Kinda-sorta Recipe For Tartufo Dessert Thing

After the hair to-do, the eye-talian and I went to a nice little Italian restaurant down the street from the salon where she works. I had a risotto with grilled vegetables, which was heavily doused with glorious garlic. She had these gigantic ravioli (there's another word for em, but I can't remember) stuffed with gorgonzola and spinach and walnuts.

Then we ordered dessert. Because when you're eating with an Italian in a really good Italian joint, you eat the bread smothered in olive oil, the soup, the salad, the entree, AND the dessert. And coffee, of course. I don't think it's considered a full meal unless it lasts at least 2 hours. And anyway, we HAD to get dessert because this place has tartufo. The ice cream version, imported and everything.

When I was in Italy, one of the most difficult decisions to make anytime we went out to eat was when it came time to order dessert. First question was always: do they have profiteroles? That trumped all the rest, usually. Then it was a matter of mood to determine if I wanted tartufo or tiramisu. Then if I DID decide on tartufo, there was the matter of scuro or bianco? Scuro means dark, and that's chocolate - a ball of chocolate ice cream with vanilla custard in the center, all of it dusted in dark chocolate. Bianco is white and that meant vanilla ice cream around a center of (very very strong) coffee ice cream, and the very center was sometimes liquid espresso and the whole ball was coated in this white-candied stuff. So either kind of tartufo was always way tempting.

And with tartufo, there's the option of going affogato. Which I think just means "drowned".

I'm bringing this up because I sincerely believe that tartufo affogato is medicinal and that each and every one of you needs it in your life, okay?

So if you find a white tartufo (which is really damn hard to find outside of Italy, I've noticed), what you do is this: dump your espresso over the top of it and eat away. It is dee-lish. But what's even more dee-lish is the chocolate version.

If you find a chocolate tartufo, order a Sambuca (or other liqueur, I spose, but I do highly recommend Sambuca) and dump that over the top of it, and eat away.

If you can't find a chocolate tartufo, then you can make your own. No, really - you can. Go buy some really quality chocolate ice cream. The Godiva Belgian Dark is just about exactly right. Then scoop out some - even form it using some kinda mold, if you'd like to be all formal about it and make it purty - and roll the scoop in cocoa powder. I think plain old Nestle Cocoa would be okay, but probably best to go for a light coating of the darker stuff. I have Hershey's Special Dark Cocoa, and that's fine.

Then go and hunt for a liquor store that carries Sambuca. Almost every time I've had it, it's served with a few coffee beans floating in it, which symbolize something or other (heath, wealth, manageable hair) and is a nice little embellishment, so toss em in if you got em.

You serve the ball of ice cream in a big, round wine glass. Then you take the Sambuca and dump it over. Each bite is a little bit of ice cream, a little bit of liqueur. And as you eat it, there's this fantastic feeling that creeps over you, because it's absolutely the perfect taste after a meal of garlicky or gorgonzola-filled food. That's one thing. Another thing is how you can feel it soothing your whole digestive system. It's like The Intestines Whisperer. Instead of chugging along, your innards are sorta floating and gliding and la-la-la. And of course, you start smiling more and everything in the world seems perfectly lovely and everything is going to be absolutely okay, you just know it will.

You know how after an encounter with dementors, only chocolate will settle you? And it spreads warmth through your whole body? It's like that.

At the end, you drink down the dregs, all this chocolate-infused liqueur.

You're welcome.

So here's a thing: a few nights ago, I go to do my bills. Rent is paid, so what's left, I ask myself. Answer: not much. I tot everything up, I take into account anything that's pending or due in the next two weeks. I do it again. And again. I employ a calculator. Then some formulas on an Excel sheet. Then paper and pencil. But no matter how I figure, every which way I look at it, there is no denying it: I have a lot of money left over. Far more than expected.

What do I do in response to this verified (and re-verified and triple-checked and downright ironclad), bona fide, really truly strings-free extra money? I slide a little over into savings.

And then I began to hyperventilate. Like, seriously. Paper-bag-breathing and everything. I occasionally still feel my gorge rising when I think of my ridiculously healthy bank balance, despite the fact that I DO realize that it's direct the result of my overestimating expenses for the last 2 months. Nevertheless, the panic and queasiness continue.

Exhibit B: A couple of weeks ago, I realize that I have no idea how much money I have in my retirement account. I realize as well that perhaps I want to move this money into an IRA. (Okay, that makes me sound too smart - really it's my friend Paul who knows all this stuff and it's entirely his suggestion, plus he then goes and researches all things specific to my financial situation. So I'm really not all that money-smart, but I AM smart enough to listen to knowledgeable peoples. Anyway.) But in order to see what's best to do, I need to know how much is in there.

Initial mini-freakout in this instance is caused by the realization that OMG I have NO idea how much money is in that fund, I never even THINK about it and it's MY money and HOW CAN I NOT KNOW HOW MUCH IS IN THERE OH MY GOD.

