Uh, oh. This Isn't Kansas Anymore, Toto!

Striking out, at least for the time being, for a Jewish Deli in the middle Tennessee area, I ventured out to find a good Italian market.  Certainly there would be an Italian Market with shelves and coolers stocked with soppresata, (soupy for you RIers), dried and semi dried sausages, mortadella, pancetta, ham cappicola, Prosciutto di Parma, aged Romano and Parmesan located right near the bin of bufalo mozzarella. The smell of crusty bread just out of the oven wasn't far I mused.  Not quite.  Not even close.  We found one that might have potential only to find out that the selections were sparse, at best, and fresh, meant something very different here in Tennessee.  With the exception by finding a gallon of very good olive oil at a reasonable price, another strike out.  What is a man to do under such dire circumstances. "Call a lawyer," I said to my wife in desperation.   "What is a lawyer going to do for you?" she exclaimed.  Not just any lawyer, I said, I will call "Jules--problem solver extraordinaire."  Jules my age old and dear friend who still lives in RI and works just a few short blocks from Federal Hill (RI's Little Italy) could certainly find a temporary solution for my cravings while I worked out the details of my crisis. As always, Jules came through and within a few days I had a giant box on my doorstep filled with spectacular meats and cheeses as if handmade by Mother Italy herself (knowing Jules it probably was.) Crisis averted, for now.  As for bread, I have resorted to baking my own.  They must be allergic to anything with a crust down here.