italian grocers. Okay, back to the topic at hand...

2. Read the sign--Near each produce bin is a sign with the name of the fruit or veggie, plus a number. Remember this number. Without it, you will go home produce-less.

3. Weigh it--Once you've bagged your produce, you'll put it on a scale, like the one in the photo above. Then you have to find the number on the grid (you do remember the number, right?). Press the number, and a price tag pops out that you'll stick on your bag. (Note: You can always print out two price tags and stick one on your toddler's hand--always good for at least 48 seconds of entertainment.)

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You're now ready to check out.

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Now, I'm sure you can see the folly with this system:

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First, I don't know about you, but with a teething toddler who keeps waking up in the middle of the night, I can't remember more than two numbers at a time. So I have to keep returning to the scale every couple of bags so I don't forget the numbers.

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Second, there's inevitably a bag that gets buried under my other groceries and I forget to weigh it. This isn't a big deal in a small store, as they'll usually just weigh it for you. But in the larger stores, it usually means I have to choose between the bag of pricetag-less tomatoes, or spending an extra half hour to go back and weigh them, and then standing in line all over again.

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And since the extra price tag I stuck to the back of my toddler's hand is only worth 48 entertainment seconds, I'm sure you can guess which option I always choose...

It's a sign...

Earlier this week I went to the little grocery store in the village. It was closed, and I found this sign on the door (in Italian and Slovenian): Closed for vacation from February 26-March 5, 2007.

The small shops in the villages and the city are almost always run by families. There are no managers or assistant managers, and no name tags that read: "Mario: Sales Associate of the Month." Smaller grocery stores are usually closed all day Sunday, and Monday and Wednesday afternoons, so those are the family's days off. And at least once per year (usually in August), they literally close up shop and take off somewhere.

I'll have to scout out my favorite sign of all and take a picture for you--the "I'll be back in five minutes" sign. You see this sign in a shop window during business hours, and it means the shop owner has gone for a coffee. They literally lock the door, put out the sign, and walk to the nearest bar for a cappuccino.

So what if you, the customer, find the "back-in-five-minutes" sign right when you really need to buy something exactly at that moment? Well, you'll just have to wait. Or, better yet, go get a coffee and come back in five minutes...

Grocery Shopping Italian-Style

There's nothing like visiting a grocery store in a foreign country to demystify the local people. When I first came to Italy, I imagined Italians as coffee-sipping, scooter/gondola-riding, Armani-clad people with beautiful shoes.

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And then I went grocery shopping.

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Once I saw Italians strolling down the aisles with their shopping carts, waiting in check-out lines with fussy babies in tow, and loading bags into the trunks of their little cars, they didn't seem so different after all (except maybe for the shoes--which really are beautiful).

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But their shopping carts...that's another story.

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Can you guess what's in the photo above? It's part of the handle of an Italian grocery cart. When you go grocery shopping in Italy (at the bigger stores), the shopping carts are chained together. In order to get a cart, you insert a one-Euro coin into the slot, slide it into the box, and the chain will release. When you've finished your shopping, you return the cart to the corral, plug the end of another cart's chain into the box, and out pops your one-Euro coin.

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The reason for all of this, of course, is to prevent people from leaving the carts scattered all over the parking lot. As of today, one Euro is worth $1.33 (in U.S. currency). I don't know about you, but that's just enough to make me schlep back and return my cart to its proper place. If we were talking 50 cents, I might be tempted to leave the cart in the parking lot, especially when I'm shopping with my 3 kids and I have to backtrack 100 yards to return the cart. But $1.33? I just can't justify walking away from $1.33.

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After all, I need those Euros to buy Italian shoes...

The Village People

Although there are large grocery store chains in Trieste, I usually do my grocery shopping in the village near our apartment. Here's a shot of the street where I went this morning with my son. We made 5 stops, all within 25 yards of each other. After an hour and a half, I ended up with 2 small bags of groceries. Why did it take so long?

Here's a run-down of our errands:

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1. The butcher (one of the shops in the pale green building on the right)--Another customer overheard me ordering 2 steaks , and spoke in Slovenian to the butcher. When the butcher answered, the only word I understood was "Amerikanska." The customer nodded and smiled. "America!" "Ja," I said--one of a total of 4 words I know in Slovenian. The butcher then proceeded to explain my story in Slovenian (I only know this because he translated for me afterwards). Then the customer told me all about her cousin in Canada, and asked if I'd ever been to Toronto (I haven't). She played peek-a-boo with my son, and then we were on our way to...

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2. The corner store (in front of the silver car on the right)--where I bought some fruit and vegetables (this shop has the best selection). I asked Sonia (the owner) how her 2-month-old granddaughter is doing. She told me all about the baby's colic, and how she goes and helps out her daughter when she can. During this conversation, two 70-something women were waiting in line behind me. One woman chimed in about her sure-fire cures for colic, and the other woman said that was a bunch of hooey, sparking a heated discussion half in the local Italian dialect, and half in Slovenian. Then my son coughed, and they all fell silent. He coughed again. Sonia asked if I'd taken my son to the pediatrician. One of the customers said to give him honey and he'll be fine. The other woman agreed, but insisted that I should get the honey from the local beekeeper, since local bees make antibodies in their honey that cures all (or most) local ailments. I smiled, thanked them, and then we were off to...

