Cotto Quotes

The lady in the liquor store sold me a fifth of whiskey and the landlord’s name without taking her eyes off the book she was reading.

My mother's mother came to this country in the usual way--she got on a boat with other immigrants and sailed from Sicily. She wasn't one of them, however: neither tired nor poor or part of any huddled mass. Instead, she traveled alone, with her money in one sock and a knife in the other, coming to the new world with an old world motive--to murder the man that had left her for America.

In the open sky above the hushed streets, the moon was a porcelain plate on a black table as I walked home. A breeze raised the collar of my jeans jacket as I sliced through the silvery silence, past unlit buildings and quivering trees and cars idle by the curb. The air felt like glass. I crossed empty corners under the mauve light of overhead lamps.

ficcai li occhi per lo cotto aspetto,

C'era una moquette che imitava delle piastrelle di cotto toscano ma dato che era alta quattro centimetri non le riusciva granché bene.

Past the projects, the land opened up and water came into view. The breeze carried rain and salt. Jetties and barrier walls supported the shore, which was stacked with crumbling brick warehouses. Out in the channel, the Statue of Liberty stood alone on her little island, her corroding flame held high in the air as the sun set over the industrial shoreline and skyways of New Jersey. Across the narrows, the bluffs of Staten Island wavered in the smoky light of dusk that turned the Verrazano into bronze. Faint light burnished water into busy with freighters and tug boats. A lone sail boat flitted in the distance. On the near shore, on a slip of water between a jetty and the land, a blood red barge bobbed on the tide.

Marble that was still attached to the mountain vein, or freshly quarried, was considered alive because porous stone retains moisture absorbed from the ground. Quarry sap makes the marble soft, sparkling, and easy to work. After exposure to the air, this calcium-soaked water evaporates, and the stone becomes drier and harder-cotto, Michelangelo calls it in his contract.

Torta di mele della nonna

Past the sloping green lawn of the park, I entered a new world, regal and historic. Here I walked on swept sidewalks, past pristine buildings and small shops and young mothers or West Indian nannies with children in tow on their way to the playground. Stylish women carried twine-handled shopping bags. The cafes were busy and a church bell praised noon as I ducked underground.

Gypsy cabs jostled and honked...Dollar vans lined the sidewalk and people piled in and out. As I walked down the slope, the buildings grew smaller and squalid. Trees vanished...and the heat picked up. Beyond the brick wall of the Navy Yard, the silver skyline of Manhattan glimmered in the distance like a mirage. The industrial remains of the flats were low and decrepit and mostly abandoned, though a few beeping forklifts unloaded trucks here and there. The storefronts were shuttered except for a bank busy with Orthodox Jews. The funk of a chicken processing plant contaminated the air. I walked along the high brick wall that separated the Navy Yard from the street, frequently stepping over pulverized vials that sparkled like jewels on the sidewalk. There was no shade. I blinked away the dust.

The full moon rose above the harbor as brightly lit tour boats skimmed along the black water, the brilliant cluster of lower Manhattan piled like stacks of coins from a treasure chest in the distance. Up the river, bridges arched across the wide water all the way up the east side, while the Brooklyn side was marked by soft, round lights, like a string of pearls.

Italian bureaucracy, Jacoby recognized, was a far more difficult endeavor than currying favor with English-speaking travel writers eager for stories about Italy.

There were days when Jacoby arrived to find no workers at all, and some days with a skeleton crew and some days with a dozen men on site. His job was simply to report the progress to Dolores, and she seemed to be well aware of what constituted the Italian work ethic, at least in this part of the peninsula. Her expectations were in place with regard to completion as well, with no realistic end date in mind.

You’re clever,” Helen said. “And I’m hungry. Shall we eat?” “My favorite question,” Jacoby said. “After an aperitivo?” Helen smacked him playfully on the chest. “You’re becoming so Italian.” “I’m working on it,” Jacoby said. “Well, don’t work on it too hard, otherwise you’ll end up leaving me for your mother.

memories from Livio’s food are almost too much too bare.

