Postcard: Making the McDonalds

In a swirl of pre-production chaos dinner looms and I go down to the nearest butcher shop knowing I can get everything I need to make hamburgers. There are about six people in line in front of me and while I wait I grab the only package of hamburger buns on the shelf. After about five minutes it is my turn. The woman behind the counter carefully cuts off pieces of beef, from cows raised nearby, to get the right mix of lean and fat, seasons it all, puts it through the grinder, then shapes and presses patties, carefully separated by paper and wrapped. While this is happening a line of about six people grows behind me. I ask for some cheese from the big block and she asks how thinly I want it sliced. I point to the burger patties and buns and she says with a big smile “Fai il McDonalds questa sera?” (Are you making the McDonalds tonight)? I laugh back and answer “si”.

The six people in line behind me can’t contain themselves and all jump in with a rush of opinions about McDonalds. The man behind me says that McDonalds would never have beef of this quality, and that you can’t even compare the two. The woman next to him says that she has heard that the buns McDonalds uses are often several years old. (I do not point out to her that the ones I just got off the shelf had probably been there since World War II.) Someone else volunteers that they have never been. I calmly assure everyone that even though I am American I am not a fan of the chain and much prefer to make my own McDonalds at home.

There is a palpable release of tension at my admission and with a cheery round of “ciao” and “buona serata” I am on my way into the dark night.

An Italian’s DNA surprise

Itch is delighted to feature more from our Italian abroad, Gianna della Valle, with ideas about how to live more like an Italian no matter where you are. She has made a study of how to bring elements of the Italian way of life into her adopted, more frenetic homeland.

As an Italian living in London people ask “Where are you from?”

Easy for me to answer as my family, for many generations, came from the same hamlet in northern Italy. My father and my mother were neighbours and my grandparents and their grandparents and their grandparents knew each other for as far back as anyone could remember. That’s Italy for you. We have roots. Family trees. It means families are like trees, solidly rooted in places. People and generations may be the leaves and branches but the family is the tree. A tree stubbornly planted in front of that hill. Nothing to do with aristocracy or anything fancy. Simply, we are from there. And in the house we can find things left by a great grandparent (or a great great great) that have survived layers of renovations and are a reminder that we always leave something behind. Better it be useful.

Then I came along and at some point in my twenties decided to pack and followed the North Star, which after some years in Germany led me to London. I still feel the guilt. And after decades I am still given “the traitor treatment” when I go back. “Italy is so perfect and beautiful,” the logic goes, “why did you leave? There were no wars or major disasters. There was absolutely no reason. Why?” I must say, in my defence, I did ask my grandfather for his blessing before starting this adventure, as I always sought his wisdom. And his simple question was “What is it that you like so much over there?” I thought for a few seconds and my answer was “because I look at the sky and the clouds are always running.” “Well then, go.” And that was that. The clouds are always running in England – unlike the Italian sky where not much moves in days. And the constant breeze, the smell of water and wet grass. From the first time I was in London it felt like home. And so it has felt ever since.

A couple of years ago I was having drinks with some colleagues and the topic was DNA testing. A few of them had tried it and it unlocked new learnings. I laughed. I certainly would not need the results to tell me where I was from! I definitively knew! Anyhow, there is nothing like a pub challenge, and there I was with my saliva in a tube, sending it somewhere unknown.

I was due for a shock when the results came back. There was not a drop of Southern European blood in my body. I was from the North, up to 30,000 years ago my ancestors were from somewhere North – between Denmark and England. I thought this must have been a mistake. So I sent a sample from my mother in a way that would not in anyway highlight we were related. And my father. No, niet, nada. Not a single whiff of truly Italian stock in our tree that seemed so stubbornly planted in front of that hill! But I was truly the daughter of my mother and my father (so no surprises there, in case you wondered). I reach out desperately to other people with more obviously diverse backgrounds – and yes, their results were correct. So it was true. I was ultimately from a place where the clouds are running.

When we look with a horizon of 30,000 years the history of humanity is one of change and movement and that’s the fascination of DNA tests. There is so much tension today about where we are from. Shouldn’t we all just look up at the clouds in the sky?

Why I like going to the dentist

One of the scary things about moving to a new country, culture, and language is doing things like finding a new dentist. There’s such a comfort level built up with trusted doctors and dentists and it’s unsettling to walk into the unknown when your body is involved. I was hoping to find competence, but was surprised to find incredible skill married to something else—that ability to relate on a human level in professional settings that it something I treasure about the Italians.

Our journey started when we had a dental “emergency”. One Saturday morning, the day of a big high school dance, Donella’s front tooth chipped. We got a referral and phoned the dentist, Marco, who we’d never met. Donella explained the situation, and although we were not his patients, he was sick with the flu and had a fever, and the office was closed, he immediately agreed to meet her and fix it before the dance, never for a moment questioning that this was a big deal.

So the whole family started going for the whole range of normal dental stuff. John and I had some quite elaborate crown-like work done with great success. Marco is a film and music buff and has an amazing collection of DVDs. He is equal parts artist and dentist so when you get work done it takes as long as it takes to make it perfect, which gets even longer when he stops for minutes at a time to analyze a scene from a movie that we are watching, or to search for an obscure piece of music that he is reminded of by the piece that’s playing.

But then we needed to have Donella’s wisdom teeth taken out. My American worldview is that there’s a line you cross with things like wisdom teeth and root canals where you need a specialist oral surgeon, so I was surprised when our dentist said he could do it. With great trepidation, but a foundation of trust we built about his skill, I agreed.

The Italian style of removing wisdom teeth is that you take one or two out in a session. We insisted that all four be removed the same day, which he was very reluctant to do, but said he’d try. We show up for the procedure and I ask about what beyond normal numbing is given for pain—I certainly needed every bit of the “twilight zone” I was in when I had mine removed. Donella is a bit odd about teeth—loved when she had loose teeth and she could wiggle them out. She was the go-to kid in elementary school for all the other kids with loose teeth cause she was so good (and fearless) about pulling them out. But that’s really different from having wisdom teeth pulled.

He said he nothing beyond numbing. I insisted that we at least had some Valium on hand in case she needed it during the procedure and he agreed and wrote a prescription. I went off to the nearby pharmacy to fill it, especially after seeing the array of tools on hand.

I return to the office just in time to hear Donella scream. I instantly morph into super-Mom calculating how far to the nearest airport, how quickly we can get her to a surgeon in the States, etc. etc. I go to the door, peek in, in my best confident voice assure Donella that I am back, standing by if she needs anything, and silently willing her to walk out if needed. Turns out that the shot for numbing was a bit more intense than she’d expected.

In the waiting room I am shaking and feeling a bit sick with nerves, really regretting this level of going local. About twenty minutes pass and then I hear laughing, cheering, and chatter. The dentist comes into the waiting room holding a tool with one tooth aloft. I go into the room to discover that he’d let Donella remove her own tooth, and she is saying this is the most fun she has ever had.

Hmmm. This was turning out a bit differently that I was thinking. The scene repeats itself three more times—she ends up removing two of the four herself. After all four are out the mood in the room is completely triumphant.

The dentist later admitted to Donella that he was so stressed about removing all four that immediately after the only thing he could do was drive to the sold-out Umbria Jazz festival, where he met a guy outside selling an extra ticket for a front-row seat. He stood there for hours, soaking in the music, and celebrating an excellent day in the office.