Bomba Calda...

Yesterday we were out late celebrating C's birthday with friends at a restaurant in town. As predicted the night was crazy-- no, not in that I'm still in College, I can party like a Rock Star kind of way. Crazy because we decided to include the kids. Everyone's kids. Let's just leave it at that.

This morning we slept late, but even the 9am wake-up did nothing to temper the crankiness. So we decided a walk was in order. Nothing like a cappuccino to shake off the cobwebs.We made it to the large Villa Communale and let Mahlon (pronounced like Mail-on, not Mah-lon) fly around the park on his scooter. He also demonstrated some of his dance moves for us. Two kids stopped and stared. They probably thought he was having a seizure. Obviously he's got our rhythm gene. His teacher did tell me I should look into enrolling him in dance school. She thinks he would make a perfect ballerino. This said with not even a hint of a smirk on her face. I, on the other hand, did not exhibit the same amount of restraint when I told my husband.

By now we were in desperate need of refreshment. We stopped at our favorite cafe for due cappuccini e cornetti. But, darn, they were out of croissants. Instead he offered a bomba? Without a clue as to what it could be I agreed. Whatever, I thought, it's Sunday, it's Italy, and it's a pastry. How could it not be good?

When the waiter sat the bomba down, Mahlon bypassed his gelato and made a bee-line for my plate. There, covered in delicious giant sugar crumbs sat a Nutella-filled bomba, bomb, or, as you and I know it, a donut.

I have only on one other occasion found what I would describe as a donut in Italy. And that was the one my husband bought my nephew while we were in Rome last month. I sort of assumed they sold them there as an appeal to American tourist, but perhaps I was wrong? To think, after 3 years, I'm still learning my morning pastries! At this rate, I hope the discoveries never stop.
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