4 In Italia

Still no word from the bank guy. When we didn’t hear from him for four days, we went to the bank. Pushed the button, and we were inside. Filippo is tall, dark, slender, and impossibly adorable. He is no closer to letting us have our money than the morning he watched us fail at entering the bank. If only I could see his shoes.

There’s also no word from the not so adorable oven guy. He came at 2 p.m. a week ago, said with great urgency that he’d be back at 4, and we never saw him again.The oven doesn’t work, and I’m getting reeeally sick of making everything on top of the stove. Pasta fagioli, gnocchi, tortellini, tortelloni, risotto. And soup. I chop and sautee in olive oil and garlic, and then I chop and sautee some more. I’d like to bake, broil, roast, put things in a pan and let them get hot without my further involvement, but for that I need the oven guy. I’m getting desperate for variety. I bought frozen mussels last night, made them with garlic and butter and lots of lemon. It was good, but it was sauteed. I might as well rub myself with olive oil and garlic, skip all the chopping and apply it directly. It’s running through my veins.

I make mounds of food, and it disapears into Alex. No matter how much I make, there are never any leftovers. It’s morbidly fascinating to watch him eat. He’s a rail. He must be getting taller by the minute.

The Cat, aka Annalise, is disturbed by the International School of Modena’s snack policy. They have to go outside every day, and they have to eat outside, and Mrs. West, her teacher, does not have to go outside. So she doesn’t want yogurt for a snack. “It’s cold outside, and I have to stand in the cold damp terrain and eat cold yoghurt.” We tried pistachio nuts, but pistachios violate the school policy against nuts. We considered other options: crackers, cheese, Clementines? No, no, and there’s a girl in her class named Clementine. “Maybe I will eat her instead” the Cat said darkly. So snacks are out until further notice.