Dom's Dish - LEAP ahead edition

Dom's Dish - Friday, February 29, 2008


"Well, well, well, DominNIC, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN???"

So after a five...no, NINE month hiatus of officially writing the dish, not just giving it to those of you I've seen at parties...there is a lot to recap. I have been right and I have been wrong....there have been ups and definitely downs. Mitchell released his report, Obama is taking the US by storm, I witnessed the Phillies clinch the NL East, the Pats went 18-0 only to lose to the Giants, the Big 3 in Boston, Tiger added a major, and I have been to a total of 17 states*, watching it all. So without much further ado about where I've been and what I've been up to, it's time to delve right in...



I was right:

Michael Vick. Need I say more?

I mentioned that they may put Parcells on MNF on ESPN to replace Theismann (Jan 22, 2007) - I was close, at least they did the right thing and get rid of broken leg Joe. Ron Jaworski had a good first season, and he did give me plenty of material for when I play at RON JAWORKSI'S Valleybrook Country Club in Blackwood, NJ! Jaws here!


I was wrong:

Wes Welker - and I quote from March 6, 2007: "I rescind my offer that Jeff Garcia will end up the Gil Meche of the NFL free agency period. That title now goes to Wes Welker." Wrong on both accounts but I did go on to say "He does fit the Patiot-jack-of-all-trades mold".

Billy Donovan - remember that? My last dish on June 1 was right after he signed with Orlando of the NBA for all that money. I praised him and thought he might be a good NBA coach...only to have him rescind and go back to the University of Florida.


Ok, and now on to the topics...

NFL Free Agency is here! Big news? Asante Samuel in Philadelphia? More on that in a bit. Well, Derek Anderson rejected the Browns one year offer and hit the open market after midnight. Good news for those Brady Quinn fans out there, or is it? Late report is that Anderson has agreed to a multi-year deal with the Browns now. It hasn't been too crazy yet these last 16 hours - no big names off the board yet (Randy Moss, Lance Briggs, Bernard Berrian, Alen Faneca, Michael Turner, Asante Samuel). However the 49ers have made a number of moves for some mid-grade players- LB Dontarrio Thomas, QB J.T. O'Sullivan, KR Allen Rossum and RB DeShaun Foster. A lot of lobbying for position as of now - trying to convince these free agents to come on out to sign those enormous contracts - in terms of green, not paper. Speaking of green, apparently one of those teams who was able to convince a visit - Asante Samuel is in Philadelphia and word is a 6 year $60 million contract by days' end is possible. It would be a great sign for the Eagles, but word is Lito Shepphard would become expendable. It's just about 6 months to the beginning of the season, can you feel the excitement yet?

The Super Bowl Champs lost a player (Kawika Mitchell to the Bills) and word is that teams are inquiring about Jeremy Shockey. Aside from that, a lot of rumors abound, I sit amazed the number of items on the Bottom Line of ESPN News. It should be an interesting weekend into next week.

Big news for all you Europeans out there...Soccer will be coming to Philly in 2010! The MLS - that stands for Major League Soccer NOT Multiple Listing Service (AKA MLS number for all you homebuyers out there) - has agreed to give Philadelphia a franchise that will start up in two years. No word on team name during the press conference yesterday, but work is set to begin on a new stadium just south of the Commodore Barry Bridge in Chester, PA. The stadium will be right along the waterfront bringing some economic opportunity to an area that could use it. Now, I'm no soccer fan, but with the MLS's new contract and a team in Philly, I could be.

So, the NBA trade deadline has come and gone with a lot more moves than normal. For those even following along even with ESPN highlights you know how ridiculous the difference in conferences is - East vs. West. In the West, there are 9 teams seperated by 6 1/2 games - so all of these games down the stretch will count big time. With the trades, we all know about Shaq to the Suns, Paul Gasol to the Lakers and Jason Kidd to Dallas. The West all got better, but again it is going to be a blood bath in the playoffs as they are all evenly matched. Somehow the Lakers have won 10 straight out there and as they work in Paul Gasol, they are every NBA Analysts' favorite for the NBA Western Conference and NBA Title. Not bad for going back a few months when Kobe wanted out of L.A. But don't leave out the Eastern Conference - the Big 3, and not just Boston - Detroit and Cleveland could be in there as well. Detroit is far and away the definition of team basketball, Boston has a great defense led by Kevin Garnett, and Cleveland...they have LeBron. Nice trade at the wire for the Cavs to get some nice role players around King James. Many think Kobe is the best player in the league right now, but we'll see as the stretch run comes. That would be an awesome NBA Finals - Kobe vs LeBron? We could only hope, except Kobe would have the disadvantage as there is only one of him and four LeBron's.

