I never intended this blog to be an inspirational “Life Lessons with Lauren” series similar to that of Dr. Phil. I mean, Dr. Phil is great and all, but I’m usually not one to televise my problems to the masses, unless it’s complaining about walking 3 miles or washing my own dishes. However, I have come to realize that recording what I learn while I’m here helps me not only to grow, but to reinstate lessons in writing. Which my case (and hopefully yours), find quite rewarding.
Don’t worry, there will ALWAYS be food.
Always.
Always.
Always.
But there is a point in life where food because secondary.
But let’s just get this straight, it’s not very often.
Today I was roaming around that beautiful market with several classmates after our dreadful 12 hour, 2 days seminar on sanitation. I love being surrounded by beautiful food. In fact, it’s MY kind of museum, an interactive type. It’s strewn with paintings of dried fruits, mushrooms, hanging beef, and a medley of cheeses and pastas. The sellers (artists) are there trying to give you a piece of product (art), which you then take home and enjoy as a new form of art, your own dinner table. It’s a fabulous economic masterpiece.
Anyway, I purchased dried pineapple, apricots, plums, apples, pears, and raisins.
I also got an assortment of cashews and walnuts. I picked up a few tomatoes and an artisanal bag of rosemary olive oil crackers. Jessica (my awesome Aussie) and I decided that homemade granola sounded extraordinary amongst the sparsely populated cereal aisle at our local Conad grocery store. I was having a hard time dealing with my cereal obsession. As some of you may know, I mix and match my cereals into a big whole grain party. I’m pretty sure they only have 6 varieties here.
And they are ALREADY all in my cupboard (as you can see)
So I put all of my lovely ingredients together in the teeny tiny toaster oven that was so kindly (sarcasm) given to us over an oven. The toaster only went to 250 degrees, and although I thought it to be rather odd, I went for it and decided to come back and check it in about 10 minutes.
Fail.
Lauren is struggling with converting things…if you catch my drift. Now, let’s move on.
While I’m on the topic of “lessons,” I should share with you that the lesson learned was not that burnt granola tastes like crap and not that Italian toaster ovens can actually get VERY toasty (Although both are true).
I realized that I’m a spoiled American white girl.
My father would have wondered why it took so long for me to realize this.
A man approached us at the market and asked us all where we were from. We all took our turns to answer, “Pennsylvania, New York, Australia, and Israel.” The man took his time to form very lame compliments for us all, saying one had beautiful hair, saying that I was extra beautiful, calling another a princess, and calling yet another one (also my favorite), “a delicate farm of flowers.”
I started walking away and as I looked back, I witnessed a very disturbed friend walking towards me.
“What’s wrong,” I quickly uttered.
It was at that moment that I realized what had happened. My beautiful Israeli friend yet again had been put down because of where she was from.
I was disgusted, yet hadn’t even realized the reality of an issue such as this.
Here I am, completely ignorant to the facts of life. I’m delirious to the issue at hand. I’m spoiled, sheltered, and protected.
I am American.
But what if I wasn’t?
I’ve never HAD to think that way. I’ve never been in a situation such as my friend was. And at that moment, when we were standing there attempting to vocalize our best wisdom, the only think that I could think of doing….was nothing.I had no similar experience, no justification for saying ANYTHING comforting.
I could never understand.
I was (and am) a cultural virgin.
I became upset, agitated, and ready to fight. But what was I going to do? She had come to almost expect it. She has learned to turn her head the other way and keep a positive attitude. You know what?
She taught me something spectacular.
She has chosen not to let interrogation and hatred burst her spirit. She is the most encouraging and hospitable individual that I have ever come into contact with. She has defied the rules of cultural animosity. People may choose ignorance and harshness toward her, but she chooses to embrace the culture that she is in.
And here I am, complaining about walking 3 miles in a day.
My problems seem to slowly be put into perspective.
Gelato of the day, you might ask? Behold…the cantaloupe gelato.
Very….cantaloupey.
Actually, with the way Italians are obsessed with prosciutto (and paring it with melon), I’m surprised this gelato didn’t come wrapped in prosciutto, with a prosciutto waffle cone, or prosciutto sprinkles.
Oh these are the mysteries of life.
Ciao for now!