Jacoby, as had become his habit, sat in the last row of pews and breathed the sacred air. He was not becoming religious so much as he was connecting with the spirituality offered within the churches themselves. He, of course, marveled at the architecture and opulence, even if the latter struck him as somewhat over the top, but he most appreciated the serenity. Churches in Italy felt so safe, as if he could appreciate the solace they provided over the centuries. It was a similar sentiment he enjoyed in museums, surrounded by the blessings of humanity in all its glory. It affirmed his faith, so often challenged, in mankind and of what they were capable.

Jacoby recognized that even expats in Italy adopted a nonchalance about commitment and getting things done that resembled the Italian ethos.

And that’s what it was: time. Yes, there was, of course, boundless beauty, but time was the key factor - the pace of Italy permitted one to exist in a way that allowed life to be lived in little, steady celebrations that, through the continuity, generated an immense sense of well-being.

On the other side of the lot, beyond the corroding replica of “David” that fronted the piazza named after his creator, lay the city of Florence, a spooned circle of terra cotta and stone and pastel, split horizontally by the nearby River Arno and surrounded by verdant hills like a lush hood framing the face of a movie star. Jacoby felt wonder rise through his sternum and out his nose. It seemed like a model, a tiny replica of plastic pieces, of a make believe place, not a real place in real size made by the hands of men many centuries ago. A city of domes and towers and palaces, of ceramic tiles and stone, of four bridges that spanned the Arno, including the famous Ponte Vecchio, lined with shops of pastel facades. From high above, Jacoby wandered through the tourists who snapped pictures and pointed. He stood atop the paved slope that led down the hill toward the magnificent city, but he held still, fighting the current of enticement, the beckoning, savoring the feeling of anticipation like a child has atop a long water slide above an enormous pool.

The flavor was as profound and complex as any beef he’d ever tasted. Steak in the States was bland, in need of sauce, but this simply-prepared choice cut was perfectly grilled - seared on the outside, rare and warm internally - helped by hints of lemon and rosemary and coarse salt while letting the flavor of the meat itself dominate. Amazing. Transcendental. Good fucking lord.

The cooler was stuffed with bistecca fiorentina, a three-inch thick porterhouse from local cows, simply prepared. Probably the single most recognized dish from the region, the crown jewel of cucina tipica (typical cuisine). After the large grill face was lined with dozens of steaks, the host - on a platform in front of the grill - theatrically salted and peppered the steaks, then chopped lemons and minced rosemary. The steaks were quickly flipped by an assistant wielding long tongs, and delivered to the cutting table to rest before being surgically hacked into chunks and placed on ceramic platters where they were dressed with local olive oil, coarse salt, squeezed lemon and sprinkled rosemary.

A volte il linguaggio della finanza è davvero oscuro e nasconde la verità. Durante implosione del 2008 siamo stati invasi da espressioni come "cdo sintetici con tranche mezzanine di rmbs". Più spesso, però, il linguaggio economico è complicato perché la realta che descrive è complicata. La mancanza di trasparenza non è necessariamente sinonimo di malafede e ha dei corrispettivi anche in altri campi, per esempio nella cucina e nell'enologia. Il termine francese baveuse significa, letteralmente, "bavosa" che, in contesto gastronomico, converrete che non suona benissimo. Baveuse, però, si usa per descrivere la consistenza ideale di una omelette, dove l'esterno è cotto e l'interno è fermo ma ancora leggermente molle. È una parola utile da sapere, perché aiuta a capire di cosa si parla, ma il prezzo da pagare è che se ne può parlare solo con persone che conoscono il termine. Anche il linguaggio dei soldi si esprime in questo modo. È un linguaggio potente ed efficace, ma allo stesso tempo esclusivo e impermeabile. Le spiegazioni difficilmente attecchiscono, perché una lunga serie di spiegazioni può essere compressa all'interno di una locuzione o anche in una sola parola.