Bella Ciao

"Oh my gosh, I know this song!" I interrupted Heid and Mary at breakfast yesterday. I had been enjoying the eclectic playlist as we sat in the sunny dining room, identifying the Gypsy Kings and James Taylor playing quietly over the clink of tableware and the murmur of conversations at the tables around us.

The summer I was 18, I worked as a counselor at a summer school in England. A few programs were going on that summer: a high school drama camp, a couple of sports camps, and an intensive language program for English learners in grades 3-12. As the youngest member of the staff, I was the utility person, filling in and supporting other counselors and teachers as needed. I was also a dorm resident for the 10 high-school-aged girls. 

We were only in session for five weeks, but like any intense, residential situation when you're that age, we shared a lot of memorable experiences. The song that I heard playing at breakfast transported me to the center bench seat of a VW van on its way to Wales. We were going to hike Mt. Snowden, and one of the girls, Manuela, was telling us the story of her grandfather, who was a partisan in Italy during WWII. "There is a song we always sing when we hike with him," she said, "that was the song of the partisans."

And she began to sing the very catchy folksong, Bella Ciao. We all learned the first two verses, and we sang them at the top of our lungs up and down the mountain, as well as at dinner, and any other time it occurred to one of us to start for the rest of the summer. The version I heard yesterday was by the American cross-genre orchestra, Pink Martini, and the Italian lyrics came flooding back to me, so I sang along. 

Una mattina mi son svegliato
O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao
Una mattina mi son svegliato
Eo ho trovato l'invasor 

One morning I woke up
O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao
One morning I woke up
And I found the invader

O partigiano porta mi via
O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao
O partigiano porta mi via
Che mi sento di morir

Oh partisan, carry me away,
O bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao
Oh partisan, carry me away,
For I feel I'm dying

Influencers

"Oh my gosh! Jack's is closed today!" I reported in dismay. Mary had just settled in the back seat, and the three of us, wearing our matching breakfast club t-shirts, were about to embark on our latest adventure. (Regular readers may recall that after a Denny's disappointment last summer, Mary, Heidi, and I went out to breakfast once a week or so to compare local restaurants.) This year, we decided to focus on breakfast sandwiches, after a great one at Metro 29 Diner.

I tapped the map app on my phone and searched for "breakfast near me." The first place it listed was Del Ray Cafe, not two miles from where we were, and off we went. The restaurant was welcoming from the start: located in a converted home just off the main thoroughfare, we climbed wide wooden steps to the front porch and pulled open the screen door. Inside, we were greeted by friendly staff and led upstairs to a bright dining room with farmhouse tables and a natural wood ceiling open to a skylight at the peak. Red and white gingham napkins and porcelain coffee cups were at each place setting.

And it only got better from there. Our waiter was charming and efficient, and the French-inspired menu with house-baked pastries and locally sourced ingredients was interesting and inviting. We all quickly settled on our orders, and as we sat there, another patron stopped by the table on her way out. "This place is fantastic," she told us. "If you've never been here, you'll love it. I eat here about once a week." Then she told us she loved our Breakfast Club t-shirts and asked how to join.

Our food did not disappoint, and we had all agreed on our first-ever straight five-star rating, based on food, service, and ambiance, when our waiter offered us a complimentary dessert. A short while later, he brought us six mini profiteroles, dusted with powdered sugar and served with house-made raspberry sauce, chocolate sauce, and whipped cream. 

We wondered if it was the t-shirts, the other diner, or the pictures that Mary took and posted of our food that may have led him to believe we were more important than we might be, but it didn't matter. The dessert was delicious, and we will definitely return to Del Ray Cafe! 

And you should, too!

I'm Never Gonna Stop the Rain by Complaining

On the night we arrived at Heidi's mom's house, we made a calendar of things the three of us wanted to do in Buffalo over the next five days. "I'm a planner," Louise likes to tell us, and so we made a plan. Lobster rolls at Olcott Beach were on it, and so were the movies and replacing those screen doors. The final item on our list was to visit East Aurora and have brunch at the Roycroft Inn before shopping at America's largest five and dime, Vidler's, which is what we did yesterday.

The Inn is part of the Roycroft Campus, one of the early centers of the Arts & Crafts movement of America. The architecture and furniture are lovely, and the food is fine, although we were soundly reminded that all-you-can-eat buffets are not a good value for three women over 50. 

Even so, the highlight of the day for me was when we came out of the beautiful old building to find a torrential downpour. Rather than dash across the street to the car, we opted to take seats in some mission-style rocking chairs on the enormous porch and wait out the storm. As I rocked contentedly in the warm, humid afternoon air, considering the enormous raindrops splashing into puddles on the sidewalk, I couldn't remember the last time I sat outside and watched it rain, but I was sure I would find the occasion to do it again soon.

A Shopping Excursion

Since we love to do so at home, we thought it would be fun to shop at a local farmers market while up here in Buffalo, and a nearby Saturday market seemed like just the ticket. 

