La Famiglia Arrivo

As the weather warms up, the rain fades, and the beaches populate with wrinkled, orange-tinged women and Speedo-clad, beer-bellied elderly men, Trofie Wife and Martello’s popularity quotient seems to be rising; everyone wants to visit! The last week of June it was finally time for some of Trofie Wife’s parenti to find their way to the Mediterranean. I genitori were the first to arrive (after some transportation snafus). They just happened to get here on yet another holiday, La Feste di San Giovanni (aka the Feast of St. John the Baptist, patron saint of Genova), which meant that Martello could join us. We had a quick lunch at one of the beach clubs and later that evening, dinner at our favorite restaurant (we’ll take you if you come!), which always outdoes itself each time we visit.

Martello returned to work on Thursday, while Trofie Wife led her parents on a halting tour of Genova (my padre, il Capitano di Vicenza, has a bad leg at the moment, but the real hold up is my madre, la coniglietta, attempting to take pictures, wherein heads of people, tops of buildings, and the general gist of things will inevitably be missing). I genitori were able to get the general flavor of Genova, aided by the subway system and some benches. It’s always interesting to gauge people’s opinions of the city. Trofie Wife thinks Genova is akin to anchovies in that it’s an acquired taste (I’m riffing on an old Tori Amos quote, but it works!). Just as Martello and I have grown to enjoy and admire anchovies (though we know they will never be the same outside Italy), so too have we come to love Genova, despite its grittiness and nonsensical layout (which a German acquaintance of ours said would be razed by German city planners if it were positioned in Deutschland).

The weekend brought the arrival, over the Alps, of Zurich sister and her brood. The volume got very loud, and we thank the local restaurants, hotels, and shops for tolerating it. Martello had to work past child feeding time, so he was unable to join us for dinner, which Zurich brother-in-law, quite the foodie, deemed superb (and where we dined was far from a fancy joint). Saturday morning and early afternoon was spent on a group pilgrimage to the park (where the peacock was kind enough to strut his stuff for the kids) and the grocery store (note: do not ever go to a grocery store with more than three people, especially if those people are prone to wandering through aisles and getting lost (and those weren’t the children!)) to get provisions for the rest of the weekend.

Zurich sister and Trofie Wife hit the beach.

La coniglietta reminds us that "the sun is not your friend" (the best way to break off that toxic relationship is with an ugly, SPF-repelling hat); Zurich brother-in-law and niece instead choose to embrace the warm star around which our planet revolves.

Martello shows the younguns how sandcastle building is done.

Aside from one interlude (see the following post), we spent the rest of the weekend cooking and eating and sitting by the pool or beach (the whole clan even got to meet Mrs. Furley, a brief and fleeting event which she has already felt the need to discuss with each of us several times in the near month since it occurred). We made fresh pizza (including the dough, which was incredibly easy) Saturday night and then pulled out all the stops for Sunday night dinner—whole fish and risotto. We were also able to celebrate Zurich nephew’s birthday with two torte (one ice cream, one yellow cake; it’s important to diversify). Sunday evening was capped off by an impromptu late-night walk around town with Zurich sister and brother-in-law.

Our whole fish extravaganza

Frank Lloyd "I Still Don't Know My Left from my Right" Turns Four! Trofie Wife manages to carry the lit cake from the kitchen to the dining room/living room/office without setting the house on fire/fainting from fear.

Flirty Josephine Chestnut decides that Uncle Martello is incapable of feeding himself cake; she sets to work showing him who's boss (yo, niece: he's going to be completely bald by the time you're old enough for him, so I'd just move on...).

I genitori, Martello, e Trofie Wife alla terrazza.

Trofie Wife sent off everyone early Monday morning, as they continued on to their next destinations—the folks to the rovine di Sicily and the others, back to Svizzera. I parenti, used to Trofie Wife staying in bed for as long as possible, were certainly impressed that I left the house before Martello was even due at work. Looks like I’m learning about time management in, of all places, Italy!

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

Divide and Conquer

For their next adventures, Martello and Trofie Wife split up, each laying claim to a different swath of Switzerland for the weekend, with Martello skiing with his officemates on the French side and Trofie Wife visiting her family in Zurich (the German side). Martello had a great time skiing, particularly enjoying the freedom of not having to wait for me at every turn.