The Big Time Freakout quickly follows and is caused because I cannot find any account statement. I tear my apartment apart in the search, but no dice. I try to log in at thir site but it won't let me in. Realizing that the shaking and the pacing and the desperate struggle to not break down in tears is, um, oh, hmmm what do they call that? A full-blown panic attack, I think. Yeah. Realizing that I am rapidly melting down and on the verge of screaming A dingo ate my savings!, I dial up the 800 number (at nearly 10pm, but hey - they're the ones with crazy customer service hours, undoubtedly for Freaks Like Me) and frantically demand my login and password.

It takes the soothing sight of a dollar figure in my retirement account, a couple of hours and several swigs of scotch to calm me the fuck down.

Okay, so I can give example after example of this phenomenon, but here's the last one, which should be a nice summation snapshot kinda thing: Every time I think of my savings account, my palms begin to sweat profusely and I begin gnawing my lower lip as though it were made of Laffy Taffy. Now, my savings account is entirely too small, but it's growing every paycheck, which is about a kajillion percent improvement over the last 20 years of my life.

Basically, I am more financially sound than I have ever been in my life.

This morning, I went to the doctor. She did some tests. Aside from these crazed nervous reactions to money-stuff, I've been having some really odd and rather alarming physical symptom-type things. So some tests. I have a crappy family history with all kinds of diseases, and sometimes headaches aren't just headaches. (Just an example - I've got no major headache issues, aside from this chronic tension headache in my left temple which okay yeah, that's a headache issue, I guess.) I have thus far checked out quite fine. Yay rah healthy Beth woohoo.

So what's with all the freaky-ass symptoms?

It's stress. Anxiety.

I get that. I believe it. I'm sure that's what it all is and had in fact decided that's what it was before I made the appointment, but I just wanted to be safe and make sure I wasn't ignoring obvious signs of imminent death/disability. (La di dah, lil miss practical.)

But the thing is? I really don't have much stress in my life. Note:

• No Mom. She was a major stressor. Not having to deal with her is this huge hunk of anxiety almost entirely lifted out of my daily life.
  
• For that matter, no anyone-I-don't-like. I don't go to family things - or friend things or, to a great extent, work things - unless I want to. Having control over one's social life and getting as much "I'm only doing this under duress" stuff out of that social life? Priceless.
• Work is fine. I am not overwhelmed. I am up to the tasks before me. I don't have ugly employee issues (always the most stressful for me) nor am I under any immense pressure every day.
• Also, I'm pretty much doing just an 8-hour day now. I take lunch, too. We're no longer in the crazy-crazy can't-breathe portion of the year.
• No mysterious health issue. This time last year, I was dragging myself to another specialist in the hopes of finding out wtf was wrong with me. Since he diagnosed and treated me, it's been nearly a full year that I've been healthy. No pain. No wondering what the pain is, anymore. This is an unbelievably huge stress factor that's just completely obliterated from my life.
• Flowers!
  
• As bullet points!
  
• Yay!

My life right now? Is good. Better than it's ever been, I daresay. So taking all of this into consideration, there's really only one conclusion I can draw: I am completely and irrevocably fucked up about money.

I blame my parents. And here's why, in the form of a quiz!

Which of the following statements did I hear on a near-daily basis as child?
A. "We can't afford that."
B. "We have bills to pay."
C. "That costs too much for us."
D. "We don't have the money for it."
E. "Don't worry about it."

(Hint: If you picked E, you're mentally retarded. Nice shoes.)

Seriously, I don't think a day went by that some strong comment about how very very broke we were wasn't made. And made pointedly. Over and over and over again, and with this kind of underlying tone of either exasperation or utter terror. I mean, imagine if instead these were all statements like
A. "But the marshmallows might eat us."
B. "Don't go out without your marshmallow repellent!"
C. "The marshmallows attack at night."
D. "The Great Marshmallow is trying to make you think that way."

A child growing up in that situation would naturally become an adult who fears marshmallows. Even if it's possible to eventually realize there are no marshmallow armies out to get us and that we can, in fact, lead full and rich lives where we put the petite ones in our hot chocolate and watch them die blissfully melting deaths before we suck their sweetness up a powerful act of self-reclamation, there is no denying that never again, ever, can you ever think of a marshmallow as just a marshmallow. Because marshmallows have become this, like, thing.

And by "marshmallows" I mean "money". And by "thing" I mean "pathology".

When I was 14 years old, I ran through a glass door and gashed my leg open, blood everywhere, big drama. At the hospital, waiting for the doctor to come stitch me up, I was all trying-not-to-cry as I kept apologizing for being so thoughtless as to get injured in any way and require the services of paid professionals. I kept asking my mom if it would cost much. She kept saying that insurance would pay for it, what're you talking about? She said it wouldn't cost us anything, this hospital trip. But it has to cost something, I told her. Nothing costs nothing. Everything takes money and can we afford it? Will Dad have to work extra hours to pay for it?

