Normally when we're in Vermont and staying with my sister, we make a supermarket run early in the trip so we have the necessary supplies.
Not this time.
Lazy, chilly, indecisive, I don't know what, but at lunchtime we were looking at each other like What are we gonna do now? So today we went to the local Italian market, cheekily named with a title that's dangerously close to "Balducci's" (you know, in a copyright-infringement sense), and loaded ourselves up. We got pea soup, lentil soup with escarole, ham, and this capicola, otherwise known in the Northeast as gabagool. We also bought a "ciabatta," which was not a ciabatta but more like a peasant bread. It was doughy and weighed about ten pounds, but the crust was dark and smoky and I loved every bite, whatever you wanted to call it.
The gabagool was sharp and tasty, but its aroma was strange and unappealing. Kind of woodsy, but not in a good way. Margy, while teasing me about having an anxiety attack (a Sopranos reference), was sure to stand way across the counter from me while I ate it. Oh well.
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