Steroids in Baseball - like you, I'm sick of hearing about it. As certain as I am that Barry was involved with BALCO and "the clear", I am now certain that Roger Clemens tried it once or twice. Now granted, this Brian McNamee is one shady character keeping "stuff" for years and years, I mean how do we know that he hasn't doctored the evidence in his basement (by the way Nic Santillo, I have a very sugary cereal bowl with your DNA all over it from when you were 7 years old). I don't want to spend too much time or energy on this (I'm winded from writing this much already) but it's sad to see such a controversy like this, especially with the prosperity of the game now. I hope Roger and Barry don't come back this year -

As a follow-up to my last dish, I spoke about plumbing and bathroom design. It's still something I notice while washing hands - finally last week I had an "almost" - outside Denver in the staff lounge at the hospital where I worked - very nice, deep place to wash your hands without touching the side of the sink...except the faucet only had one speed - full on, and water goes everywhere. Oh, so close!

Happy Leap Year Day everyone! I would be remiss if I didn't give a shout out to my beautiful wife Beth on our special day today... "last year" I proposed to her, and it's been bliss ever since.

"They must be Oakland fans....did you hear the latest injury report? POSERS!"



Around the balls:

Giant-orange- Kelvin Sampson, the former Indiana Hoosier head coach is a cheater. No big surprise there, my buddy Matt in Illinois told me this all last year - this after he recruited a player who had already verbally committed to Illinois. Anyway, College Basketball is heating up - only about 2 weeks before the NCAA brackets are on everyone's mind. Memphis got the loss out of the way in a great game, can they be the favorite heading into the tournament? Will Villanova make it? If not, can they win the NIT?

White-leather-stitched- In case you're living on the moon, you realize it's staying light out later and know that Daylight Savings is coming up on March 9...so you know that Spring Training has started in Florida and Arizona.

Rubber-non- The Devils are up top in the Eastern Conference, Sid the Kid is still out with an ankle, and Alexander Ovechkin is scoring goals at will. The season is about to wrap up - I guess more people would care if it were actually on some sort of TV Network other than "Versus" and NBC on Sunday afternoons occasionally.

Big-brown-oblong- Aside from the Free Agency period, the Combine and the upcoming draft, keep an eye and ear on the situation with the Collective Bargaining Agreement (CBA).

Tiny-white- Tiger is three for three this year - Dubai, Torrey Pines and Accenture Match play. Good thing that the US Open is in California at Torrey Pines - looks like another major. For those that missed his interview about a perfect season you need to see the ESPN.com video about him peaking.

Green-fuzzy- Somehow Roger Federer lost in the semi's of the Australian Open - he must have been hurt or something. Maria Sharapova won the Australian Open - she was just in a zone that last match. Funny news - A 9-year-old girl from Melbourne, Australia has been banned from playing tennis at her local club over the grunting noise she makes while competing. Her favorite player is Maria Sharapova. Hopefully more people will do this - it's so annoying watching the Williams sisters and others.

Big-black-and-white- Reports say that Jose Mourinho turned down an offer to coach Lyon after leaving Chelsea. I don't know what that means, but it's my duty to report it.

Giant-black-holey- Sundays are for bowling. Nothing new here, just pins and balls.

Rubber-wheels- Ryan Newman won the Daytona 500. Dale Jr. has a new team and a behind the scenes show on ESPN. Yeah, cars going in circles - fun to watch when nothing else is on.



Program Alert:

Jackie Moon and Semi-Pro debuts in theaters today! I'll spend $10 to laugh for 90 minutes at Will Ferrell's fro!