While it was nice to see her family, Trofie Wife definitely had been sold a false bill of goods (prior to getting on a train) regarding her niece and nephew’s ability to sleep through the night (they, in fact, don’t know how or have a very loose definition of "night"). As per usual, my child tolerance level capped out after about ten minutes (apparently, I was even zipping through bedtime stories too quickly; sorry, I wanted to read my own fascinating book). I did have some additional patience for the swapping of dirty looks with the tiny one (she senses my derision for her kind, and I sense that she already has the sarcastic wit of an adult, likely gifted by her father), who is continually confused by my physical resemblance to her mother and lack of a similar level of affection/ability to feed her.

About 12 hours into my stay, my overtired (due to the non-sleeping children in her care) sister managed to drop her house keys down the elevator shaft en route to the park, so our Saturday afternoon excursion (originally meant to be time at the lake) turned into an adventure to get the spare key from my brother-in-law (whose office, thankfully, is situated near the main Sprungli chocolate store). The rest of the day included naps (always a plus), a trip to the park (where I had to negotiate, with a persistent munchkin, regarding the number of sticks that would be permitted in the apartment (one, but he might have lost that privilege somewhere along the path home), quality Asian fusion takeout, sisterly bonding time (with children stashed away), and Vicky Christina Barcelona, which was truly fantastic (thank you, Woody!).

WANTED: For obstruction of sleep. Armed with instruments and surprisingly skillful lungs.

However, Trofie Wife's attempt at blissful sleep on Saturday night dissipated around 4:30 a.m. when the type of loud noises that could only be made by a baby (or toddler or whatever she is) emerged from the room next door; by 7 a.m. the older one was banging his tambourine. It was clear that I really needed to get out of that place! So, I maneuvered myself to the train station and enjoyed the truly gorgeous rail ride between Milan and Zurich (if you ever have the chance to do it, please do; you pass all the lakes and rows upon rows of mountainous skyline).

During my nearly two-hour layover in a sunny Milan, I ruminated on how we needed to spend more time there (preferably outside the train station). When I finally arrived in Arenzano, I basked in the quiet of our apartment and greeted an equally exhausted Martello when he walked through the door about an hour later. Trofie Wife slept very well that night, thank you.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

Where Was That Saint Bernard When We Needed Him???

Prior to leaving Italy, Zurich Sister bandied about the possibility of our husbands taking a day-long ski trip during the course of our visit. Having some ski experience myself (and not really foreseeing another opportunity to hit the Alps following the end of our Italian adventure), I invited myself along. We three intrepid explorers left the warmth of Freiestrasse behind in order to make an early (but not the earliest) train out to the mountains on the second-to-last day of 2008.

While Zurich Brother-in-Law had schussed at several of the area’s convenient ski and ride locations, he had not yet been to Flumserberg. Together we discovered that it’s the Hunter Mountain of Zurich—very, very close to the city and thus very, very crowded. We took a train from Zurich’s central station to a gondola line where I believe we waited for nearly two hours in order to trade our paper tickets for electronic passes that skiers carry instead of lift tickets (if you keep the pass in your ski jacket pocket, readers scan it as you enter the gondolas and lifts). While waiting on this incredibly disorganized line based on a slippery staircase, it became clear to Trofie Wife that Switzerland’s reputation for efficiency is a total croc. Plus, for all you lawyers (past, present, and future) out there, according to Zurich Brother-in-Law, tort law is virtually non-existent in Switzerland, so they take stupid risks with people’s lives (like not salting stairs), since they won’t ultimately bear responsibility for falls, trips, slips, etc.  

After we finally got through that line and took the initial gondola to the mountain base, we waited another hour or so for skis and then entered another long line on an even more treacherous set of cement steps (with skis, poles, and snowboards dangling and flailing all over the place; I was especially leery of the snowboard grrrl in front of me, easily sipping from her glass beer bottle before noon, making it ever more possible that she could hit me with some of her equipment as she lost her equilibrium—this of course didn’t happen; she displayed greater balance with an elevated blood-alcohol level than I did totally sober). We finally loaded into the gondola and went up, up, up (with Trofie Wife’s stomach going down, down, down) in order to reach the top of the mountain and head down a bunny slope (importantly, there had been no rope tow area at the base where we could practice; I hadn’t been on skis in three Januaries).

