I would have never expected to call the city of Florence my home, until the possibility of study abroad came into the picture. Home for me has always been green trees, backyards big enough to tend a full-on garden and being with the people I love most in this world. Familiarity surrounded me. If I wanted to go play basketball, I knew where the best courts were and who to call up to play with me. If I wanted to go get a coffee and sit down to do homework, I had my rotating list of five places that I knew I'd love. If I wanted to go relax and sit at a beautiful viewpoint, I could drive there and back with my eyes closed.
Being here is a whole new experience. Here, my new home is hidden on top of the busy streets, away from any trees or wildlife. In between a shoe store and a sunglasses store is the front door, painted forest green. Through the door and up the stairs is my little home for now. I kept telling my sister and my friends, before I left, that I wanted a window that opened to the street, with painted shutters and a place where I could look out to the world around me. After I struggled up the stairs on the first day with my 49-pound roller bag and stuffed backpack, the first thing I looked for when I opened the door was that window. It was there. I never thought that I would get so excited about something so small. Dropping my bags, I moved the curtains, revealing the glass panes. With one grand motion, I opened the window, stuck my head out and looked down at the street. It was the same street that people were laughing at our group for rolling our over-packed and over-weight bags over the old cobblestone of the city. It was the same street where people travel from all over the world come to walk, to get to Florence's Piazza del Duomo. It was the same street that holds hundreds of years of history. Looking for the painted shutters, I looked left and right. There they were, painted in brick red, mirroring the ones across the narrow street. Honestly, having that window has made the beginning of my time here so much more exciting. The sounds of people chatting in different languages makes me want to get out and talk to new people. The plethora of stores and locally owned restaurants, visible right from my little room, makes me want to try every place on the block. The changing daylight tells me when to get out of bed and when to slow down the day and go to sleep. While I am outside and out of my room for most of the day, when I come back, I feel like I am still a part of the city. It is a constant connection to the community that I have placed myself in for the summer. The constant sound is comforting: the strangers chatting, the random singing, the travelers rolling their bags on the street and even the street sweepers keeping the city clean. At night, on the edge of sleep, I close the window and allow myself to rest. Again, as soon as I wake up, I open the window with excitement of the new day in Florence.
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I remember one early morning, when I was around 6 or 7 years old, when I just couldn’t fall back asleep. Every part of me was awake at 4am. I was hungry and bored, so I snuck my way up to my parents room to wake them up. My expected reaction was tired moans and a demand to go back to sleep, but to my surprise, my dad got up out of bed without hesitation.
We went downstairs, and my dad turned the lights on and immediately went to the kitchen. Honestly, I was so confused about why he got up. Pulling ingredients out of the fridge and pantry, my dad was cooking something up: olive oil, milk and flour. My little brain was trying to piece together the ingredients, but I couldn’t do it. I then asked, “Dad, what are you making?” He replied, “Flapjacks! Come here, I will show you.” So, I excitedly walked over to the big bowl he had just taken out of the cupboard. Together, we made flapjack pancake batter and fried them up. I felt so special that morning. He got up just for me and was so excited to be cooking at 4am. We took our monstrous stack of flapjacks to the dining table, grabbed some syrup out of the fridge and set out two plates. That is one thing I love about my dad: his goofiness. I don’t know very many people that would do this for their kid. It was so random and so fun. Also, those flapjacks were some of the best ones I have had in my life. The inside was perfectly fluffy and puffed, while the outside was crispy and oily from the quick low-pan fry. I didn’t even need syrup. Reflecting now, my dad, being the eccentric person he is, probably put some funky spices in the batter, making it tasty and memorable. But to this day, I am unsure why these were so unique to other flapjacks throughout my lifetime. While seated at the table, we ate and laughed together. We laughed at the funny and irregular shapes of the flapjacks, the fact that we were cooking up a storm at 4am, and the mess we made in the kitchen. We talked and talked and talked until the sun rose. I felt closer to my dad after that morning. I felt like he really cared about me. He made that morning so special. I remember the feeling of excitement that took over my body when my mom woke up, and I got to tell her about the cooking we had done and how long we had been awake for. It was memorable for me because of the effort he put in, the act of cooking together, and the fact that we were talking for so long after the food was gone. This meal is one of the earlier memories that I have with my dad. I think about it often, and I am so happy that I get to hold onto this one. My parents got divorced when I was 12, and my Dad moved back to his hometown of Berea, Kentucky almost 4 years ago. On the few occasions that I get to see my dad, our visits are always centered around food and cooking. My sister and I’s first trip to Kentucky held a memory of a meal that will never leave me: Kentucky Garden Curry.
We pulled into my dad’s driveway of his little house with a huge yard in August. All I could look at was the massive green garden that covered his property, knowing that this took hundreds of hours of hard work to grow. I was impressed. There were plump tomatoes, long okra, diverse selections of cucumbers, every herb on planet Earth and so many things that I had never seen him grow before. As soon as we threw our bags into the house, the three of us grabbed a basket and went into harvest mode, picking two or three of everything. My dad talked us through each crop he grew: how often he had to water it, why he planted it where he did, how fast it’s grown, and how much it has produced. We headed back into the house to assess what we had gathered, and my dad said we were making Kentucky Curry. Snagging different spices from my dad’s wall of spices, we created a curry blend. Chopping up all of the fresh veggies, we added them to coconut milk and water on the stove. My dad did most of the rest, but the end result was to-die-for. We made chutney, fried onions and peanuts, and a yogurt mix to accompany it. The only thing “Kentucky” about Kentucky Curry was the dirt where the vegetables came from, but I let him go with the name. We set the table for three and picked some of the flowers from out front to add to the table. I remember looking at the table and feeling so proud. I remember looking over at my dad and seeing the pride as well. I could tell he was thankful to have us there at that moment and to be able to provide us with a meal that meant more than eating. We sat, ate, and caught up on life. Making everything from scratch was something we used to do for almost every meal, when we lived with him. It felt like I was a kid again. It felt like the time I ate flapjacks with him. With the curry meal, we learned about the produce we were eating with direct experience of harvesting the food. This is a theme that has recurred in the meals I have shared with my dad over the years, and one that I want to pass along to my kids as well. The responsibility that we have when we make food choices is so important.
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Allie's BlogHere's a bunch of random writing—articles that didn't make it online, random thoughts, updates on life, old memories, etc. |