Category Archives: Uncategorized

My Big Fat Diet

19 Monday Mar 2012

Posted by in Eating out in Arizona, Food, Shopping, Uncategorized

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Sculpture by Fernando Botero

Any of you out there NOT go on a diet every now and then?  What is your ‘tipping point,’ that moment when needing to lose a few pounds outweighs the substantial joys of eating and drinking?

For me it’s my undies.  When they’re too tight, I know something must be done.  I turn a deaf ear when my outer clothes complain.  I hear them saying, “Help us!  We can’t stand the pressure!  We’re going to explode!” and it affects me not one whit.  But when my undies don’t fit, it just flat out makes me sad.  And I know that the moment has arrived to log in to MyPlate and start counting calories.  Bah.

That moment arrived last week, but I had to postpone the inevitable thanks to a houseguest who likes to eat and drink as much as we do; to  be honest, I didn’t mind a bit.  There was much tippling, much merriment, and way, way too much to eat.

Then a shocking thing happened:  my car died, the car that has carried me faithfully wherever I wished to go for 17+ years.  It was very upsetting.  The repair bill would have been sizable, and the mechanic opined there would be more big repairs in the not-too-distant future, so… time for a new car.

Not my car, but the same color as mine and almost as much dust as mine usually wears. Photo courtesy of it.wikipedia.org.

Except, of course, we don’t buy new cars; we buy used cars,  which, let me tell you, is a lot more work than strolling into a dealership and ordering up a brand new vehicle.  No!  This isn’t a digression – not this time.  It has bearing on the subject at hand.

Wednesday, which was the day I meant to start my big fat diet, was our first day of car-hunting, and it involved eating out here:

Root beer stand in a previous life?

Speedy thought his burrito was just as good as the ones he gets at our favorite Mexican Food haunt, Los Favoritos.  I had my usual as well, chiles rellenos – but they (there were two instead of my usual one) came with a huge side order of rice and an even huger side of refried beans, and lots and lots of soupy tomato sauce. I scarfed down both chiles and most of the beans.  Speedy finished the beans and we brought home the rice for later use.  If you find yourself on  East Main Street in Mesa give this appealing dive a try; the food was good and the service prompt and charming.  That was Day One of MBFD, right out the window.

I fared no better on Day Two, which was the day we narrowed our search down to two iterations of the same car.  One was way up in north Phoenix, more than an hour’s drive away.  The second was closer by in Mesa.  We had lunch that day at a newish Thai place   that we’ve been eyeing, not far from where we play golf.  It goes by the entrancing name of 5 R Cha which, it turns out, means 5 horses in Thai. ( Have you noticed that there’s a definite Horsey theme to this non-diet so far?)  Here’s my plate – another diet day down the tubes.

Reader, I ate it all.

Day Three of MBFD was hectic as we had to drive all the way back up to north Phoenix to buy the car we liked, a four-year-old Nissan Versa.  While purchasing a car goes pretty smoothly and quickly here, it still takes several hours what with all the paper work that must be done.  We had an important high-stakes golf game at 2 p.m., and didn’t have time for a sit-down lunch.  Instead we got sandwiches at Sclotzsky’s.  There are several of this chain around the Valley, and if you have never had one of their sandwiches, I recommend that you try one.  Delicious!  Perfectly toasted seedy bun holding turkey and perfectly ripe avocados: yum.  But, washed down with a coke, hardly a dieter’s delight.

Day Four of MBFD was recovery from all the driving and stress of the past few days (yes, buying a used car is stressful, even if you have the good fortune to fall into the hands of an honest salesman at an honest dealership – thank you, Scott).  What better way to get over battle fatigue than by eating an enormous Arizona steak, thick and juicy?  And what better accompaniment for that steak than a 2-pound baked potato swimming in melted butter?  I believe a small salad made an appearance as well.

So, today when I got on the scales for the first time in a couple of weeks I discovered why my undies were complaining.  Between the bon vivant guest and car-shopping I managed to put on 5 pounds.  Really.  5 R Bad.  So today, in spite of baking both cookies and bread, I stuck to the MyPlate regimen.  I’m hoping I lost all 5 pounds today so I can go back to my wicked ways tomorrow. But my undies say it isn’t so.

