Natural Italian drama

I had my first fried turkey last night. It was better than everyone says it is, but the evening was not devoid of the natural Italian drama.

Erica, one of Ryan's co-workers, hosted dinner at her house in a small town just outside of Vicenza where she is the only American. I have met quite a few Americans here who choose to live in small towns outside of the city center where they are the only Americans for miles around. I don't get the appeal. I'm more of a city girl. Hustle and bustle course through my veins.

We were met with unusually heavy traffic on our way to Erica's small town. Unusual for two reasons: Thanksgiving is not an Italian holiday and it was 15:00 (3:00pm). Most Italians were at work. Eventually we came to the source of the traffic: Erica's town was having a HUGE fest. Fests happen in towns all across Europe to celebrate saints and other holidays. Town residents parade the interiors of the town's grandest church, drink wine and socialize in the street. Most of fests happen with very little notice. The ride that was supposed to take 20 minutes took almost an hour including the winding detour through the hills. At least one native was not prepared for the altitude. He pulled over to the side of the road to vomit.

Erica lives in a lovely house in a quaint cul de sac in a small valley on the side of the hills. The first turkey had been frying for 10 minutes when we got there. The fryer uses 5 gallons of oil and cooks a 12 pound turkey in 40 minutes. Erica informed us that she had injected jalapeno butter strategically throughout the bird. How interesting!

We stood around the fryer staring at the plume of fragrant steam rushing out. Curious Italians drove into the dead end street presumably to see what the crazy Americans were up to. Before long the police paid us a friendly visit. They skillfully played good cop/bad cop. Bad Cop boldly announced that we could not cook on the sidewalk. "The side walk belongs to the town not, you. If you want to do this you must do it on your property. Who's property is this?" He threw the question out to all of us. I quickly surmised that no one understood Italian from the blank stares. I translated. Erica said it was her house and Bad Cop asked for documents to prove that she indeed lived there. Meanwhile the jalapeno butter infused turkey fried away furiously in the fryer. Good Cop moved closer to catch a wiff. "But," he said tentatively, "What is it?", complete with the famous Italian hand gesture, the jutting out jaw and downturned smile. We all dramatically whispered, "It's turkey..fried turkey." Good Cop stepped back carefully as if the turkey were still alive in the fryer and might try to make a break for it.

By this this time Erica had successfully charmed Bad Cop and they returned to the turkey circle on the sidewalk all smiles. Bad Cop admitted to just needing to know what we were doing. Good Cop stared distrustingly at the fryer before telling us to have fun and driving off.