Five weeks ago today, I published a blog with nonna’s good advice to – in case you would unexpectedly be quarantined – take up the challenge of preparing the perfect polpette al sugo, meatballs in tomato sauce. Of course that was sort of a joke, because it wouldn’t really come to that, would it?
I never thought I’d say this but I’m actually doing surprisingly well and I’m quite enjoying myself. I haven’t been bored for a second yet
Before this corona crisis broke out, the concept of ‘being quarantined’ was quite mysterious to me and I merely associated it with those sterile white rooms where only people dressed in Martian suits are allowed in and where a siren goes off with every particle of dust swirling around. In any case it was something that, with a bit of luck, would never happen to myself. At least, as long as I wouldn’t set off on an exotic exploration somewhere deep in the jungle. That millions of people could be placed in quarantine at their own places simultaneously had simply never occurred to me. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week at home, except for the small detour through the fields or the mandatory but delightful trip to the supermarket. For anyone who isn’t much of the stay-at-home type – and I’m referring to myself too indeed – this has been quite a turnaround. I’ve never done grocery shopping for an entire week in advance and as soon as I have to yawn (or when I just fancy a coffee), I grab my bag and take a sprint to the coffee place around the corner. But now, everything is different and we are condemned to a life at home. I never thought I’d say this but I’m actually doing surprisingly well and I’m quite enjoying myself. I haven’t been bored for a second yet: finally I’ve started learning Spanish, I’m reading Michelle Obama’s biography after it had been looking at me from the bookshelf for over a year already, and every morning I start my day with a hundred squats, fifty lunges (lunges yes, not lunches) and other exercises of which I really have no idea what they’re called.
During my teenage years, my friends and I spent almost every free hour after school hanging out on the terraces of the bars in town, with the result that when I moved to Amsterdam at the age of eighteen, I actually had no clue how to cook vegetables or how to clean a shower properly
Also the people around me suddenly start to do things they would probably not have done if it wasn’t for this exceptional quarantine situation. At the age of 65, my father made a puzzle for the first time in his life – which he got so caught up in doing that he delayed his bed time for days in a row – and a good friend discovered a hidden vlog talent as she makes the most creative and funny videos of the daily fitness workouts she now has to do from home. From dyeing your own hair to teaching your pupils via an Instagram live streaming: we surely come up with creative solutions, actually learning heaps from it. Spending all day at home also means that – in theory that is– you have all the time in the world to do household chores, which have never been my favourite activities. During my teenage years, my friends and I spent almost every free hour after school hanging out on the terraces of the bars in town, with the result that when I moved to Amsterdam at the age of eighteen, I actually had no clue how to cook vegetables or how to clean a shower properly. As a housewife I didn’t score many points yet, and the title of desperate housewife was far more applicable. How different this is in Italy, I would soon discover by myself…
But now, a disaster was imminent as we were facing the horror scenario of a floor that wouldn’t get mopped for two entire weeks!
Without generalising too much, one may assume that Italians are adept at many things, and keeping their house neat and clean at all times is definitely one of them. And to clarify my point, I’m certainly not only talking about the Italian women. When I first moved to Rome five years ago, I came to live in a beautiful house with two Italian girls. Both still very young: 18 and 19 years old. After living in student houses in Amsterdam for over five years where, despite the cleaning lady’s efforts, it was normal for mice to run over the kitchen counter, we had ant infestations every summer and no one ever really tried to remove the mould in the bathroom (not even the cleaning lady), a complete new world opened up for me. I learned that in Italy, it’s not a fact of life that a student house is pretty dirty, and last-minute panic cleaning sessions when parents come to visit is completely unnecessary here. Not very surprisingly, our cleaning schedule was one of the first things we discussed in my new Roman house: no less than twice a week the bathroom, kitchen, living room and hallway had to be completely scrubbed and mopped and the tasks were strictly divided. Even skipping your turn once was simply unthinkable, and so it often happened that I was still mopping the floor at eleven at night because I had simply forgotten that the week was almost over again. When our exams were coming up in December, one day I came home to find my two flatmates there both with a look on their face as if someone had died. A crisis meeting had to be organised immediately as they had jointly come to the conclusion that our demanding cleaning schedule could impossibly be combined with the high study pressure now our exams were approaching rapidly. To make matters worse, the mother of one of them was not able to travel from Salerno – a city a little further away than Naples – to Rome that weekend to clean our house, as she regularly did. I was always excited when she had come by again, as the house still smelled of lemon for days and the freezer was packed with homemade delicacies. But now, a disaster was imminent as we were facing the horror scenario of a floor that wouldn’t get mopped for two entire weeks! Unanimously –did I even have a choice?– we voted to hire a cleaning lady for no less than four times those two weeks. Probably more for the peaceful state of mind of my two flatmates than for a shiny floor. And even though I never got to really enjoy the cleaning activities, I did love my Italian flatmates for being so strict with the cleaning. Living in that house was a joy after my years in Amsterdam.