Two of My Favorite Things: Bookstores and Food

12 Monday Mar 2012

Posted by in Arizona, Books, Food, Restaurants, Uncategorized

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Our friend Mrs. H. recently found a terrific website about restaurants near the stops of the Phoenix Light Rail system.  David Bickford writes generously, entertainingly and cogently about the various eateries, reviewing both food and general ambiance.

While Mam was still here Mrs. H. had the brilliant idea of reading up on some of the stops of the rail and then making a lunchtime field trip. I liked this idea a lot as it combined two activities I really like: riding the light rail, and eating.  Bickford indexes his reviews by restaurant type and by location, so Mam and I spent considerable time poring over the restaurants from the Sycamore Street station to Mill and the ASU campus.

Logo courtesy of Yelp.com

It was our considered opinion that we should visit the MedFresh Grill on Mill Street, because it is the only Turkish restaurant in the Valley, according to both Bickford and the proprietors of the eatery.  Three falafal and chicken kabab plates later we knew we had made the right choice.  It was delicious food, freshly prepared and humbly served.  The falafals were crispy-crisp on the outside, tender on the inside and hot. What I remember most vividly is the very creamy garlic sauce on the side of my plate – it was mostly smushed garlic, but somehow it was made creamy, perhaps by the addition of… cream?  some kind of light, fresh cheese?

Before settling in to overeat we strolled down and then back up Mill Street, the commercial street at the heart of the ASU campus.  There you can find the usual assortment of collegy stores – headshops, music shops, outfitters, and so forth. But you also find what is becoming rarer and rarer these days: a bookstore!

Old Town Books (the proprietors of which can be seen in the top photo above) has been in this location for about twenty years, and outlived Borders, the mega-bookstore that used to be down the street (now Urban Outfitters).  Mrs. H. noticed a copy of a very important book on golf that Speedy didn’t have yet; I was able to pick it up for $4, and he swears it has added 20 yards to his drive!  Mrs. H. found a lovely book of photographs of houses along the James River.  Oddly enough, Mam had grown up along that very river, and was able to tell Mrs. H. odd scraps of news about some of the homes pictured.

So.  Independent Booksellers.  What are the odds they’ll survive?  My guess is the odds are good, at least for the foreseeable future.  Many of them sell both new and used books, sometimes side by side, as in this bookstore that we visited on our way home.

Some serve niche subjects, religion or mysteries, for example.   All are owned and/or operated by people who are passionate about books and who seem always to have the time to interrupt whatever they’re doing and talk about them.

Amazon and Googlebooks are challenging the big box bookstores such as Borders (now in bankruptcy) and Barnes and Noble (rumored to be for sale).  But the smaller indies have stock that is not always readily available online, and have devoted patrons who want to keep their neighborhood bookstores afloat.  The Book-Buyer’s Guide to New, Used and Antiquarian Bookstores in the Phoenix Valley lists no fewer than 36 stores.  Some are open by chance or by appointment (Machine Age); some have large staffs and come close to looking like a big box store (Changing Hands).

Then there are the hybrids, the stores we access online but which seem to be independents.  You can find them at thriftbooks.com (free shipping!) or abebooks.com.  Both sites list the book I bought Speedy for pretty much what I paid for it.  The thriftbooks site is more forgiving of bad spelling (is it Pinnick or Penick??) than abebooks.  And of course all the local indies have web-sites, though they don’t list all their book stock.

The bottom line?  There’s nothing more pleasurable then setting out to find some good food and coming across a good bookstore at the same time.  And if you go to your local bookstore rather than sitting at home with your computer  you may well have an adventure.  We did (we always do when we ride the Light Rail).  We met a well-groomed and neatly turned out woman carrying a cat in a handsome carrier.  I engaged her in conversation about her pet, a gleaming black puss with yellow eyes.

“He’s a leopard,” she told me.

“Really?!” I replied, thinking surely she meant ‘panther.’

We bantered back and forth, me asking questions and she answering them. By  the time we parted I had learned that she had found her kitty in the desert, the runt of a litter, and that scientists had dumped the kittens out in the desert after creating them by hybridizing a leopard with a schnauser, a pig and some other animal none of us can remember!   To say we were amazed to learn about this scientific accomplishment is an understatement.  We will never have such an animal because they cost $10,000 if you buy them, if you can find them.  Our new friend counted herself extremely lucky to have found hers in the wild.

But I digress, as usual.  Bookstores and restaurants – you’re almost sure to be entertained and satisfied if you visit ones you’ve never been to before.  Just watch out for the panthers.

