Ole, ole, Ole, ole.

Hey guys, you might not have known this about me - but I am a huge soccer nerd. #sorryIamnotsorry.

You grow up with a family of Eye-talians and it is going to wear off on you.

Last time there was a world cup, I watched almost all of it while in Europe which is basically like watching the Super Bowl from inside Cowboys Stadium (not in-person, mind you, just like, on the big TV over the field).  This year will pale in comparison because I still have to go to work and the prosciutto and mozzarella cheese sandwiches will be sub-par. But my brother won't be dying, soooo win some/lose some.

Here are some important things you need to be a world cup fan. Hop on, folks, there is plenty of room on this bandwagon and it comes with an excuse to drink at 11:00 a.m. on a Tuesday!

This guide gives you all the good soccer bars in Chicago.

If you want an outdoor soccer viewing experience - U.S. Soccer is putting on a money-grabbing "free" soccer viewing party in Grant Park. I am pretty sure you can sneak booze into Grant Park, which is good because watching the U.S. get trounced by Ghana, Germany and possibly Portugal - you're gonna need it.

Also, if you want to be an educated fair weather fan, here is my favorite thing of all time - Drew Magary's Hater's Guide to the World Cup. If I had any wish in all the wishes in the wish bank, I would want my writing to sound like the love child of Drew Magary and Margaret Atwood. What a disturbed and beautiful love child my writing would be.

Soccer (although now I hang out with enough British folks I feel like I should be able to call it Football) is the best sport to watch in the summer, because its easy and you can kind of half pay attention in the sunshine over your almost-finished bloody mary, eat all the rich, European food you love and then shrug when the thing is over in a 0-0 tie and go take a nap.  The people's game!

My childhood with Marcella

Once upon a time. When boyfriend was not quite boyfriend yet, just a boy who made my chest hurt, he was trying very hard to impress me.

We were swapping memories and I told him I was going to make him one of my favorite meals from childhood - pasta with bacon, peas and ricotta. He said it sounded gross. To which I replied, you sound gross. 

In an attempts to win my affection, boyfriend went to the store to purchase all the things I said I needed for this meal.

"Why did you get black-eyed peas?"

"For your thing. You said you needed peas."

"Yeah. I need peas. Actual peas."

"Oh."

In an attempt to look like I handled crisis and change well, I went ahead and made the dish with the (eventually very incorrectly cooked) black-eyed peas.

When we sat down to eat, I could barely hold back my emotions.

"This is kind of ruining my childhood."

He stoically ate all of it, leftovers included.

Eventually, I must have made the dish correctly for him, and he was not impressed. He said he couldn't really taste the difference between this and the other version. 

Once again emotions rose up in me and I tried very hard not to punch this still-not-boyfriend in the nose.

This dish, and many others that came from the pages of Marcella Hazan's kitchen were such huge parts of my childhood happiness, it was hard (still is hard) for me to understand how they don't evoke the same emotions in others.   

The food of Marcella Hazan is the food of my favorite memories. This dish of everyday-excuse-for-bacon joy, rice salad of Nantucket summer nights, pasta al forno (with homemade bolognese) for birthdays and welcome homes. Any and all of these things, eaten the next morning, a bonus dinner for breakfast treat.

Boyfriend managed to stick. So did these meals. Every one now cooked in my kitchen too. 

Thank you, Marcella, for a delicious life.

Other people wrote about her too: In the New York Times, and the New Yorker.

Pictured: my first ever made all-by-myself pot of Bolognese.

 

First position

If you happened to be on State street between Lake & Randolph tonight and looked up, you may have seen me attempting to reclaim a small piece of my childhood.

Last year, on a whim I bought a groupon to the Joffrey Academy for 5 classes. And of course, it is expiring in two weeks so I figured I should probably use it.

I didn't have tights or a leotard, but I did have my shoes. I've easily had these shoes longer than I've had most people that read this blog. Dating back to the late 90's these shoes have traveled through many states and even to South Africa with me. I haven't worn them probably since 2006 or so, but they travel light and there was no reason to throw away one of the very last pieces of my childhood.

I kept meaning to take a dance class in Chicago, but circus class sounded like way more fun, and then improv was something I was actually really good at (rather than something I just loved) plus I got to drink beer afterwards. So it was put off.

And now I am in a place of grouchiness where my body is concerned. Turns out you can't live on cookies and pasta for two months without working out and not gain all of the pounds. So this was not the ideal way to get back in the game. But I toughened up and did it.

First, I felt like a dbag for showing up in gym capris and a tank top instead of my black and pinks, but I felt slightly better that I was the only one not committing this terrible, terrible fashion faux-pas. Also, I wasn't late. So basically, we're even-stevens in the faux-pas department.

I made it through class. And more heart-filling, I found myself smiling in the middle of class, smiling for messing up the degage in the back, for a perfect inside pirouette, a high grand jete, and doing 36 changements in a row without stopping. All these things I didn't think my body was capable of doing and I was managing it, despite my busted, janky shoes.

I have four classes left on my groupon - all that I'll do in the next two weeks (next time read the fine print, dummy) and after that, we'll see if I still love it as much as I did tonight. But one thing is for sure, its time for these shoes to go. Good-bye childhood, you hurt my feet.