A Point for the Middle

For the most part, I haven't been too nice to the Middle on these here interwebs. It's not that I don't like it here, it's just that I like to complain, a remnant of my east coast upbringing that I don't think will ever abandon me, no matter how hard Kimberly wishes. Despite the terrible drivers, extreme weather, and difficulty finding things we have become accustomed to having (like feeling in our extremities), we are settling in with our very nice, terribly coiffed (like I can really say anything about anyone's hair), very Christian, Midwestern brothers and sisters.

So, I come here today not to fault the Middle, but to praise it, for there is something here in Iowa which I could not find in Portland: a dingy, cheap, sketchy, wonderful Italian grocery store.

You may remember a while back when we discovered that there was some notoriety for Italians in Capital City. Well, I finally made it to their neighborhood (on the recommendation of a friend in Portland who is originally from Iowa) and found the wonderful Graziano Brothers market in South Des Moines.

Grazianos was great - cinder block building, no windows, haphazard parking lot - and was packed pretty tight with basic Italian staples. There were 20 different kinds of canned tomatoes, 10 different kinds of roasted peppers, 50 types of dry pasta, lots of fresh pasta (including ravioli and tortellini), fresh pizza dough, parmigiana cheese, panettone, and pretty much anything else you could want from your Italian specialty market. They had fresh bread that wasn't sliced on Wonder. Most importantly, they had a deli with home-made sausage, bulk olives, and fresh cut meats, including wonderful prosciutto and salami.

Of course, you can get all these things in Portland. Except that the prosciutto will cost you $30 a pound. At Grazianos, just $15. And in Portland, the chances of the counter help speaking Italian to the customers is low. Here, there were actual Italians, and the were being their typical Italian selves (cutting in line, throwing the elbow, etc). I still don't know how they get here, but apparently they're here. And I 'm not going to complain.

The next step is to find out if there's any good pizza down in that neighborhood. Making my own dough is fine, but can get old. And don't even get me started on the local 'pizza' places (if they didn't serve wings, there would be no reason to go there). There's an Italian Festival over the summer, where I'm sure they'll have pizza, fried dough (but they'll probably call it funnel cake), and sausage subs (here in Iowa, they call them Guinea Grinders, which no one finds interesting or offensive in the slightest way).

While I might have to wait for the ground to thaw before I can check out the festival or the pizza, I know that tonight I can have some prosciutto and good bread.