Photo courtesy of Wikipedia

Birds of a Feather

05 Monday Mar 2012

Posted by in Arizona, Photographs, Uncategorized

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Cartoon by Artanuk

Mam and I met each other over 35 years ago and have been great friends ever since.  We may not see each other as often as we did when we lived in the same little Connecticut town, but we’re always able to pick up where we left off, as if we’d seen each other only the day before.

I was delighted when Mam said she could come to Arizona for a week.  It’s been a year and a half since our last meeting, and we had much to catch up on.  Of course I wanted her to have a special time, so we planned many activities.

The thing about Mam is that she’s a birdwatcher.  It’s a hobby I’ve never cottoned too, being both too impatient and too poorly-sighted to make a success of it.  Oh look!  another little brown and yellow bird.  It must be a… God only knows what!

But putting aside fears of my limitations, we boldly charted a course for Sierra Vista, about three and a half hours southeast of where we live.  It’s an odd, meandering kind of town, not quite city, not quite town.  Incorporated only in 1956,we surmised it sprang to life around the big military base there, Fort Huachuca.  It has three main advantages: many places to stay overnight; many places to eat; proximity to many A-1 birding sights, including the two we visited.

First we went to San Pedro Riparian Conservation Area.  Here is what I saw:

But THIS is what Mam saw!

Oh well.

Undaunted we stumped off in the peculiar gait of birdwatchers: step, step, step, pause, cock head and listen, make slight swishing noise between teeth to encourage invisible bird, decide it was the wind we heard, step, step, step.

There was something strange going on with the light and the gray/white trees around the San Pedro River.  I haven’t fiddled with this picture at all, this really is what it looked like that day (better if you click on it to enlarge).

Not too far along in our walk we were both rewarded with a vermilion flycatcher.  Mam had seen one before, but as far as I know I never had, so it was quite exciting.  Well, it was quite interesting.  Well, it was very pretty.

Mam, however, continued to put me to shame.  When I saw this:

She saw this:

and when she continued to see this:

my attention was completely diverted by this:

The most humiliating of all was when we returned to our starting point.  While Mam got to glory in the sight of this:

all I got to see was this:

The next day, fed and rested, we took ourselves off to nearby Ramsay Canyon which is lovingly maintained by the Nature Conservancy.  The docents, Mr. and Mrs. Sandy, were informative and delightful.  It was a chilly, very windy day, and we were a bit early for the birds, both for the day and the season.   The much vaunted hummingbirds were still hanging out in warmer climes.  We also learned from Mr. and Mrs. S that a deadly trifecta of fire, flood and freezing temperatures the year before had reduced the food for the birds, and hence reduced the number of birds themselves.

As we step, step, stepped through the morning we heard more and more twittering in the forest around us.  Alas for us, there were also more and more visitors, which meant more noise and disruption along the trail and less opportunity to see the few birds that were there.  Mam did catch sight of one she’d never seen before, though: an orange crowned warbler.  I didn’t see that one.

Mam also saw the showy  acorn woodpecker:

“Oh look!” I countered:

“Isn’t that a robin??!”

We saw some big birds that look every bit as gorgeous in the woods as they do on the dinner table:

Even I could see this fellow!

As we headed back to the entrance we were entranced to see a pair of deer browsing in the undergrowth.

We might not have seen a great many birds at either birding ‘hot spot,’ but we had a wonderful time being a couple of old friends together enjoying walks in the outdoors in lovely weather.

And I got my revenge on Mam.  When I saw this:

and this:

she didn’t see anything at all, because she doesn’t like lizzards and ran away into the house!

Synchronicity?

20 Monday Feb 2012

Posted by in American habits and customs, Uncategorized

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What are the odds? I published the last post about Tag (Garage, Yard, Boot) Sales late on Friday night. On Saturday morning Speedy and I circumnavigated what we like to think of as our Village Square (a .5 mile rectangular street bordered by houses) and saw this sign:

The Neighborhood Garage Sale is a wonderful hybrid of the Usato and the Tag Sale where a group of families get together to sell a slightly greater variety and amount of stuff. We couldn’t resist, especially since it was only a half block away and the day was lovely.

