Di una casalinga che non sapeva quanto fosse disperata.
Prima un po’ di contesto:
Questa è la mia scusante. Tenetela presente nei post a venire.
Altro contesto: da quando sono arrivata in Italia la prima volta (nel 1982) mi sono scontrata contro la realtà espressa persino sul mensile Focus (1), dove “alcune ricerche” dimostrano che le donne italiane sono quelle, al mondo, che passano più tempo dietro ai lavori domestici.
Se siete mai stati in una casa italiana, sapete che è vero. Le case italiane sono sempre pulite, arieggiate, fresche, ordinate e generalmente perfette. Solo in rari casi non è stato cosi e quelle donne (chissà se sanno chi sono) le ho sempre amate moltissimo per questo.
Ecco quindi che questo blog cambia direzione, e pur rimanendo un esercizio di traduzione veloce (perché in realtà non sono una casalinga, bensì una traduttrice che lavora da casa, che ha, per fortuna, un marito assolutamente autosufficiente oltre che fighissimo, ma anche tre figli, due gatte e un grosso cane. Vorrei dedicarlo alle mie paradossali avventure alla ricerca della casa perfetta.
Vedete, un altro dettaglio che sfugge a queste donne, è che io sono un esteta. Io AMO una casa pulita e ordinata. In parte una vita in case in affitto, in parte una mancanza di mobili appropriati e mezzi economici, e sicuramente una mancanza di addestramento, hanno significato che fosse difficile ottenerla. Qualsiasi consiglio, trucco, o considerazione per raggiungerla sono SEMPRE benvenuti. Solo per favore, non ditemi che sto andando benissimo per poi malignarmi dietro, ok? Grazie 🙂
In cambio, continuerò’ a postare le meravigliose ricette della nonna di mio marito, ogni volta che potrò.
Of a housewife who wasn’t aware of how desperate she was.
A little context first:
When my mum met my dad, she worked in a fashion house in Rome (not sure doing what). When she found herself going to become a housewife in wild Australia to follow my Dad’s work and make children she wasn’t the happiest woman in the world. When she thought she’d finished, she found that instead they were going back to New Zealand this time, with a tiny baby (me) and precious, precious little will to be a housewife and mum.
In all the years and travels to come (after 5 years in New Zealand, there were 5 in Venezuela, 2 in Peru, then Northern Italy: she stayed there while I continued onto the Philippines, back to Italy, the States, London, back to Italy, London, Italy, Spain, Italy then my mum died and I went to Central Italy, then back to Northern Italy and finally England, North and South), my mother never, never taught me to do ANYTHING. We often had maids, at least until Italy, and even in Italy in fact the house was always tidy and clean (not my room), and my mother made me help out in the house, though never teaching me what to do. Once I asked her to show me how to fold those blasted sheets with corners, but she did it quickly and only once and I never held on to this knowlegde.
This is my excuse. Keep it in mind in the posts to come.
Other context: since I arrived in Italy the first time (in 1982) I clashed against the reality described even in the monthly Focus (1), where “some research” shows that Italian women are those who spend the longest time doing house chores in the world.
If you’ve ever been in an Italian house, you know it to be true. Italian houses are always clean, airy, fresh, tidy and generally perfect. Only in very rare cases it wasn’t like that and I always loved those women (I wonder if they know who they are) a lot for this.
If I had been properly foreign, I might have been forgiven more easily. Instead, having been born in Rome, speaking Italian and with an Italian surname, at best I am teased, at worst accused of unrepeatable things. Let us just say that the stories I have heard told about me from people who smiled and complimented me to my face, are those of all the desperate housewives put together, plus, of course, one that lived in a pigsty: a woman with countless affairs, children abandoned to themselves, and who knows how I really earned my bread.
Here’s therefore my blog changing tack, and though remaining an exercise in speed translation (because, actually, I am NOT a housewife, but rather a translator who works from home, who is lucky to have an absolutely self-sufficient and supercool husband, but also three children, two cats and a large dog. I wish to dedicate it to my disparate adventures in search of the perfect home.
You see, another detail that escapes them, is that I am an aesthete. I LOVE a tidy, clean house. Partly a life of renting, partly the lack of appropriate furniture and financial means, and definitely the lack of training, have all meant that it is not easy to achieve it. This is my quest for it. Any advice, tricks, tips to achieve that are ALWAYS welcome. Just please, don’t tell me I’m doing fine and then go and slag me off. Ok? Cheers 🙂
In exchange, I will carry on posting my husband Grandma’s wonderful recipes every chance I get.