Well, when we reached the peak, Martello and Zurich Brother-in-Law looked left and right, but neither way down was an easy slope. And there was no other way off the mountain, no ski patrol (or Saint Bernard) to be found. It was not a pretty sight watching me try to descend this atrocious mountain for the next hour. I first tried to take off my skis and just walk. That worked for a minute or two, but such an act would not get me all the way down an increasingly steep and slippery slope. The raggazi offered to pull/carry me, but I was even too scared for that. Eventually, through a painful combination of walking, sidestepping, sliding, and whining, I made it to a flatter surface. I thank Zurich Brother-in-Law and Martello for not abandoning me while I struggled with gravity. Upon arriving at the turnoff to an easier trail, Martello and I paused for a quick lunch while Zurich Brother-in-Law skied off  to conquer even harder trails (understandably, he didn’t think that he would be dealing with whining or crying on a day off from diaper duty). But he did admit on the way home that the initial descent was the hardest (or second hardest) slope of the day. On the easier slopes (we got in two more runs), Martello and I could enjoy the exquisite scenery, and I could actually enjoy skiing!

Of course my greatest disappointment during this whole ordeal was that there was no brandy-barreled Saint Bernard coming to my rescue (according to Zurich Brother-in-Law, you only find these gentle giants on the slopes of the Berner Oberland; what, folks from Zurich don’t deserve a cuddly rescue?)

We didn’t take a camera along (I know how much readers would have enjoyed seeing my expressions of horror throughout that dreadful hour), but you can visit this site to get a sense of the awe, beauty, and fear: http://www.flumserberg.ch/winter/en/fun/galerie/Winter+Impressions/Ski-Snowboard.htm

Upon arriving home, we were able to enjoy yummy kosher brisket that Zurich Sister and Brother-in-Law specially acquired for our visit; Zurich Brother-in-Law could throw down with Flay; he’s quite the chef! It was a warm and hearty way to end a frightful (yet, ultimately fun) day.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

Wandering Around Zurich Town

We awoke on our second full day in Zurich eager to tour historic sights. Our first scheduled stop was the Kunsthaus, which Trofie Wife had toured at length (after being scolded in German for not putting my coat in a locker) last January but which Martello was curious to see. Unfortunately, it’s closed on Mondays (and we thought it was just Sunday that was the problem in this place!). So instead we headed to the two major churches in town, the Fraumünster (featuring stained-glass windows by Chagall and Giacometti; see photo of outside of church below; sorry, no cameras allowed inside, but here are some links: http://www.sacred-destinations.com/switzerland/images/zurich/fraumunster/resized/chagall-windows-cc-al-lanni.jpg; http://www.pbase.com/emi_fiend/image/39213313) and the Grossmünster (http://www.sacred-destinations.com/switzerland/zurich-grossmunster.htm). We hiked up the creaky, narrow, wooden stairs of the Grossmünster tower (which would certainly be viewed as way too dangerous for two-way traffic in the United States) so that Martello could capture a lovely view of the city, while Trofie Wife stood far away from the edge and clung to the railings.

Fraumunster clocktower (those Swiss and their clocks!)

We spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around the Niederdorf neighborhood (the older part of the city, too much of which has receded into a cheesy, overpriced, tourist-attracting, bar-laden area) and weaving back and forth across the many footbridges, taking in one picturesque site after another.

With two trips to Zurich already behind her, Trofie Wife had still not tasted a proper fondue or raclette meal, so although I am lactose intolerant, I believed this was a necessary undertaking in order to fully understand Swiss culture. On my first visit in late 2006, Zurich Sister and I had nearly gone to Adler’s Swiss Chuchi on the advice of a friend, so I decided it was the best place in Zurich for Martello and me to have an authentic fondue/raclette experience. I really didn’t know, however, what the difference was between these two cheese delivery apparati prior to that meal (and I bet most readers don’t either). Fondue involves strangely-pronged, mutant forks and the fairly easy task of dipping bread or whole mini potatoes from a fairly large sack into a cauldron of bubbling cheese. Raclette, on the other hand, involves way more work. The waiter plugs a cheese grill into the wall and the diner then places her cheese (in my case, gouda) on the grill. When it seems melted enough, you use a spatula-like instrument to scrape it off the grill and onto your plate. I was given a whole assortment of things to throw the cheese on in addition to the potatoes and bread—onions, pickles, pears. (This is at least how we ate the raclette; it could be the totally wrong way to do it, which wouldn’t surprise me.) This meal was, of course, accompanied by a healthy dose of Lactaid® (that one’s for you, Johnson & Johnson Supplier). Yet there are some meals that even super duper fast-acting, enzyme replacing Lactaid® can’t handle—a risk that I was willing to take in order to check this culinary experience off my list. I just wasn’t ready for the ensuing results.