Links:

Tiger Video: http://sports.espn.go.com/broadband/video/videopage?videoId=3254792

* - states outside NJ since June 07 - California, Colorado, Delaware, Georgia, Illinois, Ohio, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Missouri, Nevada, New Hampshire, New York, Ontario (Canada), Pennsylvania, Texas, Virginia


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For those new to "the dish", I once dreamed of being a sports-caster having my own column. Let me know if you don't like it, and/or want to be discontinued from the list. If you have another email address to send it to, send that to me also. For older issues of the dish, email me. domsdish@gmail.com or go to http://domsdish.blogspot.com/

Dom's Dish - Big Babies edition

Dom's Dish - Tuesday, March 13, 2007


So, Glen "Big Baby" Davis, aka "Baby Shaq" is supposedly going to declare for the NBA draft. Not bad, he made it three years in college hoops, though this past injury-plagued season means his draft stock will probably fall out of the first few picks (I don't think he was every that high anyway). Last year's SEC player of the year and of Final Four fame, missed three games due to injury this year and LSU never got it going, finishing in last place in the SEC West. He may not sign an agent just yet, making him able to possibly come back for next season - the Brian Brohm rule. He did end the season with a double-double average, over 17 pts and 10 rebounds and he does have a nice 6'9" frame. It's the 295 lbs that will make him a presence inside and limit him to "East Coast" style play (aka the half-court offense). At the rate they're going, Sixers could be a playoff contender this season, falling a few picks in June's draft. Will #0 of LSU get drafted by the Sixers? That's what they ought to do...

Speaking of big babies...Lance Briggs. Dude made $700k last year and is going hard at the Bears management for franchise tagging him without a long-term deal. The franchise tender would be around $7.2 million (yeah, 10x his salary) and he is resigned to sitting out a year if need be. I hate asses like that. Even after the government and his agent gets their piece, he still will walk with let's say $4 million to play football for one season. Stay healthy, get a long term offer next season and you're still a millionaire. Idiots. You're playing with Brian Urlacher. You made it to the Super Bowl. There are 7 million reasons why you should shut your pipes and take the tag. I see two worse cases: sit out the year, get a smaller contract next year, don't prove yourself and get cut, out of football in 2 years with only a few hundred k in your pocket. Or, get a long term deal, blow out both knees and never play again.

As for the Eagles, they thought they had that kid Ryan Fowler from the Cowboys. Aside from being a special teams player, he has started only 3 games and for some reason the Birds were willing to throw around $10 million at him for 4 years. I'm glad he took the Titans offer and not the Eagles. They don't need to overspend on mediocre talent. Draft mediocre talent and pay accordingly. How about Ike Reese? Bring him back to play special teams, you know you want to.

So, while at Trenton's St. Paddy's Day parade/drinkfest, I got to observe something I haven't seen since my childhood: silly string. What is that stuff? String? Soap? Plastic? Foam? Toxic? My favorite part is when all the kids are spraying all the firetrucks as they pass by. What's up with that? One of my favorite moments was when a former co-worker I saw handed two kids a few cans and instructed them to do it, "Here, go spray the firetrucks. When I was a probee those bastards used to make me clean it." Case closed.


Around the balls:
Giant-orange- "Jesus Christ could come back and we still wouldn't have a chance because we've ruined the mix by not playing together," said Coach Phil Jackson when asked about the Lakers current injury situation. Now listen Colonel Sanders! That's one way to motivate your team, you Zen-ist!
White-leather-stitched- The Washington Nationals new stadium, to be completed by next April, will have a "grove of cherry trees" behind its left field bleachers. Get it? Washington? Cherry tree?
Rubber-non- Chris Simon was suspended 25 games by the NHL. His coach thought he would only be suspended 12 games. The Islanders better drug-test their coach, 'cuz he's smokin' something.
Big-brown-oblong- The Giants finally realized free agency was on and signed a washed up RB that only had a few great seasons due to Mike Shannahan. Reuben Droughns was a full back at one point. Brandon Jacobs is 6-4. The "Hefty Lefty" is up there too. Talk about a goal-line package...
Only-when-they-wreck- So I was watching a little NASCAR on Sunday. FOX does this thing where they tell you to turn up the volume so you only hear the cars (commentators take a smoke/dip break). I followed along (sounds good with surround sound). I tell ya what man, as fast as they go, it's got to be a sport. I mean they want to keep trim for less weight in the cars, they're sweating in those suits and there has to be a few G's they pull in some of those turns. Oh and there's as much cheating as baseball. Sport!


Program Alert:
"The Opening Round Game" is tonight on ESPN for the Mens NCAA tournament. It's not a "play-in game" since both are in- such crap. Stick to 64 teams and stop being lazy and cut someone. Anyway, tonight 7:30pm. It's either that or "Idol".


