And then one day it became clear - pasta is the ultimate camp food. I was 18 and living in Florence for the summer while taking a film making program through NYU. At that moment however school was a distant thought as I struggled to fit in among the shaggy, bohemian young Italians camped riverside at a music festival outside of town. When they weren't smoking hash the cool kids were getting busy with huge pots of water, boiling and straining pasta. My American mind was reeling - pasta and camping? I was used to hot dogs, canned beans, maybe a quesadilla. That day the world shifted a little bit. Pasta stepped into the great outdoors.
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Happy Bastille Day! While I am as much French as I am American, I rarely celebrate that fact for no good reason. But today, today my fridge is packed with cheese and coq au vin, Nick is baking baguettes for dinner and we hung out the the old red white and blue (vertical) striped flag. Why the hell not?
My dad Claude, a French Tunisian, is the first to deplore the traits of the Frenchman. Lazy, long vacation takers, snobs, and on and on. He calls Italians nos frères qui rit, our brothers who laugh, in another jab at the somber French. I will admit that living there as a 20 year old American was very, very hard. I wanted desperately to be French, to embody the aloof coolness that I felt all around me. I lived in St-Germain-des-Pres, an impossibly chic neighorhood, bought fancy clothes, and tried to pass myself off as one of them.
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