There are moments in one’s life where your actions can lead you to question your entire purpose for being. Changes in behavior so vast that you can’t look yourself in the mirror. Well, just an hour or so later, Trofie Wife had one of those (actually, it was two, which compounded the breakdown). First, while I had been eager to show Martello around Globus, the beautiful Swiss department store with a stunning basement-level gourmet food shop, I could not muster the energy, my stomach still weakened. While this turn of events disappointed me, Martello wasn’t similarly bummed, so it wasn’t a huge deal (since I had already made a dent in my savings there twice before). But what happened next gave me metaphysical whiplash. We made our way to the Sprungli flagship (remember, the one I couldn’t wait to visit?), and I could not motivate myself to select chocolate. Yes, you heard me correctly. I just couldn’t do it. I tried to find the year’s vintage chocolate bar but it didn’t seem to have been released yet, and I had no energy to select truffles. I grabbed one box of assorted carrés (dark chocolate squares filled with flavored nougat) and asked Martello if it was okay if we left. Let me repeat that in case you misunderstood: I ASKED MARTELLO IF IT WAS OKAY TO VOLUNTARILY EXIT A CHOCOLATE STORE!!! When we did go, I had to sit for a few minutes in order to compose myself. I was out of sorts. I believed that I had lost the essence of myself if I was incapable of gravitating towards dark chocolate. I was afraid that we’d have to use our health insurance for emergency choco-therapy sessions. Yet, thankfully, after some reassuring words from Martello, I felt better. Later that evening following dinner, I opened the carré box and just to make sure the problem was solved, I had two.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

One Train Ride Not Worth Sleeping Through

After two lovely nights in Como, Martello and Trofie Wife geared up for our first trip out of Italy since we had arrived in late October. Our destination? Switzerland. After sprinting back (well, just Martello) to the hotel when we realized we still had the room key and wanted to avoid transporting it across the border, we hopped on the bus and found our way back to the Como station. Thanks to the extra sleep afforded by our early turn-in the prior evening, we were able to (mostly) stay awake during the journey. We passed from the Como to Lugano region, veering into Ticino (the Italian-speaking canton of Switzerland) through a veritable winter wonderland that won over Martello’s vision (which is doubly better than mine on the contacts scale) and made him so bold as to say that this snowy journey was “the most gorgeous train ride ever.”

Gradually, the mountain landscape starting giving way to Starbucks cafes. One after the other. It was definitely a rude awakening. Now, don’t get Trofie Wife wrong: I love Starbucks (and am grateful to the Palisades Avenue branch for always being so welcoming during interview season; I’m sure they miss me and my little Columbia banner). And having visited Switzerland twice before (and hearing of my nephew’s love for their muffins), I knew that Starbucks had made their mark there, but Italy holds the proud distinction of barring the chain from opening a single store in its country, citing the possible loss of its distinct café culture (for some reason, France has let in the Green Mermaid). The bold white-on-green lettering coupled with the brusque sounds of German made it clear that we had entered a new dimension. 

We soon arrived at Zurich’s central station and navigated our way to a payphone (how quaint!), and announced our presence (we were somewhat noncommittal as to the exact date/time of our arrival, something that Trofie Wife’s sister was totally cool with). We hopped on a tram and landed at the red door on Freiestrasse just prior to kiddie bedtime and adult dinner. We quickly made ourselves at home and prepped for the limited adventuring that would be available to us the next day (Switzerland is essentially closed on Sunday).

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

The Honor System

As I read horrifying accounts of the MTA’s “doomsday plan” to scale back service throughout New York while increasing rider fees, I thought about one particular nuance in the European rail system and just how distinct it is from “the American Way.” Once again, I first learned about the so-called “transit honor system” in Zurich, wherein riders are obliged to purchase tickets even though they likely will not be checked by an attendant. The mere threat of a major fine is enough to sway citizens and tourists to saddle up to the ticket booth. Now, such a policy made sense in such a polite, well-ordered city as Zurich. So Trofie Wife was somewhat surprised to learn that the same principles follow in freewheeling Italy. At least from what I’ve witnessed, people here wait in line and buy their tickets (it might be worth looking into official statistics on this matter at some point). I have yet to have my ticket checked on a local or regional train, and in fact, the only time that we were asked to show our stubs was on the way to Venice while riding an Intercity train. I wonder then, when the odds seem to be stacked in favor of fare evasion, why people still buy those tickets. Is it out of sheer principle? Dedication to their country’s functioning, albeit severely flawed, transit system? Or fear that the one time they don’t buy and validate, they will be discovered and fined? (Martello chimes in with his co-worker's accounting of sitting on the local bus when such a random check, involving three members of the elite local police, occurred. As far as Martello is aware, no fines were collected.)