If my mother found this fixation troubling, she hid it well. She seemed to find it more puzzling and amusing than anything else. Incidentally, just after I went through the glass and as we were stanching the huge gush of blood from my leg, my little sister asked me, "Do you think that glass door is expensive? Will it cost a lot to buy a new one?"

Yeah, see. Pathological. And apparently, I flare up much more when I actually HAVE money. When broke and unable to pay my bills, I am miserable - but I understand it. I'm used to it. It's predictable. I know how to feel and function in that known state.

But when I CAN pay my bills, I begin to fret here and there. Now that I actually have money that I can save or - horror of horrors - manage, it turns into a psychosomatic disorder. And tries to ruin my better-than-ever life.

I really really REALLY resent this. So here's my unsolicited advice to all parents out there: teach your kids about money, but for fucksakes, don't talk about it all the goddamn time. If they ask for something you can't afford - stupid little things, like non-generic cereal and a barette with white and red ribbons that costs five times more than a plain barette - don't say "No, we can't afford that" every time. Just say, I dunno, like "We're only buying things we need today" or something. Think General Principles and Clear Examples, not Gruesome Details.

Anyway, there we have my Money Disease. Nice, huh? Gads, if I ever reach my savings goal, I may have a total mental collapse and have to use it all to pay for the sanitorium.

Celebrate les Beeetches avec
Chas!
and
Kate!
and
jmc!


Upon request

Hmm, okay, so Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell. What to say about it? Well, first off - it's all about magic. And stuff. It's set in England, like 1807ish-1820ish. And I spose what I love most about it is how very matter-of-fact it all is. Here we are, in an England we all know quite well (especially if you read historical Romances, or anything Regency at all), and yet it's a whole other world. Slightly tweaked. Being a magician in this world is rather like being an historian, or a man of the law, or collector of antiquities: it's a perfectly respectable profession, and an avid hobby of many respected gentlemen.

Of course, being a magician doesn't at ALL mean that one does magic. In the first chapter we learn that no one's done magic in England since oh about the 16th centruy or so, and that magicians these days are very specialized scholars. Some even think that it would be quite improper to actually practice magic. (We learn all this through the extensive use of footnotes, incidentally, which both annoy and delight me throughout the book.) But then what should happen but Mr. Norrell comes along and lo and behold - he can do magic. A practical magician! England is utterly thrilled and astounded, and we're on our way into this 800-n-some page book.

Everyone I know who's read it points out that it's slow in the beginning, which I totally don't get. All I know is, if you're kinda bored and are wondering whether it's worth it to keep reading, allow me to answer that with a resounding Yes. I think the beginning - and by that I mean the first 200 pages or so - is somewhat Heyer-esque. Except imagine Heyer without a romance brewing behind it all. There are just amusing little incidents and amusing characters and fun little happenings here and there as Mr. Norrell goes to London to champion the cause of English magic.

Then about page 200, Jonathan Strange comes along. He's a practical magician, too, but far more likeable than Mr. Norrell. Maybe that's why people don't like the first part, because (1) Mr. Norrell is not a very likeable character, and (2) there are little footnote references to Strange - plus his name is in the title, so pretty obvious - and the anticipation of him finally stepping on stage is a little overwhelming, and you start getting impatient. But once he shows up, the pace really picks up. After he steps through his first mirror about halfway through the book, well - just forget it. You find yourself making the argument that of course you can get by on just 20 minutes of sleep and really is it even worth arguing about because clearly there are priorities in life and omg omg shhh the gentleman with the thistle-down hair is back!

So basically, it's this sort of fantastical fiction in the historical biography vein, about how magic was brought back to England by two magicians who couldn't be more different. There are fairies involved. Also high society, fashionable persons, malicious enchantments, the madness of the King, and no little bit of Lord Wellington. Gads, what's not to like? Also Mrs. Strange, who is thoroughly charming and likeable and not stupid or shrewish or perfect or weak and is, in short, a really remarkably good character who is easy to like a lot.

Anyway, I frikken love it. It has a pseudo-scholastic air, insanely long digressions in the form of footnotes, British people talking in that proper Regency way they have, an arch humor, and fairy folk. It's like it was designed around all the things that appeal to me, so I can't not like it. And the length is a bonus - I adore a good thick book that I can lose myself in. Furthermore, the events that transpire to interfere with the romance of Mr. Strange and his most excellent wife are thoroughly engrossing and add this fantastic dash of romance and passion to it all. Can't you see, people? There's something for the whole family!

So there's why you should cull it from the pile, jmc. It's pretty damn delightful, if you ask me. And you did. So there ya go.