This is one of those cases where translations don’t cut it. Sure, ice cream and gelato contain “ice” and “cream.” But is every room with “tables” and “chairs” Buckingham Palace? I think not. Ice cream is gelato’s embarrassing distant cousin who crawls out of its cave every now and again to pee on the lawn. They’re different. 

Where ice cream is hard, gelato is soft. Ice cream is chipped out of a stony block like Mt. Rushmore. Gelato’s supple whorls can be served with a butter knife. There’s no hacking at gelato! Serving it is a waltz, a smooth flick of the wrist.

Where ice cream hides its taste behind freezing temperature, gelato enters the room in a scandalous outfit, shamelessly revealing every flavor and nuance.

Three weeks in Italy, and I’ve discovered the “I scream, you scream” rhyme is a lie, a mere jingle brought to us by the Ice Cream Ad Council. How can we scream for something that numbs us up so we can’t taste it? It’s dessert Novocain! Or maybe it’s a sinister warning… we scream because ice cream is dangerous! What other food has skull-ripping headaches named after it? Thankfully, where ice cream exacts a price, gelato’s touch is gentle.

I have had three gelatos since my arrival, and remember each with tenderness of a lover. I recall my first gelato clearly; I was exploring Nicolosi during “reposo” – the four hours in the afternoon where everyone closes up shop to rest. Amazingly a café was open, though the Signora was trying to shoo out her coffee-swilling customers and shut the door. I snaked in, drawn by the surprisingly colorful array of Play-dough-like goo in trays at the gelato counter. The flavors – beyond the recognizable chocolate and strawberry – exceeded my imagination (and my language skills), so being adventurous, I picked the green one. Signora irritably scooped it in a cup and sent me packing. Didn’t I know it was rest time?

And thank God it was rest time as I could have been killed by my first gelato bite. I was crossing the street. BAD IDEA. Do not taste when crossing streets, unless you’ve had gelato before.  I lowered the spoon into my mouth and time screeched to a halt. I stopped. My feet stopped. My mouth was transported to a gastronomic place of stardust and rainbows but my body was still standing in the intersection like an idiot. Luckily traffic was light and no cars were in the intersection. 

When consciousness returned, survival instinct took over and I found a safe place to sit down and dive into the divine concoction. It was pistachio gelato, and nothing remotely like ice cream.

I’ve since tried two more flavors. The second was in Catania, chosen because the name contained several rolling “r’s” and fun to say. It was almond and it again stopped time. Then last night, I ordered “Zuppa Inglese,” or English soup. It was eggnog, sweetened by chocolate chips. When I say “eggnog,” I’m not talking about store-bought, forced-festive eggnog with a sad wreath on the carton. This was Christmas in a cup, the one where it snowed and Santa brought you exactly what you wanted tied with a red, satin bow. 

Now I’m getting used to gelato, and time doesn’t stop. I am able to do as the Italians do, and converse and stroll while eating one. Gelato is now becoming my standard, so I wonder…how will I ever go back? Can I ever enjoy ice cream again? Will I salt future pints of Cherry Garcia with tears of nostalgia? With such divine food and drink here, I just don’t know what is going to happen when I have to return to the freezer-section world of Edie’s, Breyers and Flavor-ice.

I don’t have to worry about that now; not when I’ve just cracked the door on the unending possibilities of flavors and gelaterias stretched out before me. 

But in the meantime, I shan’t translate gelato into “Italian ice cream.” It’s not even “like” ice cream. And it needs a rhyme of its own: I go, you go, we all go (crazy) for gelato? 

This is lamb. 

This is your lamb on grill.    Any questions?

I’m taking Italian cooking classes, and last week, we set our sights on dewy-eyed baby lambs. Signora told us that the trick is to wash the lamb very carefully and use lots of oregano. Another lesson: castrated lambs, or “castrada” are best for grilling – something to do with the hormones. Poor (tasty) things. I (almost) feel sorry for them.

 I’m an artichoke imbecile.  This heap of fresh artichokes in Catania’s morning market sent me into a photo-snapping swoon on the local abundance of my favorite vegetable. FINALLY I’d live in a place where artichokes flourished like mold on grout. No longer would I be captive of bins of supermarket artichokes, shriveled like forgotten dreams. No longer would my only options be artichokes brutally disemboweled, divorced from dignity, reduced to mere parts, hearts, pickled, in cans or in oil. No longer. Here I’d run barefoot through fields of artichokes under a perfect Sicilian sky. 

With these presumptions firmly packed, I arrived in Sicily three weeks ago. My first Italian word? “Carciofi” (car-CHO-fee) or artichokes. My first meal? Panini with carciofi. And happily, whenever I said this magical word carciofi, the Sicilians would smile and make the “tasty” gesture (which you can mimic by placing your index finger on your dimple area of the cheek and wiggling it). I was among my people. Artichoke lovers all.

The market was an honest misunderstanding. Blinded by artichoke-lust, I saw the artichokes and snapped happily. But when I told a Sicilian about it, he scoffed. I showed him the picture. He was unmoved.

“Those artichokes are French,” he said with disdain. “Not ours.”

Oddly enough, artichokes — like other growing things — have a season. And, like other impatient nations, Italy imports artichokes to tide them over. These don’t have as far to go, which explains their plump appearance, but they are posers nonetheless.  Apparently the “Italian” olive oil bought in the supermarket isn’t from Italy either. 

The good news is there are fields of artichokes here. And though they smell worse than my idyllic dream fields, there are no fences or police cordons. I may get my barefoot run in yet.