Can the desperate housewife become a real dyed-in-the-wool housewife?
Although my time in Italy, much to my mother’s delight, taught me a thing or two about household chores, I still don’t quite master the very advanced skills of running a proper household. Now that I’m in quarantine in the Netherlands having my mother around, this of course shapes the perfect opportunity to level up my domestic capacities. In other words: can the desperate housewife become a real dyed-in-the-wool housewife?
In fact, I would really love to be able to actually design and sew my own clothes, but in the context of not setting unrealistic goals I thought to start with a simple button
So far, I have deep cleaned a carpet for the first time in my life, I have learned how to remove grass stains from a brand new pair of jeans (during one of my quarantine walks I managed to fall off a barrier in the grass while being on the phone with a friend) and a thing I’d like to master before getting out of this quarantine period is how to sew a button to a piece of clothes. In fact, I would really love to be able to actually design and sew my own clothes, but in the context of not setting unrealistic goals I thought to start with a simple button. I’m already scoring good points as the perfect housewife to be, but unfortunately all this hasn’t yet unleashed a deeply hidden domestic passion inside me. However, there is one domestic ‘chore’ I have discovered that I really enjoy: cooking. The traditional Dutch cucina of potatoes, overly cooked vegetables and meat never got me behind the stove, but the Italian kitchen on the other hand brings out the best aspirant chef in me.
Last week I realised that I had to set myself a slightly bigger challenge to climb the ladder of becoming the perfect housewife. I chose the capolavoro– or masterpiece – of the Italian cuisine
It all started with me missing my daily, smooth cappuccino simply too much. I decided I couldn’t live without it, and with all bars being closed I’d had to learn how to prepare it at home. After several attempts in which the milk accidentally sloshed over the edge of the jug and covered the entire kitchen from floor to ceiling covered with splashes, I managed to perfect it. Reward: five housewife points. Next,I thought it would be a good idea to dive into the Roman kitchen, and my first project was to prepare a perfect pasta alla gricia. Pasta with guanciale (a type of bacon), black pepper and pecorino cheese. Is that all? Sì! Ten housewife points. Then, a pasta all’amatriciana followed: strings of bucatini pasta with passata of tomatoes, guanciale and pecorino cheese. Is that all again? Sì, and again ten housewife points for me. Last week I realised that I had to set myself a slightly bigger challenge to climb the ladder of becoming the perfect housewife. I chose the capolavoro– or masterpiece – of the Italian cuisine: a traditional ragù, better known as a bolognese sauce outside Italy. A dish that has to simmer on the stove for hours, so at eleven o’clock in the morning I already found myself chopping the holy Italian trio of onions, carrots and celery. I felt like a true Sophie Loren– except for being an actress, she is an excellent cook – when I came to have a look at my ragù every single hour, stirring it and adding splashes of red wine. In the evening I turned this ragù into a delicious lasagna and my homemade besciamella sauce – I never knew it only requires milk, flour, butter and a pinch of nutmeg – finished it off to perfection. Fifty housewife points. At least! And my culinary mission isn’t finished yet. Today is national pasta carbonara day in Italy, my absolute favourite and the only Roman pasta I haven’t dared to prepare myself yet: it takes meticulous precision and experience to make sure the pasta is exactly at the right temperature to turn the egg yolk into a creamy sauce. One piece of congealed egg yolk, and your whole pan of pasta can go in the bin. But if I want to achieve that status as a perfect housewife, I’ll have to take some bigger risks and I think this carbonara project is good for at least a hundred housewife points. And then there are nonna’s meatballs of course! With Easter coming up, nothing better than these polpette could be prepared, which will be worth their weight in gold. In other words: they can no longer be expressed in housewife points anymore.
I’m going to develop my Italian cooking skills so well that I can amply compensate for my flaws as the not so perfect housewife, masking all those chores I’m simply not so good at
Meanwhile, we’re already in week four of this collective home quarantine and by now I’ve figured that this is going to be my new strategy in life. I’m going to develop my Italian cooking skills so well that I can amply compensate for my flaws as the not so perfect housewife, masking all those chores I’m simply not so good at. That desperate housewife will be forever gone. Because after all the question is: can I sew a button to my jacket by now? No, I cannot. But can I seduce my mother to do it for me with deliciously smooth cappuccini and creamy pastas? Assolutamente sì!