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3. The bakery (on the left, just beyond the white van)--As soon as I walked in, two of the employees greeted my son by name. I ordered my bread and a caffe latte. While I stirred sugar into my coffee, I asked the lady behind the bar how her daughter was. She told me all about how well her daughter did on her first grade report card, and played peek-a-boo with my son from behind the espresso-maker. As I sipped my coffee, a man came in with his dog (pets are allowed, as they are in many restaurants, too). My son made a beeline for the dog, so I put my coffee cup down and went to scoop him up. Magdalena, the bakery/bar owner, told me I should drink my coffee in peace, so she held her arms out and called my son's name. I handed him to her over the bar, and she took him over to the cash register where 4 people were waiting in line. She started to ring up the first customer's bill, when my son coughed. I knew what was coming. "Have you taken him to the doctor?" she asked me. I said yes, that he only has a cold. She didn't look convinced. My son coughed again, so Magdalena gave him a cookie. The 4 people in line turned to me and gave me their cough remedy tips (a nebulizer, steamy bath, and honey--again). I finished my coffee, and Magdalena handed my son back to me, his mouth covered in cookie crumbs, but smiling. From there we went to...

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4. The grocery store (back to the green building on the right, just past the butcher's)--When I say "grocery store," it's not like an American grocery store...it's about as big as your local 7-11. The lady who helps with the produce greeted my son by name, and he reached his arms out to her, so she held him while I put some milk and yogurt in my cart. She raved about how big he was getting (she'd just seen him yesterday), and put him on the produce scale to weigh him (10 kilos), which he loved. Then he saw the lady behind the deli counter, and wanted to go to her. She was cutting some ham for another customer, so I told him he had to wait. Then he started to cry and cough, so the lady cut a sliver of ham, put down her knife, and came around the counter to pick him up. She gave him the ham, which he immediately stuffed in his mouth. "Have you taken him to the doctor for that cough?" she asked. Then it was on to the check-out line, with 2 ladies ahead of me. My son started to cry again, so the cashier said something in Slovenian to the ladies. They smiled at me and motioned for me to go ahead of them (I love them). We checked out, and I threw my groceries into the bag while my son fussed (there are no baggers here...you have to bag your own groceries). I didn't do a very good job, however, and it looked like the groceries wouldn't fit in just one bag. The cashier expertly repacked my groceries while singing a song for my son, which calmed him down right away. She opened the door for me while the other customers waited. Finally it was on to...

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5. The pharmacy (I took the photo while standing right outside)--I went here to get some pasta for my son. Yes, they make pasta just for babies and toddlers--about 50 different varieties. They have this pasta in the larger grocery stores, but not in the village store, so that's why I had to hit the pharmacy. While I waited in line, my son occupied himself by shaking the pasta box up and down. When our turn came, the pharmacist came around from behind the counter to greet my son. He asked my son if he could borrow the box of pasta to ring it up. That's when my son's smile faded, and his little fingers gripped the box even tighter. So the pharmacist picked up my son and brought him back to the cash register where he could scan the price and ring it up. "Will that be all?" he said. My son coughed. The pharmacist frowned. "I have something for that cough, if you'd like."

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So now you know why it takes 90 minutes to get two bags of groceries. And why it takes a village to cure a cough...

While we're on the topic of home appliances...

After yesterday's eye-opening Italian washing machine exposè, someone asked if all Italian appliances are miniature. And of course, the answer is...yes (big surprise, I know). Today's post features...(drum roll)... my kitchen appliances...(cymbal crash)! Namely, the fridge/freezer and dishwasher. Italian kitchens are all about hiding appliances--not difficult, since they're minuscule. If you were to look at the photos above, you might be hard pressed to tell where the dishwasher is vs. a regular cabinet, since it's all covered in wood panels.

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On the left, the tall panel with my kids' artwork taped to it (no magnets, sadly) is the fridge. Above that is the freezer (adorned with more artwork) plus a non-freezer shelf.

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In the photo to the right, the dishwasher is on the right of the cabinet below the sink. (Just a note: I hope you all appreciate the fact that I cleaned the kitchen for these photos...I know my husband appreciates it, because it means he doesn't have to do it.)

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Okay, now for the sizes. Once again, my 13-month-old will put everything into perspective for you--thrilling for him, since he knows he's not allowed to play with the fridge and/or dishwasher... he could hardly believe his good luck with this photo shoot.

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On the right is the 5-plate-capacity dishwasher. Throw in a few glasses and some tupperware and it's time to start that puppy up.

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On the left, of course, is the fridge. See the bottle with the red cap that my son is reaching for? That's 1 liter of milk--the largest-size container of milk sold in all of Italy. When my father-in-law came to visit us in the U.S. one year, he gawked at the gallon of milk in our American fridge. He shook his head and said, "Everything in America is big." So true.

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Now if you look closely, you can see a bottle of Ocean Spray juice, French's mustard and A.1. Steak Sauce...that's left over from a trip to Aviano Air Force base (in Italy) that I took with my parents when they came to visit last spring (my dad's retired military). God Bless the commissary.

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So what's the result of having a kitchen with tiny appliances? Grocery shopping EVERYday. I kid you not. When my husband and I lived in the U.S. the first 6 years of our marriage, I never really understood why he felt the need to go to the grocery store

Every.

Single.

Solitary.

Day.

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Even when we had an American fridge that could easily house 3 Italian fridges.

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He had to buy fresh salad everyday (what's wrong with the pre-washed salad in a bag?) and fresh bread (the sliced bread with a 30-day shelf life was good enough for me).

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I will admit there's one advantage to having a college-dorm-room-sized fridge--it doesn't take long to discover those forgotten, half-used jars of sauce at the back of the bottom shelf. And I can freely admit here that I use sauce from a jar...unlike my mother-in-law. Who doesn't speak English, and therefore, will never read this blog.

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(Why do you think those jars were shoved all the way to the back of the fridge in the first place?)