It was certainly not the best such sale we’ve ever visited, but it wasn’t bad. For the princely sum of $9.00 we came away with a full-size comforter which, oddly, matches exactly the pattern of the comforters in our guest room (more synchronicity! or perhaps a really cheap sale some years ago?) and two matching pillow shams; a machine-made embroidered pillow case from Thailand, perfect for Speedy’s ‘meditation’ pillow (how do you spell ‘meditation’?   n-a-p); a lovely embroidered red silk scarf, also probably from Thailand, certainly Asian; a small machine-quilted wall hanging in colors I don’t love but don’t hate which, according to the panel on the back, was “Hand Made By Diana Mosely, May 5, 1997” (why didn’t you keep it, Diana??); two other jungle-print pillow shams that are going to look great on the couch we don’t have yet; and a box of Earl Grey tea tea bags (very good, I had some that very afternoon).

The coup de grace was the ‘solid brass’ hunting horn that Speedy couldn’t resist ($1.00). He played ALL the brass instruments in high school, and he was able to pick this up and toot on it right away. In fact, if there had been any hounds free in the neighborhood I’m sure they would have congregated for a hunt.

So, synchronicity… what are the odds? If I write about winning the state lottery, will I?

Photo courtesy of chestofbooks.com

Tag, Yard or Garage?

17 Friday Feb 2012

Posted by in American habits and customs, Italian bureaucracy, Uncategorized

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You see all three in home-made advertising signs: Tag Sale, Yard Sale, Garage Sale. They all mean the same thing: the householder has things, stuff, goods, that he no longer wants, and is willing to sell them to you, presumably at a very low cost.

The ‘Yard’ and ‘Garage’ are obviously the location of such sales. Frequently you see signs for Gargage Sales in parts of the country where the weather might be inclement – everywhere except the Southwest. ‘Tag’ refers to the little white sticker that should be affixed to every item announcing its price. It always gives one an uncomfortable feeling if there’s no tag – it means the seller is going to size you up and price the item accordingly. You’ll probably pay more for an untagged item if you’re wearing your mink instead of your blue jeans jacket. In New England, where we used to live, ‘Tag Sale’ was the most frequently used appellation. But whatever you call it, it’s a great thing, and something we don’t see in Italy, unfortunately.

When we’ve asked Italian friends why there are never any tag sales they have told us that they are not legal. Why? Presumably it’s because the State would not be able to collect taxes on such impromptu and unregulated commerce. What a pity. The best we can do in Italy is take our unwanted things to an ‘Usato’ – a store that sells used stuff and, of course, takes a hefty commission for doing so. A visit to the Usato is always loads of fun, there is so much to see, and of all kinds of quality. But it doesn’t have the character of each and every tag sale, which bravely puts the seller’s taste (present or former) on display for all to see. At some tag sales you might see a lot of tools; at another you might find lots of truly ugly art; at another lots of kitchen gear. You never know.

Photo courtesy of L.A. Times

A digression: I used to haunt tag sales, as much for entertainment as anything else (heaven knows we have all the ‘stuff’ we could ever want or need). Years ago I went to a rather up-scale sale in the small Connecticut town where we used to live; I was thrilled when my eye fell on a pressure cooker, a tool our kitchen was without and which I wanted – more from a sentimental wish because my mother frequently used one than from any real need. It was only $5 and was in perfect shape, except for needing a new gasket. I grabbed it, and continued perusing the goods on display. I soon ran into our town’s wealthy dowager, whom I’ll call Lib. When she saw ‘my’ pressure cooker her eyes got big, “Are you going to buy that?” she asked.
“Yes!” I answered with alacrity, and then went on, “Why? Do you want it?”
“I do,” she said.
“I can’t believe you don’t have a pressure cooker, Lib,” I opined.
“Oh I do,” she replied, “I have three. I just really like pressure cookers.”
That was when I recognized that she was a fellow tag-sale junkie, and that there was no need to offer to let her buy ‘my’ pressure cooker.

A friend, when I mentioned all this to her, reminded me that there is also a thing called an ‘estate sale,’ which you see frequently in New England. But all it is is a high-end tag sale: better stuff, higher prices, and an opportunity for the seller to feel that he lives on an estate rather than in a house. Which reminds me another digressive tag sale story I must share. One of my work buddies reported that she went to a terrible tag sale in a neighboring town. On the porch of the house she found a box labeled in big black letters, “Stuff Barb Don’t Want.” We laughed over that for weeks (and still do sometimes) – it had to be the worst presentation and lousiest advertising ever. Definitely not an Estate Sale.

