mussels

Tried out a new recipe for steamed mussels last night from this book on a friend. Although the recipes have French flair, this one respects the Italian culinary ideal of the best ingredients, simply prepared. This is what went in it:

mussels
olive oil
garlic
chopped chili peppers
white wine
tomato sauce


I made a salad from green leaf lettuce using an olive oil, vinegar, and anchovy dressing from a Mario Batali recipe that is supposed to be for puntarelle, which is probably out of season and even in season would be hard to find here. Of course with mussels you have to have frites--in this case baked, chunky-style--and aioli, which I buy because the last few times I have tried to make this mayonnaise-like condiment, it hasn't worked out. This is one of the few recipes where I have to admit defeat.

Mussels are really easy to make and inexpensive too, about $5 a pound (a pound per person is generous). I suspect us non-coastal Midwesterners find the idea of preparing them intimidating, especially when recipes refer to the de-bearding process (removing the seaweed-type substance that comes out of the shell). But the ones at Whole Foods are already de-bearded--just give 'em a good rinse. Then you put them in a pot with the ingredients, steam for about six minutes, and that's it.

The whole meal cost less than $35. (I don't think I've ever gotten out of Whole Foods for less than $50).

old stone

Rome is a bunch of old stones piled on top of each other throughout the centuries--marble cannibalized from ancient monuments to gild Renaissance palaces, rocks heaved in from ruins to plug holes, buildings built on top of older buildings built on top of even older structures. You look at an ocher-colored wall and try to wrap your mind around the fact that it has been the backdrop for events both historical and mundane for hundreds or thousands of years before you existed. For a moment the concept of time seems ridiculous--"How is that even possible, that I am here and they are not?" And then your brain rights itself and you accept the reality of time again, because you have no choice.

This stone wall along the lakefront bike path probably measures its life in decades, but how many kisses, scraped knees, and tantrums (it is right next to a public golf course) has it seen?