It is quite difficult to imagine a major city in the United States standing for even the threat of mass fare evasion by not requiring a swipe or ticket check (heck, you have to wait 17 minutes between Unlimited Metrocard swipes!). Do Americans not have an innate trust that people will buy tickets even if they are not routinely checked? Are we that jaded? Or are we over-employing ticket takers/wrongly throwing money into card readers when we could invest in additional service or amenities like my long-desired bathrooms on subway cars? A serious point to ponder as we (hopefully) head into this new era of hope and change…

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

Just Call Me Martha Jewess: I Made Bagels!!

(First off, I can’t believe that no one else has coined “Martha Jewess!” Well at least as per Google so one else has...)

So, as our move-out-of-Brooklyn date loomed closer, Martello and I anticipated the major bagel withdrawal heading our way (I was more concerned about this than he was; he wanted to load up on Indian, Chinese, and other ethnic foods he feared he’d have to do forego for 12 months). When I first visited Zurich, my bagel-jonesing sister insisted that we take a jaunt to the local Chabad bookstore. Already knowing how mediocre their carb offerings were, she was so desperate that she claimed to enjoy those joyless (how Swiss-German) excuses for buoyant bagels. Flipping ahead to the commencement of her own expat adventures, Trofie Wife quickly realized that even this disappointing luxury would not be available in Arenzano, so when I spotted the bagel recipe, my heart was all aflutter. (Subsequently, earlier this week while in the Voltri grocery store, I did spot what looked like thick-sliced bagel chips in their baked goods section. Regardless, it’s not the right item.)

Most bagel connoisseurs are aware that the secret to great bagels is the water (thus New York City's dominance) and Italy does water right (one of Martello’s guidebooks states that rates of osteoporosis in women are below average here due to the high calcium content in the water, although looking at some of my aged neighbors, I'm not so sure that that fact holds water, so to speak). So we figured we at least had water covered. It was also very easy to assemble the simple, cheap ingredients of yeast, flour, salt, sugar, and extra-virgin olive oil (I’m not sure if that last one is a staple ingredient or just an Italian-Jewish flourish; this cookbook is amazing, Phillips folks!). Baking the bagels was almost like a dance routine: mix, knead, wait; separate, wait; boil, bake. The aroma in the house was a yeasty sensation that warmed the nose and recalled the wonder of seeing piping hot bagels emerge from the kitchens of our favorite bagel joints. But as the baking inched to its end, I was nervous. Would the bagels be an utter disappointment, a waste of flour?

Upon removal from the oven, we noticed that the resulting bread was closer in resemblance to a flagel (the “flat” bagel offered in some savvy shops) rather than the puffy roundness of a full on bagel. But the taste, if I do say myself, was right on. They tasted like bagels! They bled with a soft, yet crunchy excellence! The book’s Italian name for them is ciambelle (which seems to be used to describe any spherical output of dough with a hole through it; although it was too staticy to watch the full episode of The Simpsons that I glimpsed on one of our TV channels, I’m sure that Homer loves his ciambelle). Perhaps if there’s a market for them we’ll open a business: NYCiambelle, anyone? Even if Trofie Wife’s entrepreneurial idea is a bust, I can rest assured that when we wake up on Sundays instead of looking at each other and wistfully saying “Bagel Hole or Terrace?” (over 3,000 miles away) we can now just walk into the kitchen and fire up our own batch! (And yes, observant audience, that is LOX and CREAM CHEESE (real Philadelphia) on that bagel pictured below.)

Baci e gelato,
Martello e Trofie Wife

The Point System

No, no, dear NFTY friends. Trofie Wife is not referring to THAT point system. Instead, I’d like to sit for a spell and discuss our local grocery store and its customer loyalty program. (Yes, a far cry from my recent political punditry, but as I am often reminded, I have a great span of interests from low- to highbrow.)