But back to Italy – wouldn’t it be great if people could have tag sales there? It would be a way for the house-holder to both get rid of clutter and to bring in a little cash, always welcome in hard times, which is what we’re having there now. It wouldn’t really hurt the Usato shops, because there will always be people who don’t want the bother of a tag sale. Believe me, it’s a lot of work to have a tag-sale; we’ve had many ourselves (have to get rid of all the junk I’ve bought at tag sales somehow). The lost revenue of taxes would be nothing compared to what is lost every minute through graft and cheating on taxes. And besides – as there are no tag sales now there is no tag sale tax revenue, so there’s nothing to lose except the minuscule amount that the Usato would be turning in.

So my modest proposal to Mr. Monti is this: somewhere in all the financial reforms, tuck in a proposal to allow tag sales. Everyone will win. Heck, if you’re worried about revenue, sell a permit for the sale for E5 or E10. Then it becomes a money-maker, and no doubt the apparatus to sell such permits is already in place. It’s a wonderfully Italian solution – give a bit more freedom, but encumber it with a bit more bureaucracy. Yay!

Dirty Dogs

07 Tuesday Feb 2012

Posted by in Animals in the U.S., Dogs, Uncategorized

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If it’s a slow day in Gold Canyon, Arizona, as frequently happens, you can just amble down the street to the local Dog Wash. You heard me, pardner, I said ‘dog wash.’

It is nothing if not entertaining to watch pooches in various degrees of dinginess, walk the plank and into the sink.

The dog wash provides everything you need, including shampoo, water, towels and even a blow dryer. At $5.00 a pop it is probably a lot cheaper than taking Bowser to the groomer. The sign suggests that Miss Kitty might like a bath as well, but anyone who has ever shared living quarters with a cat knows better.

It’s not nice to chuckle over some other critter’s misery, but it’s hard to keep a straight face when watching the normally bouncy Bowser put on a long-suffering and patient face. You can almost hear him thinking, can’t you? ‘Why are they doing this to me??? I thought they loved me!’ You can also see immediately that the expression ‘hangdog’ originated in the Dog Wash.

Never fear, handsome Bowser, when you are all fluffed and buffed your cheerful disposition will return. You will frolic around happily, play with your mistress, and then run out to the desert where you will find a nice big cow plop to roll in. Then you know what will happen? It’s back to the dog wash for you! And maybe this time mistress will wash the Honda, too.

PS… if you’d like to see some photos of Arizona Hiking Dogs and their people, click here.

A True Story

19 Thursday Jan 2012

Posted by in Food, Italian food, Uncategorized

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Photo courtesy of animal-wildlife.blogspot.com

Speedy was at our local supermarket not too long ago when his eye fell on a tray containing two enormous, beautiful octopuses (octopi?).  With great excitement he asked Sherry behind the counter what the story was.

With a big sigh she explained that a customer had ordered the octopus, but had then changed her mind and decided not to buy them after all, thereby leaving the store holding the bag, as it were.

Speedy was delighted with the appearance of the octopus, and the price was very reasonable, so good hunter-gatherer that he is, he brought one home.  Sherry was thrilled and said that she would probably be given a week off for selling one. When I say it was big, I mean it was Big – at over two pounds it was larger than what we’re accustomed to finding in Italy.  We ate about one-quarter of it as an antipasto that very night; the other three-quarters repose in the freezer where they are becoming ever more tender.  (Gone are the days when you had to hurl your octopus against a wall to tenderize it; freezing does the trick perfectly.)

The next time Speedy was in the market he asked Sherry when she was getting her week off.  Sadly she told him that in fact she was not given time off for the sale.  What a pity.

It’s funny about octopus in the U.S.  Delicious as it is, it is not commonly eaten in much of the country.  I suppose in the big sophisticated cities like New York and L.A. there is a certain following for the tentacled treat.  But here in the desert – well, it’s just never found on a menu or in a market fish case.  Which would seem downright insane to any self-respecting Italian.

Octopus can be prepared in a number of ways.  Speedy likes a cold salad with oil, garlic, lemon and parsley.  Our friend Tay is mad for the Mexican version in a salsa close to pico de gallo, but with lemon or lime juice.  A simple warm Spanish salad with oil, potato slices, hot chili and parsley is also quite yummy.  Mario Batali has a nice recipe here which you can try… if you can find an octopus.  Ask at our market – my guess is they still have one lurking about somewhere!

Taxi!