Links:
http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/news/story?id=2797237
http://www.latimes.com/sports/la-sp-lakers13mar13,0,86149.story?coll=la-home-sports
http://www.nationwidespeakers.com/images/biopics/phil_jackson.jpg


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For those new to "the dish", I once dreamed of being a sports-caster having my own column. Let me know if you don't like it, and/or want to be discontinued from the list. If you have another email address to send it to, send that to me also. For older issues of the dish, email me. domsdish@gmail.com or go to http://domsdish.blogspot.com/

Ecco il Punto

We rented a car in Rome, which is an experience in itself. When I initially called the company, I was told there was a rental office two blocks from where we were staying. Traveling along the street, I noticed a large gathering of adolecents and young adults in the courtyard of a church. Then without warning, a canister -of what I assumed to be tear gas from the reaction of the crowd – was fired from a police vehicle. I turned around, called the rental company and requested an alternate address. The directions furnished by the car rental company sent us to Via Marsala 29, Roma. Karen and I mapped our route and decided to walk from Via Giulia where we were staying. It was about 3 miles and there were plenty of sights along the way to distract us from the distance. A vibrant blue colored the sky set the backdrop and the temperature remained mild. After seeing the Coliseum, the Roman Forum and several churches we stopped to have lunch in a very nice trattoria on Via Cavour. Via Marsala ran parallel on the north side of the Stazionale Termini (Train Station). From mapping it on a friend’s computer the prior evening, I knew #29 was west of the station.
Crossing a major road in Rome requires a sense of adventure and nerves of steel. Cars, busses and especially Vespas seem to create a game of how close they can get to pedestrians without making contact. I have heard that many people are not that lucky, since pedestrian collisions in Rome occur daily. After many narrow misses, we reach 29 Via Marsala only to find an attractive Italian wearing an apron and standing behind a counter. I proceeded in the best Italian I knew:
“Hello, I had rented a car from this address,” I stated securely but a bit inquisitively.
“You want a beer?” she responded, obviously confusing my words.
“Sure. But I would also like to know about my car. Is it here?” The fact that I was asking a counter waitress about a rental car did not seem odd to me. I had encountered far stranger arrangements in Italy. She hands me two beers.
“I’m not sure if I understand,” she says confused.
“May I show you the paperwork?”
After perusing my paperwork, she explained that this address was no longer Via Marsala; this street had changed to the Via Volturno about 1 block back. Apologizing, I said I must have missed the sign. She assured me there was no sign and instructed me to continue back toward the train station. We walked the entire length of Via Marsala six times and saw no 29. I was tired, frustrated and confused. Finally, Karen saw a police officer and ran toward him with our paperwork.
She speaks only two words in Italian, both necessary for shopping, but her infectious smile and blonde hair go a long way in this country. The officer was somewhat confused by the address, but informed us that there were several car rental counters inside the Stazionale. In America, this would have been obvious, but seemed far too logical for Rome.
I had reserved a Smart Car. SMART® was the brainchild of Swatch® and Mercedes-Benz® to economize parking in Europe by creating a car whose length was the same as most cars width, creating the possibility of parking facing the curb. When I finally reached the car rental, a very nice woman informed me that they no longer had any SMART cars in stock; a nice German couple in front of us had decided to rent the last SMART. The nice lady at the rental agency shared my disdain for German tourists and offered me a free upgrade for my troubles. The Fiat Punto.
The Punto was the bastard child of European motors. It resembled the wicked love child of a Volkswagen Golf and an AMC Gremlin. I would have complained, but the thought of waiting for an alternative addled my brain. I turned to Karen and screamed “Ecco il Punto” – Here is the Punto. We both took a moment to sit and regain our composure, our stomachs hurting from the laughter. I had made it out of the garage screaming the catch phrase on each level.
When I went to pull out of the parking garage, a large bus appeared before me nearly removing the front bumper before ever having the chance to glance for traffic. I have driven in N.Y.C., D.C., Chicago, Philadelphia, Orlando, L.A., San Fran, Cleveland, and Newark. If you feel you could possibly compare driving in any city in this country to driving in Rome, you are tragically mistaken. The Italian driver maintains a type of genetic symbiosis between his car and the road. The volume and area of his car is ingrained in his mind and movement is not thought, it is felt. The drivers of this city traverse these streets to the syncopation of a fine aria, exhibiting a symphony of movement. Glancing over to Karen with a sly smirk of anxious anticipation I said, “Close your eyes.”
The gas pedal of the car was quickly to the floor. Although labeled a tailgater in America, in Rome my style of driving made sense to other drivers. It translated to an uncanny management of space, never occupying any more of the road than necessary. A lead foot was attached to a man who needed to reach his destination. Cutting someone off, again, fell into the category of economical movement. I was home! Glancing at the black and white photo-copied map of Rome furnished by the rental company, I realized I should have prepared my own map. I doubt if a magnifying glass would have helped, but the naked eye could recognize only two items on this map: the large circular highway that surrounds Rome and the word “ROME.”
I deftly moved about the city as if I had lived there my entire life. Throttling a button located on the gear shift assisted with tight corners. I cursed Vespa drivers that cut me off with an intimidating “Faccia dominga! ECCO IL PUNTO!” Laughing as if riding a rollercoaster, I was brought to hysterics with every “Oh God” that escaped Karen’s pursed lips. I had not had this much fun in years.
Something innate controlled my body as if I were drawing on the collective consciousness of past leaders or lost generations. These streets were being driven on recall, nearing instinct. I’m not sure how we got back to the apartment but we quickly finished packing and loaded the car to begin our tour of southern Italy, which will include il Punto on the Amalfi Drive. I question if I have ever been this aroused in my life.

Il Gusto di Cielo

We exited the bus only to begin our ascent up the mile long driveway. It was a grueling task considering my previous evening filled with house wine, a brunette and little sleep. It proved an evening that required grappa in my coffee and sunglasses before the dawn. It was forbidden for cars to travel the tree-flanked road while the family was summering on the estate. I asked, in what little Italian I could muster, what men called the green behemoths standing next to me as if guarding the only route to their owners. I was quite proud of my prowess with the language. I am sure to our native tour guide, Antonio, I resembled a petulant child attempting adult conversation. “Cypress” he answered, the “s” extending to an almost ominous echo. They stood so tall they seemed unnatural. Surely, a great Italian architect able to capture the alluring majesty of nature in a skyscraper considered them his greatest work. I wondered what these trees had experienced in their lifetime. Had the Goth’s used their ancestors to form spears against the Romans? Had their relatives rendered shade and secrecy to Casanova’s latest tryst? With each step closer to our destination my mind wandered the historical possibilities. The fall of Rome? Surely they were not that old! The proclamation of Vittorio Emanuele as King? Mussolini’s address in the palazzo Venezia? My inquisitive daydreaming quickly ended, usurped by the majesty before me as if a noble wind did prompt the trees to open up their guarding arms and welcome.

The Fanuiti estate in Tuscany is a great orange beacon upon a rolling hill of golden grass. Surrounded by olive groves and vineyards, the main house flanked by a guard wall, alluded to imagery of war. I held the honor, along with several others, of a lesson and a meal with the family chef. We had also anticipated spending the evening on the estate, but apparently the family of the house decided to “vacation early that year.” I could only imagine that as a member of one of the oldest and most famous wine making families in the world, your life would be a vacation. We were no longer permitted to use the house, we were told, but the servant’s quarters would be able to provide us with the necessary accommodations for our lesson and our lunch. Such is the life of a chef: obscured from the public eye, provided the means with which to complete a job, and then asked - no told - to leave.

We began a tour of the estate with the wine-making facilities, onto the vineyards, olive groves and olive oil processing area. We filed into the servants quarters only to find a full production kitchen. Obviously furnished for catered events, the kitchen was able to accommodate 15 workers comfortably – we were 23 – and more well appointed than most of the kitchens where we found ourselves back home. We were given our menu for the day and divided into groups, each with a group leader. I can assume it was for my limited knowledge of Italian rather than my unseen skills, that I was given the task to coordinate our event. Our instructors spoke broken, if any English so it was my job to relay the instructions of the meal’s assembly to the group. Visibly weary, I did not want to work and if I was expected to perform at any level – even one as lackadaisical as this – I was going to need a drink. The alcohol from last evening still coursing through my veins, inevitably destined for my pores began addling my mind. I suggested I be able to “taste” the wine, as to adequately manipulate the flavor profile of the food we would be serving. With a sly, smug smile, our gracious host beaconed me to follow.
Antonio and I walked to a narrow staircase, obviously built when people were smaller in stature, which led beneath the barrel room. Down a dimly lit, cobwebbed corridor, the musty air-cooled my face and I felt momentary relief while we traversed the catacombs under the house. The stories of generations lined these walls. Clandestined meetings between lovers, discoveries of 18th century wine making innovations, rites of childish passage surmounting each blind corner of impending doom. Finally, we reached our destination through a shrouded corner door arched in ancient stone.

Bottles, the likes of which I would never see again, were stacked haphazardly as if their value was overrated or misunderstood. I realized in this life, the life of this cellar, this house, this family, a ‘61 Gaja is table wine. Petulantly, I questioned the function of this unkempt cellar; knowing if it were mine, I would polish the bottles to their original luster daily, rejoicing in the subtleties with which the liquid’s red transforms to a beautiful brown tinge with age. I stumbled upon Antonio’s words and managed to gather that this served as the winemaker’s private cellar. Indeed, this is where the artist would come to derive inspiration from the great wines of his country and realize the true potential of his grapes and his talent. Antonio pointed to one shelf and said, “Choose.” I remained excited with my prospects rather that disappointed with my limits; interesting since at the time I was quite the narcissistic megalomaniac. I delicately mulled over each possibility, my fingers contemplating what type of experience I sought. Did I want to open the ’76 Nardi Barolo, simply satisfied that I had the opportunity to taste the year, knowing that I would be disappointed in the overall quality of the wine? Or should I choose the ’97 knowing it was far too young but one of the best years the Tuscan countryside has ever seen?

If I could only adequately relay in words the turmoil my mind had undergone in those moments. I have no regrets in life other than missed opportunities. The contact not made. The networking I failed to maintain, and by now they were sure to have forgotten me. The girl I hadn’t had since the acquiescence of her mind was all I desired that evening. The education I never completed. The friends I always kept at a distance, and now yearned for their touch. I did not want this to be another on the list. In a world where I ranked experience so high, this could be a Grail. I stumbled upon a green bottle with a rough cork. I brushed off the dust with my hand and saw no label. When held a certain way in the modest light I could see 1993 inscribed in what seemed to be wax pencil.

I handed Antonio the bottle my hand trembling with uncertainty. “You are a smart man,” he said with grin, his eyes never leaving the bottle. Opportunity found. This bottle was a blend the wine maker had used as a template for that year. It is what he wanted his wine to resemble when finished. Attention to such detail would be cost prohibitive for mass production, but for a case or two the winemaker could completely control a small batch of the juice to see if the grapes had adequately reached their full potential when the larger vat was complete. Antonio turned and said, “You keep quiet. This our secret.” Who sounded petulant now? I greedily agreed, relieved that I did not have to share the experience.

He opened the bottle and prepared two glasses. With only a drop to examine, we plunged our noses in the glass and inhaled deeply. I am unable to describe the intense complexity of the aroma, but I will never forget the image my receptors conjured. I imagined a leather chair, coated in blackberry jam, dipped in chocolate and rolled in tobacco. This was going to be good. I found pure velvet on the tongue with flavors of wet tobacco and stewed fruit with a finish that lasted for minutes waiting for me in that bottle. Some may find this description revolting, even nauseating, but I can say with great certainty that in that bottle I had a momentary glimpse of what lies beyond the Gates of Pearl. I poured a full glass and prayed for the opportunity to find 1993 in the afterlife.

Antonio and I rejoined the group who, almost finished preparing lunch, grew angrier in every fold of ravioli that I was absent for the chores. My savior from the motley crew was found in the form of a case of wine I persuaded Antonio to bring up from the catacombs. These labeled bottles held no mystery, shared no divine providence with the cypress, but satisfied those ignorant of my enlightenment.

We established our picnic area on the east end of the estate, erecting our crude dining room under flowering willows and beside a patch of sunflowers. Two wine barrels on their sides served as legs and a long patch of plywood produced a rustically beautiful tabletop. I will never know where Antonio found a tablecloth to cover our behemoth. Apparently, I was not aware of all of his secrets. While we all sat and broke bread, sharing wine and stories, I decided to take a moment for myself.

