The summer before eighth grade, my family took a trip to Italy. It was the first time I had ever been to Europe, and in the weeks leading up to take off, my imagination was sparked with visions of The Lizzie McGuire Movie where our spunky teenage protagonist takes a trip to Rome, Italy I dreamed of riding around the city on a vespa, finding my own Paolo, and living la bella vita. This dream came with a kick. Mid-way through our trip, my parents informed me that part of the reason we were in Italy was to visit schools and apartments before moving there for a year. My middle-school self did a spit take. Moving?! What about my friends? Our dog?? The luxurious eighth grade campout??? I was completely caught off guard, and supremely unhappy with the proposition of leaving everything behind. In retrospect, my reaction was pure melodrama. I knew that my parents were acting in my best interest; that these kinds of opportunities were life changing and unique. Nevertheless, moving to a new country was an idea that took some getting used to. Once I settled in, Florence quickly familiarized around me. Within the first couple of weeks, I started picking up the language, mastering the bus routes, and making friends I would have all my life. I carved out a mental map of my favorite places, sights, and restaurants. I went to the open-air market with my mom on the weekends, translating phrases for her and watching our favorite butcher’s face light up like a roman candle. I learned the names of the vendors lining the street below our apartment in Piazza Santa Croce. In the span of the year, the renaissance town was brought to life before my eyes, and came to be what I now consider my second home. Still, my most vivid memories of Florence are embedded in the smells of its food. The smell of baked bread drifting out the backdoor of a restaurant kitchen and down a quiet alley, the smell of a heaping bowl of Rigatoni 13 Gobbi served by an opera singer-turned-waiter, the smell of a sauce coming together in the kitchen of our apartment as a rousing game of Bananagrams ensues. I pick up essences of these scents everywhere I go - from Dallas, to Boston, to Mexico. And it’s in these moments that I realize that what I’m smelling to is no particular dish. It’s the memory of cooking, and togetherness; a theme that goes hand in hand with the spirit of Thanksgiving. To kick off the holiday feasting, I’m sharing one of the first recipes I ever learned; one that brings me back to my childhood every time I make it. It’s a lazy morning breakfast I grew up cooking with my dad when the other chef wanted to sleep in. Just as easily as the taste transports me, creating the first bite and smelling it all come together works the same way. The sizzle of soft, custardy bread frying in a pan, the vision of powdered sugar falling through the sifter like snow, and the sacred rule of eating with hands only are elements that never change, no matter where the stove moves. As I’ve grown older, this recipe has developed a new connotation. Being in college, moments where my whole family is cooking together are fewer and more special. This Thanksgiving, I will be headed back to beautiful Florence to meet and spend the holidays with my family in a town resonant with memories. As I eat my way through the cobbled streets, I know that there will be my favorite Rigatoni and the freshly baked offerings of Mercato Sant’Ambrogio. There will be icy gelato, and warm bowls of pasta e fagioli. In our kitchen, I know there will be my dad’s french toast. The Famous French Toast Recipe To this day, this is one of the only meals my dad can make (besides scrambled eggs and an immaculate - painstaking - artichoke salad he learned to make in a cooking class in Florence). Its recipe is simple, but its taste is full. Wherever I eat this, I’m brought back to our round wooden table, sitting on my knees and dripping hot syrup everywhere but my mouth. Ingredients For portions, the general rule of thumb goes as follows:
And then:
For serving: powdered sugar, 100% maple syrup Instructions
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