15 Sunday Jan 2012

Posted by in Driving in Italy, Health and health care, Italian bureaucracy, Italy, Medical care in Italy, Uncategorized

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Quick!  Take me to the Pharmacy!

Photo courtesy of italyfromtheinside.com

An article in the English edition of ANSA describes a wildcat strike by taxi drivers in Rome.  They are unhappy because the Monti administration, in its package of reforms, wants to loosen requirements to become a cabby.  This is just one of many measures aimed at boosting Italy’s flagging economy and making it possible for young people to find work –  all of which are being offered in tandem with severe austerity measures.

Photo courtesy of tuscantraveller.com

Back in 2007 the Roman taxi drivers were angry, too.  At that time the city wanted to add 1,000 cabs to the stable.  Rome had, at that time, 3 cabs for every 1,000 residents, the fewest of any city in Europe, according to a Marketplace report.

Prime Minister Monti, photo courtesy of The Guardian

Another of the proposed Monti reforms calls for relaxing the regulations around opening a pharmacy.  As things are now it is almost impossible to open a new pharmacy.  A young person can go to school and become a pharmacist, but without family connections to an existing business, finding a position will be difficult (not impossible, but difficult).  But the entrepreneurial pharmacist who wants to open a new drugstore is just plain out of luck.  The number and opening hours of pharmacies are regulated by law according to about.com.  It is also true that if you want to get aspirin or vitamins you will have to go to a pharmacy where you will find them hideously packaged on foil covered cardboard.  Last time I forgot to bring aspirin from the States I paid € 6 for 30 aspirin.  Speedy says that often when viewing the painkiller section of a Walmart store and seeing 500 Iboprofen selling for $6.28, he thinks an Italian seeing the same shelf would need a cardiologist rather than some pills.  Until recently the only place you could buy prepared baby food was at a pharmacy.  Imagine!

While there is a lot wrong with the pharmacy system in Italy (and probably the taxi system as well), there is a lot right.  There is always at least one pharmacy open within shouting distance, and the pharmacists are highly trained, knowledgeable and able to help with minor medical emergencies, saving one a trip to the emergency room.  But the regulations against competition in pharmacies could be relaxed without reducing the requisite training for pharmacists – that would be good for consumers and for young pharmacists.

The larger problem, of which these two issues are representative, is that Italy is a country strangled by bureaucracy and regulations.  There is no place for young people to find work because all the trades and professions are so busy protecting their own interests that they are unwilling to be open, to expand or to share.  That’s bad for all concerned, it seems to me.  Educated young people live with their parents and fruitlessly hunt for jobs; the professions stagnate and suffer gross inefficiencies due to limited scope and size. Speedy reminded me that the current generation of Italians is called the NEETS (not in education, employment or training) generation (15 to 29 years-of-age), of which there are some 2 million.  These NEETS comprise 11.2 % of this age group in Italy compared to 3.6% in Germany, 3.5% in France, 1.7% in the UK, and but .5% in Spain.  All that talent going to waste!  Clearly, this is a socio-economic problem that will have long-lasting effects unless the new government, and the Italian people, can turn around their unique approach to social management.

To an American it seems ludicrous.  In the States it is relatively easy to start a business – all you need is a good idea and either money, or backers with money.  Granted, some 35% of new businesses will fail within the first two years, but at least one has the opportunity to try.  And if only 35% fail it means  that 65% succeed, giving income and occupation to more people and, because of the competition generated, giving better services and lower prices to society in general .

It will be interesting to see how it all plays out in the months ahead.  In the meantime, don’t get sick in Rome – it might be hard to find a cab to take you to the pharmacy.  And if you’re visiting Italy from the States, do bring your own aspirin.

Songbirds: Friends or Food?

04 Wednesday Jan 2012

Posted by in Animals in Italy, Animals in the U.S., Birds in Italy, Crime, Customs, Italy, Uncategorized

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Somehow it’s hard to think of chickens and turkeys as birds.  Sure, they have feathers, but we never see a flock of them high overhead, migrating south for the winter, their clucking stirring our own restlessness.  Nor do we startle them when we take a walk in the woods.  We don’t listen for their sweet morning calls and try to identify exactly what chicken it is we’re hearing.  Wait!  Is that a Rhode Island Red or an Ameraucana?  Hand me my binoculars!

No.  Chickens and turkeys are ambulatory food for the most part.