I walked the estate breathing in the life that enveloped my body in the warm Tuscan sun. I touched the vines, some hundreds of years old, inspecting the diameter of their stalks. I walked among the olives and plucked one off the tree, its warm oils sputtering out of my mouth and running down my chin. As I wiped the secretions off of my face, I remembered how I came to this diversion in my life. My own road less traveled washed to the forefront of my mind.
I went to college with aspirations of becoming a lawyer. The experience of my parents divorce ingrained a portrait in my mind of law as power. At 10-years of age, I witnessed the legal system usurp my childhood as a judge forced me to monitor my father’s drinking habits and report my mother’s willingness toward visitation. A cycle of lies began as I told my mother my father didn’t drink, at least in my presence, and told my father my mother was not yet dating. I became more and more adept in the art of manipulation. With years of experience at fabricating my own truths, the law seemed like a more than viable option for a career.

I thoroughly enjoyed my college experience. I made many friends with whom I am still in close contact. I was elected to represent the freshman class as a senator on the Student Government Association and later, elected to hold the position of Vice President of Administration and Finance. I auditioned and received the lead in a musical and was a Founding Father my fraternity on campus. I drank a lot of beer and dated too many girls. I had garnered the respect of my classmates, received decent grades while never attending class, and my parents continually paid the bill for my maxed out credit card.

Despite my indulgences, I quickly became bored with college and uninterested in my life. An unknown force began to pull me away from the way I was living. Perhaps I had achieved success too quickly and felt I had already accomplished most of my desires. Shakespeare said “to climb steep hills requires a slow pace at first.” Maybe as the classes got harder I had problems maintaining my grades with a lack of attendance. Was it because I had dated within an excessive number of social circles and rumors began limiting my options? Most likely, the depression I had repressed in my childhood finally found me while I lived alone in a studio apartment in Princeton.

When surrounded by friends, the distracting problems of the real world are easily evaded. Community seems to diffuse the broader complexities of existence. While alone in my apartment, I could not escape the introspective process, the true tributary to my depressive state. With my parent’s financial contributions towards entertainment diverted to a highly inflated studio lease, I began working in one of the finest restaurants in Princeton to supplement my income.

I became addicted to the adrenaline and the strange satisfaction working in a restaurant provided. It was an easy assessment of success; you make it, they like it, you win. It was a competitive atmosphere in which I quickly began to excel. Perhaps I really did find my passion. More realistically, I fell in love with the restaurant industry because it quickly became my only escape from this weight of abstract and unidentified unhappiness. As if I was lying on my stomach and an elephant came and rested upon my back, I knew not the origin of the pain or how to have it removed. It created an incredible frustration and every thwarted remedy took me farther from my destination. I became lost is a sea of apathy yearning for the glimpse99999. One cannot feign direction in a life. It can be reaffirmed to the self that you have ambitions and goals. Eventually, the mind will begin to believe and slowly your actions will begin to follow, “For use can almost change the stamp of nature." I found that almost remains the prophetic rub of that quote.

A hand on my shoulder and a familiar voice I knew so well usurped my reminiscence. The only person I had deemed worthy of my friendship while at culinary school, Athena joined me in my sojourn.

“Where are you right now?” she asked of my glazed expression.

“Oh, where I go.” I responded, knowing she knew my lapses all too well.

“You’re missing it. Everyone is singing your praises back there and thanking you for the wine.”

“Good. I’m glad everyone is having a good time.”

“This place is so romantic. I have to come back here with Mark.”

She mentions her husband a lot on this trip. I’m not sure if it is to remind me or her of his existence. Athena is the only female friend I have ever had in my life that I had not known physically in some capacity. I reminded her of this often, letting her know that should the opportunity or desire arise I would not be adverse to the intimation. Our initial meeting was actually a forced attempt on my part to “pick her up.” After I noticed the ring on her finger, I laughed it off and we have been close friends ever since.

We returned to the feast, knowing our lingering absence would cause rumors and place our grade in jeopardy; for I was being graded on this glorious day. I received a grade for my private excursion with Antonio, for bonding with a friend for 3 weeks in Italy, and learning to appreciate life a little more. When we reached the buffet we found our laughter echoed by those at the table. As the wind carried the small white flowers of the trees, obscuring my view, I cataloged the snowy memory knowing that it did not get much better than this.