I was very relieved when I clocked the presence of this store on my first visit to Arenzano, because it bore the whiff of the familiar—my sister shops at a sister store in Zurich. Apparently in Zurich it pays to sign up for a *free* loyalty card because you can save on your purchases and earn valuable points redeemable for prizes. It took me a while after digging through the paraphernalia in-store and online, but I finally scoped out the Italian version of this program, and it most certainly is not free (maybe Zurich needs to check her receipts again). In fact, it appears to me to be so insane that, if you pardon my decent into Larry Davidism, I feel the need to riff on it for several more paragraphs. Enjoy (or go back to that work you’re supposed to be doing).

So, for 25 euro, we can join the store as members, thereby gaining our loyalty card as well as the right to earn points and take part in cooking demos and local excursions (Martello asks: “why would you want to go on trips with the grocery store??”) The aforementioned points can then be used to select gifts that are published in the annual members’ guide. I initially flip flopped regarding the value of this investment. I surmised that it was true that we (mostly I) would be going to this grocery store quite a bit during our time in Italy and if we could save a euro here or there that could be put to better use (train or plane tickets, anyone?) why not? However, there are plenty of weekly discounts available to nonmembers, and just how long would it take us to earn back the 25 euro in accumulated savings when so many discounts hover in the 10 to 20 percent (read: 30 to 40 cent) range? As I perused this year’s selection of premiums, I realized that in this case membership did not have its privileges. Readers, let me take you through some of the prizes just to demonstrate the craziness of this set-up.

One euro spent is equal to one point earned; it is unclear from the materials that I have (and can comprehend) if you are allowed to carry points forward from one year to the next. Thus, if you spend 3.800 euros OR you cash in 1.850 points and pay 19,50 euros (I might also add here that it’s very confusing that in Europe a comma is used as a decimal point and a period is used in place of a comma in marking thousands), you can be the proud owner of—a handmade, wooden oil and vinegar dispenser. The Scandinavian design is clean and functional, but you can probably pick up something like it on QVC for $29.99 or less.

Next: A toaster with slots for four slices of bread. 3.700 points (3.700 euros spent), or it can be yours for 1.750 points and 19,50 euros. Hmm, does this 19,50 price maybe allude to the actual value of the item? Need I remind you that I picked up an actual TOASTER OVEN at the competing grocery store (which also boasts a point system) for only 10 euro??

Here’s one for the bambinos: for 2.700 points (or 1.250 points plus 14,50 euro), you can be a proud owner of a backpack featuring a cartoon image of a squawking rooster (and for those of you who remember from high school that animals make different sounds in different countries, apparently a rooster crowing in Italy sounds like: “chicchirichi!!” Personally, I prefer the French, “coo-coo, coquiercoo”).

And now for my absolute favorite. The pièce de résistance. Weighing in at 11.300 points (that’s a lot of groceries) or 5.400 points plus 59 euros, is…A MEAT SLICER!! Why on earth would you need this in your home?? I saw it on the premium shelf (before I realized that it was a “premium” and thought it was just part of the miscellany on the “random shelf” (which turned out to be the “premium shelf”) and I thought to myself, “now isn’t that odd…a meat slicer.” This premium, I might add, is valued more highly than a weekend at a spa in Acqui Terme (4.400 points), a tree in a national forest (2.000 points; I’m at least happy to see that these points can be donated towards worthwhile causes), a free ticket on any national (4.000 points) or European (7.000 points) flight!! Maybe I just don’t get how important sliced meat is to the majority of those inhabiting these parts…

Now I always found the Park Slope Food Co-op to be fairly ridiculous, which is why I never joined (apologies to any members out there), but this so-called “co-op” is molto crazy! It’s more like members are co-opted by their ridiculous system! Please: If you would like an olive oil set or a four-slot toaster or a professional grade meat slicer, please, please, please just buy one on your own!! Don’t spend 11.000 euros on groceries! I can understand if you just happen to spend that much a year and the slicer (or any other prize for that matter) is an added bonus, but seriously, a meat slicer? In sum, we are not joining the club at this store or any other. Not only because of the scam-scented point system, but because I take great offense at the presence in a store of a shelf with alluring items displayed on it, but when you decide you’d like to buy one (and seemingly believe you can afford it) you are told that it is not possible to do so! I may be very liberal, but I’m still a capitalist! So, should we be in the market for any condiment dispensers, appliances, or cock-a-doodle-doing (or otherwise) backpacks, we’ll accumulate them the old fashioned way—by picking them out of the free piles in Brooklyn!

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife