Just when you think you'll never have it... There it is.

Recently last summer when I started making afternoon espresso's (and not adding milk thus turning them into cappuccinos... and thus needing a different type of cup), my mum pulled out her demi tasses which were a gift from her friend back when she was living in Austria.
There are two of them, and they remind her of a time of her life, and now I've used them while at home.
So being the sentimentalist that I am, I made it a goal while I'm giving here to get my own demi tasse.
There's a little shop on the way downtown that I've stopped in and spoken french with the woman who runs it (my italian is terrible... or at least worse than my french!) and I really love what she sells in there but it's SO expensive. One plain white espresso cup is over 24 francs! (not my cup of....espresso)
Nonetheless I passed the 2nd hand shop on the way down to get gelato today, and I saw some beautiful demi tasses. Let me just explain that the "2nd hand" shop is a beautiful boutique on the cobblestones and usually the least expensive item there is over 80 fr.
I mentioned to the small group of friends the whole I want my own demi tasse cups and my friend piped right up and said she has a mess load and I can have how ever many I want. Apparently her parents were staying at a bed and breakfast here when they came to visit her and mentioned to the owners that she is trying to set up her apartment and furnish a kitchen. So they gave them a mess load of extra demi tasse cups.
Sometimes he who asks will receive.
This morning, I'm drinking my espresso from a story of friends and coincidences.
CHIN CHIN.
G

Like A Rolling Stone: Volume 1

Now that I’m living on my own, and especially in a foreign country with a different language, there are a few realizations of REALLY simple things I do not know how to do… Like The Swiss Standard, the Like A Rolling Stone will focus on these little things with either answering the question of how to do it, asking YOU how to do it… Or some strange combination of the two… Enjoy!

Boiling an Egg.

Okay, so maybe I’m not as clued in as I previously thought I was. While I can make to-die-for omelets, ratatouille with panache, lovely lemon-white wine chicken, and a squash pumpkin soup that will drive you wild, I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO BOIL AN EGG. So after much anguish on my part, with this personal lack of knowledge, I plan on successfully boiling an egg! Follow these great instructions found at: http://www.goodegg.com/boiledegg.html

Directions for Large Eggs:

1. Place eggs in a saucepan with enough COLD tap water to cover completely by 1 inch. Bring to a ROLLING boil over HIGH heat. Once the water is brought to a rolling boil, PROMPTLY reduce heat to a lower medium boil and cook an additional 10 minutes for a “hard boiled” egg. For a “soft boiled” egg reduce the time by a few minutes.

2. Remove from heat and IMMEDIATELY place eggs under ice cold water or in a bowl of ICED water to chill promptly to help yolks stay bright yellow. Chill for a few minutes in the cold water until the egg is completely cooled. This is an extremely important step which prevents the greenish “ring” from forming on the surface of the yolk over time. If the egg is not chilled immediately after cooking an unsightly dark greenish ring will eventually appear on the outside of the yolk.

3. To peel...crack on all sides, roll egg between hands to loosen shell,and remove shell. Enjoy, with a light sprinkling of salt if desired.

To serve in egg cup, place egg in cup small end down, slice off large end of egg with knife or egg scissors and eat from shell with spoon.

Refrigeration is necessary for hard boiled eggs if the eggs are not to be consumed within a few hours.

Refrigerated boiled eggs, kept in the shell, can be kept for up to 1 week.

 Good luck!

<3 G

The Swiss Standard: Volume 3 (light it up)

Growing up in the US, there are certain paradigms ingrained in my brain. For one, you don't smoke inside, usually. And especially as of lately, you don't smoke in a club.
So, to my surprise, and perhaps ignorance, I was caught quite off guard last night.

Entering a segmented club, there was a clear "smoking" and "non smoking" dance floor. In the smoking dance room, one was elbow-to-cigarette, hoping your neighbor would not get too 'jiggy with it,' thus marking and burning you with their Marlborough.

It took me back to a romanticized age of smoke filled bars, a complete throwback to something I never expected.

It honestly cracked me up exchanging a lighter with a stranger, and the use of the dance floor as an ashtray! It was an alternate universe, so far from the sparkling Swiss streets.

Yet even in the perhaps non smoking dance floor, every so many songs, one still goes out and smokes.
(And I was told this sort of thing didn't exist anymore!)

To be frank, I thought it was lovely.

Everyone was so much more comfortable, amiable, and calmed.
<3

Palm reading

My fists are blocks of ice

Every fold and facet

Sculpted meticulously

Fingernails curl into

The heart line of my palm

I raise my fist

Slow and steady

Rapping upon your door

Shards of knuckle

Smash off and clack onto

The shadowed stone floor.

Still no answer, no sound but me

I bang the outsides of my

Clamped and desperate hand

My arms and wrist hit your door

Trying to wake you

See my deformed hands

My knuckles chip

My fingers break off

Clatter and fall

Rolling like dice

Will you answer?

I stop when I see nothing left

only

Icicles left of a wrist bone

A 52 pick up game

On your front porch

The rest?

A handless girl

with shattered ice at her feet.

Mini update... And Milan

As they say in Italy, Italians were eating with a knife and fork when the French were still eating each other. The Medici family had to bring their Tuscan cooks up there so they could make something edible.
Mario Batali 

I've been converted...

(The insides of the Duomo)

I used to be a COMPLETE francophile. But in my latest travels and exposures...
I started cheating... His/Her name is Italy. The one, the beautiful...
Don't get me wrong, Switzerland is WONDERFUL. It's such a culmination of cultures, and it's safe, clean, reliable. It's also... well beautiful. But it's always a good idea to have a lover, yes?

The food, the fashion (Dolce and Gabbana life size add in the Milano Centrale Grandi Stazioni...)

 The ambience. The people, the ways... The language. The gelato.

The torti de panne.
 I visited Milan yesterday, and while there are pigeons EVERYWHERE, the people make up for it. The people are just beautiful... And I know, it's SO cliche, but it's true.

I just had to say... I'm falling head over heels for Italy. It's a fluffy little blog post, but it's also been a while... I can't wait to fall more in love with Italy when I see Venice in October... I'm counting down the days.

Lots of love,
G

Ghosts of boyfriends past. And words of wisdom from the one and only Man in Black.

This summer, on one of my late nights up watching Frasier, I came upon the episode about Frasier/Nile’s girlfriends of past. All of Frasier’s girlfriends came together to teach him a lesson in one weird nightmare.

In the world of constant dating- hookups, couples, breakups, and seemingly serial dating, one stops to wonder if it’s all worth it. Because most likely you won’t end up with the man from Belfast who you met on a booze cruise, or the tall mysterious man who bought you a drink, forget about your high school boyfriend, your childhood friend, and especially forget about your first “older man.”

Or should you?

One can be cynical and ask why date and be a robot in the process.

 It’s like asking why eat a piece of cake when you are trying to lose weight and know it definitely won’t help. Why buy inexpensive wine when it will most likely taste bad? Why buy a lottery ticket when you know you’re not going to win?

But you could win

You could find an inexpensive hidden wine treasure

You may feel a little better from that cake…even if you won’t the next morning.

Okay, perhaps that last one shouldn’t happen often, but you get the point.

My last breakup, if you want to call it that (more like a smashup?), taught me that some people come into your life, and can’t stay. They come into your life for a reason, change you (usually for the better, though sometimes it takes time to see it). Sometimes, it’s a matter of character building.

“So, I learn from my mistakes. It's a very painful way to learn, but without pain, the old saying is, there's no gain. I found that to be true in my life. You miss a lot of opportunities by making mistakes, but that's part of it: knowing that you're not shut out forever, and that there's a goal you still can reach.” Johnny Cash

“You build on failure. You use it as a stepping stone. Close the door on the past. You don't try to forget the mistakes, but you don't dwell on it. You don't let it have any of your energy, or any of your time, or any of your space.” Johnny Cash

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not preaching fatalistic ideals. Nor am I saying that everything happens for a reason. But sometimes it’s nice to believe it.

So in that episode of Frasier, Frasier’s exes, all a variety of people ended up bringing him closer to who he is, what he wants, and farther along, period.

So easier said than done? Maybe by realizing this, (not just saying it, like I’ve been saying about J for weeks), I’m opening myself up again. Sure, I’m a ‘cracked plate’, and I know it. But if I can see that crack for what it really is- the affect of someone else on me, a flaw or detail that makes me different. I’m a plate with 

Sunday Morning, Rain is Falling...

Good morning all my lovelies,
It's Sunday morning, and once again the Swiss, I've realized, have done it right.

While sitting on my balcony, streaming a radio station from back home and sipping on piping hot espresso, I was in total peace with the world.

Since I've picked up my world, my life, my home, and moved here, I suppose I haven't had that true feeling of peace, serenity, and simple 'me' time. Since starting classes, I've been go-go-go, and really, very unaware of it. But your body will let you know. Intending on going out Friday night, I got terribly sick and ended up staying home on the couch with a girlfriend and pottering over to the Grotto for some fish, spinach pasta, veggies, and dessert when I felt I could keep food down.

Don't get me wrong, it was a lovely night, something I desperately needed. To lay low, and breathe. But it was clearly forced upon me. Like when you're little and you've "had too much birthday cake" or "too much excitement." Your mum will put you to bed early, and you'll be fine the next day- up and ready to go. But when we grow up, Mum isn't there to say "you've had enough," and you have to figure it out on your own.
But you can't help but feeling like you had a 'lame' night when hearing all of your friends hit the club that night.

In Switzerland, as I mentioned in my previous post, one has 'quiet hours' but also it's very traditional with Sundays. Nothing is open. It is a day to rest, relax, and remind yourself of la joie de vivre.
Originally it can be a hinderance. One has to think ahead- so there's food in the house for sunday morning and the like.
But a rainy Sunday morning, surrounded by closed up shops, I looked up from my journal and my espresso and saw an elderly couple at the apartment across from me. They were on their patio watering plants.
I'm creating a new Sunday morning tradition. To rest, relax, and revive. To "remind yourself of la joie de vivre." Even if it's rain, espresso, and satin robes.