The village of Williamsville is one of the many suburbs that flow into each other on the outskirts of Buffalo. It is one of the older of the many hamlets in the area, settled in the mid-1800s around a mill built on Elicott Creek. The architecture along the tree-lined streets is mostly early 20th-century eclectic, much like that of Arlington, and unlike the midcentury colonials, ranchers, and prairie-style tract homes that populate Heidi's mom's subdivision.

We felt at home as we parked in front of one of the several small independent businesses on Main Street and walked over to the city hall parking lot, but it quickly became clear how far north we are. There were no tomatoes or peaches, but they still had winter apples from last season, as well as lots of greens, onions, a few ears of corn, and some small zucchini. But the most surprising thing to us was that it was a cash-only market, which left us out since we are accustomed to the mostly cash-free economy in the DMV. 

Oh, we could have gone back to the car to tap the emergency money we have hidden away, but in the end it didn't seem worth it. We ducked into the local coffee roaster and snag a bag of single estate beans from Huila, Columbia before driving a mile back up Main where we found a locally-sourced green grocer. Still no tomatoes, but we bought a quart of housemade chicken stock and some pickled red onions before heading home, not unsatisfied in the least.

Need to Succeed

“We could probably do that ourselves,” I said as we looked at the rotting screen doors leading to Heidi’s mom’s summer room.

“Really?” Louise asked, since she had just told us that the job would cost her over 500 dollars.

“I think so,” I replied, and whipped out my phone to google the cost of replacement doors. They were 65 bucks each at the local big box home improvement store, and another 50 for delivery, and the three of us headed over there to make arrangements to have them dropped off yesterday so that we could complete the project today.

Later, I was having second thoughts, but by then we were committed. “What are you worried about?” Heidi asked.

“One, things are never as easy as they seem like they will be, and two, your mom is very particular,” I answered.

“I have faith in you Babe,” she said.

Kyle, our nephew, was not so confident, when I mentioned the project while texting him on his birthday. He had a job installing doors a few years ago, so I asked him if he had any advice.

“My advice is to not mess it up,” he wrote. “Damnma will be very angry when they’re crooked.”

This morning we went out to get a couple of last minute supplies; we needed new screws for the hinges we intended to reuse, in case they stripped when removing them, and a thin piece of wood to attach to one of the doors as the center stop. Once back at the house, I gathered the tools and set to work, with Heidi’s assistance and Louise’s oversight. 

An hour and a half later? The job was done, and thank goodness! It looked great, and even Kyle thought so.

Different Day

Overall, we are grateful that Lucy wakes us up when she has bad belly rather than handling it herself and making a mess in the house. Even so, it’s hard not to groan when you feel that paw on your shoulder in the wee hours. That said, at least here at Heidi’s mom’s house, instead of leashing her up and taking her out, all you have to do is stumble up the stairs and open the back door, which is what I did at 3:30 this morning. 

I was rewarded for my effort, though, when refreshing 61 degree air spilled in the door as Lucy hurried out; a cold front had dropped through, promising a beautiful day ahead. And after sleeping a little later than usual to make up for the restlessness that followed my middle of the night adventure, the day did not disappoint.

We drove up to Olcott Beach on Lake Ontario (Yes! It’s in the book.) A cool breeze off the lake kept the temperature to 70, despite the clear blue skies and warm sunshine. They were celebrating Christmas in July, and all the cute little independent shops were decorated. The famous carousel park, outfitted with a Wurlitzer self-player and other vintage kiddie rides, had a mailbox for letters to Santa as well as the man himself.

For lunch, we dined on Western New York’s first and only lobster roll shack, and the sandwiches were delicious and authentic— loaded with tender lobster claws lightly dressed in a chive and lemon mayo and served on a griddled New England hot dog bun. Then we took the scenic route home, skirting the southern shore of Lake Ontario on a day so clear we could see the Toronto sky line 75 miles away.

Once home, Heidi and I pumped up the bike tires and took a spin through the neighborhood, returning home briefly to leash up the dogs so they, too, could enjoy this glorious day. Next? We’re fending for dinner, enjoying leftover steak, grilled sausage, chicken cacciatore, potato salad, a nice tossed salad, and watermelon.

And tomorrow looks like it might be just as great.

Still Missing the Musts

The day dawned gray and blustery, yet still managed to be uncomfortably humid. Even so, we set an alarm to walk the dogs early so that we could get out there and get going, but first we were stalled by french toast with fresh peaches for breakfast, and next we were disappointed by the rug installer who promised to be here and gone by noon, and then there was a hair appointment and those movie tickets we purchased the day before.

In the between times, I scanned my book for places we might quickly visit, but nothing presented itself. The closest attraction, a haunted church-funeral home-museum, didn't open until 5 for scary tours, so we were out of luck. Tomorrow is going to be a success, though, I know it. The plan is to actually go to Olcott Beach and try the new lobster roll joint there. (But only if those screen doors get delivered in time.) 🤞🏻