I brought the team to Europe a while back - I don't remember what state or whatever, but I gotta tell you: once you've experienced suburban Boston, everywhere else pales in comparison. I mean, where else do you have 48 options for beauty treatments and New England Greek pizza? But I digress... The first thing you notice when you arrive in Europe, and I I tell you this so you'll know to notice it first, is just how old it is. Not old like your grandparents, but old like your grandparents were dogs and then they would be like seven times older in people years. The math's not exact, but it's close enough. Also, no one wears sneakers there, or even sweatpants, which is just weird.
Anyway, I signed us all up for falcon hunting lessons, which, in order to save you the time and aggravation, is 1) not about hunting falcons, but rather, hunting with falcons (yawn), and 2) really difficult. So I quit and left the rest of the gang there to hunt for their dinners or something, and I went to a restaurant instead. It had been open for about a decade at the time, in the Mediterranean village of wherever we were, and its specialty of the house (della casa, if you will) was something called spezzatino di farro piccante e agrodolce, which my translation app said was hot and sour stew of expensive wheat. Always the gracious host, the chef was kind enough to share her recipe here. (For your benefit, I converted all measurements from the nonsensical and clumsy metric system to our much more sensible, not to mention patriotic, American system of weights and measures. You're welcome.
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