Songbirds, however, are not.  One of the  pleasures of being here in Arizona is watching the birds that come to our feeder every day.

Anna's hummingbird, noisy and aggressive

We don’t get anything terribly exotic (and we have yet to see a chicken) –  many purple finches, the ubiquitous Anna’s hummingbird, Abert’s towhee , Gila peckers, Cactus wrens, and, on the ground below, Inca doves and the amusing Gambel’s quail, which makes a bweep-bweeping sound, reminiscent of burbling water, while it wanders around beneath the feeder.

Male finch enjoying a seed while female thinks about it

Gambel's quail, males conveniently carry bulls eye on their breasts

It’s a pleasure we don’t enjoy in Italy.  Not because there are no songbirds – there are.  We get huge amusement and satisfaction from the merli (a sort of black robin with the unfortunate Latin name Turdus merula, called ‘merlo’ in the singular) which are curious and companionable, and which have the beautiful song typical to thrushes.  We seldom work outside in spring or summer without an appreciative audience of merli.  But bird-feeding as a hobby does not seem to exist in Italy, at least not in our part of the country.  I have never seen a bird-feeder at anyone’s house, and I have never seen bird feed for sale.

Male cardinal

Instead in Italy there is a sizable, though fortunately shrinking, trade in trapping and killing wild birds.  The CABS (Committee Against Bird Slaughter) web site has a great deal of information about the illegal trapping of birds which occurs, in Italy, mostly in the north (Lombardia), the southern Italian coast, Sardinia and Sicily.  There are a couple of good reasons why this illicit activity continues.  One is that it is a matter of long tradition to trap songbirds, and Italy is nothing if not wed to her traditions.  In earlier times songbirds were an important source of protein for hungry Italians. Another reason is that some restaurants persist in serving songbirds, though you will never see them on the menu.

Little birds with polenta, photo courtesy of CABS

Happily, CABS reports that hunting songbirds is truly on the wane in northern Italy, a trend we can only hope (or I can only hope, anyway) will continue.

Gila woodpecker atop a nearby cactus

Hunting for sport is as popular in the U.S. as it is in Italy.  In 2006, according to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, 2.3 million people hunted migratory birds such as doves or waterfowl.  Such hunting is highly regulated; hunters must have appropriate licenses and stamps, and can hunt only certain birds in certain places at certain times.  Sport hunters in both countries are generally dedicated and law-abiding conservationists, interested in protecting the populations of the species they like to hunt.  In a perfectly counter-intuitive bit of logic, sometimes bird populations must be ‘culled’ in order to protect the well-being of the species.  It makes no sense to me, but if the people at Audubon say it’s true, it must be true.  Mustn’t it?

No doubt there is illegal hunting in the U.S., but it is difficult to get away with it.  Some years ago when we lived in Connecticut a man of our acquaintance became very angry at the number of messy geese on his pond and lawn.  He got out his rifle, stood on the back porch and shot one, no doubt hoping to scare away the others.  His neighbors heard the shot and came running to find out what was wrong, so he was caught red-handed.  He did not go to prison, but he did have a reprimand and a sizable fine.  Even worse, he became known locally as ‘Goose Killer’ – and it was not the sort of affectionate and admiring nickname that, say, ‘Speedy’ is.

The illegal taking of birds in Italy is of a different order entirely.  According to CABS, ‘millions’ of birds are taken every year, hundreds of thousands of them in Northern Italy.  They are sometimes taken with guns, as in the wholesale slaughter of migrating birds videoed here (supposedly ‘legal,’ but against the very EU regulations Italy signed on to uphold), and frequently taken in any of several various types of traps, all of which are illegal (bow, snap, snare, cage and nets).

It’s hard to understand what the appeal or pleasure is in trapping or shooting  songbirds.  It’s not as if they’re particularly challenging prey, or especially meaty.  The declining number of traps in Italy attest to the gradual change of attitude towards this cruel practice; but it remains a big problem.

Male finches 'discuss' seating while a female thinks about it all

According to Wikipedia 55 million Americans are bird-watching hobbyists.  They spend $3 billion a year on seed and $800,000 million on bird feeders and other accessories.  Maybe there’s an opportunity here to help the struggling Italian economy.  Don’t kill the birds, feed them. Photograph them.   Enjoy them.  Encourage touristic bird-watching trips. And when the irresistible blood lust of the hunter comes over you, go down to Signore Marrone’s farm and bag a few chickens.