Dolce: A musical connotation meaning “sweet,” indicating a direction to perform sweetly and gently.
Dulce: A sweet food or drink.
Dolce + Dulce is a space designed for exploring the sweetness in life. Whether it’s a blatant loveliness or a bittersweetness, this blog means to share a love of food, music, life, and everything else. Maybe somewhere in this space you can find something relatable or inspiring or accessible or aesthetically comforting. The recipes are yours to use and adapt and make your own.
For a long time, Dolce + Dulce was an idea for which I made excuses not to bring into the world because of the same reasons anyone doesn’t start something: fear of failure. To produce quality, consistent content, to maintain inspiration and passion, to improve – these things require commitment that I worried would produce failure in other aspects of my life by spreading myself too thin. Classical music is a demanding world that requires endless love even when that world doesn’t seem to love you back, and that’s where most of my love resides.
What I hope is that there will be nothing to carve into because there is endless room for everything I want to do. Regret comes from a failure to do, and I aim to never regret. Even if I never feel like I know what I’m doing, at least I am finally doing this.
This introductory post is to give you a sense of the tone of this blog and who I am, and I would like to share the story of the time I was laughed at by inmates.
“The Inmate Story”
When I was 19 I flew home to Florida to spend time with my family. It was summer. Florida summers are stifling and aggravating and overwhelming and flush with rash decisions and desperation, which could account for why my father bought a motorcycle and why I agreed to get my endorsement with him.
His logic was that this used, cheaply-priced motorcycle would be the perfect remedy to our summer vehicle shortage, which is complicated to explain and I won’t get into that. My logic was that I wanted to be badass (I don’t really remember.)
In Florida, all endorsement takes is a three-day course – one day of rules and instruction, and two days of practical training. I was the youngest one enrolled, and one of only two females. The rest were previously-grandfathered older, burly men who no longer could legally ride endorsementless. My dad and I were the only ones who didn’t already know how to operate a motorcycle.
The practical training took place in an empty parking lot between the highway and a prison. We all arrived in specified attired: long-sleeved shirt, long pants, and boots, to keep from being burned by the sun and burned by the motorcycle. We were roasting. The collection of motorcycles that awaited us were traditional styles and two sports bikes. Stereotypical, the men picked the masculine machines before I had a chance to decide and of the two left I took to the smaller sports bike.
After safety, helmet checks, straddling, and ignition came walking the bike. Admittedly, I was afraid of these powerful and heavy machines. Paddling my feet forward as we walked them around the lot felt like a futile expression of control over something that was not a part of my autonomy. Also, we looked silly. At this time beyond the fences, the prison courtyard started to fill with inmates doing rec activities. I didn’t notice them.
I was overheating and over-nervous. And then I somehow hit…something. The engine reved and the 300 lb motorcycle started out from under me. In a split-second decision, I dumped the bike. At first all I could hear was my heartbeat in my ears and my breathing in my helmet, then the muffled voice of the instructor asking if I was okay. Then, like the brightening of a low-wattage bulb, I became aware of laughter. Some from close by, but raucously from the prison. I refused to look over, although I imagine that every single inmate was piled against the innermost fence, pointing and laughing. Guards too and then everyone bonded from the experience. You’re welcome, prison.
In the end, I scored highest on both the written and practical tests. I can zip between pylons at a majestic 20 miles per hour. Some of the men were too entrenched in habit and actually failed the practical. My mom got her endorsement soon after. My brother rebelled and remains un-endorsed.
As for our motorcycle, it spends most of the year in disuse.
I still don’t know what any of us were thinking.
Hi, I’m Liz. I was laughed at by inmates. It’s nice to meet you.