Italian Canisters for your Home Accent Needs
Author: lara cross
Italian canisters are an excellent way to liven up your home as an accent simply because of their beauty, versatility, and utility. Whether you are accenting your home décor, or making a housewarming gift for a friend, Italian canisters will be deeply appreciated for years to come. Italian canisters are ceramic containers that have been used for hundreds of years in Italian kitchens and homes for a variety of purposes. Sometimes Italian canisters are used to hold food items such as spices, flour, salt, and other ingredients. Other uses for Italian canisters are for holding cooking utensils. However, ceramic canisters do not need to be used just in a kitchen.
They make for a wonderful warm accent on any fireplace hearth or on a bathroom counter to hold cotton balls or simply for the accent color and beauty alone. In the bedroom, they make a great place to store change at the end of a day while also adding a lovely accent to the room. You can use this kind of Italian Ceramics wherever you want it; every place is all right for your new Italian canister. Italian canisters can be recognized by their cylindrical drum shape.
However, that is not the only shape they can take. There are a wide variety of styles, sizes, and shapes. Those used for spice and/or ingredient storage can be lidded or un-lidded. Those used for holding utensils near the stove tend to be the cylindrical un-lidded variety. The variety of shapes and sizes of Italian canisters are what makes them sometimes seen as works of art in their own right…and understandably so. Prices for quality individual Italian canisters are quite affordable. You can find the perfect Italian canister that will not only fulfill your need but your budget as well. You can get a singular canister or accent a room with a set. Mix and match colors, sizes and shapes to add an interesting contrast to any room.
The workmanship used on quality Italian canisters can be simply breath taking. With hand made Italian canisters, much care is taken into making each piece stand-alone as a very durable piece of Ceramic art. No matter who you are, you will also find a décor style to suit your tastes, décor theme, and budget.
There is a wide array of Italian canisters from hand painted one of a kind by masterful artist of the Old World era such as Franco mari, Eugenio Ricciarelli and Mastro Giorgio Gubbio to more modern concepts. Italian canisters can be dated back as far as to the thirteenth century. The workmanship that started so many years ago in the ceramic world continues today, with past artists works being replicated due to their time honored beauty and class. You will always look good when you give an Italian gift like some Italian canisters, because their beauty is no compared with other ceramic art, it is very known for their fine figures hand painted, which it make it different than the other kind of ceramics therefore you will have a treasure at home. Villaggio ceramics brings you a lot of items about Italian ceramics for all those gifts that you want to give in a special day, or some kind of ceramic that you want for your home decorating. You will find beautiful ceramics from Deruta, Maiolica and the best masters from Italy.
Article Source: http://www.articlesbase.com/accessories-articles/italian-canisters-for-your-home-accent-needs-1028059.html
About the Author
Villaggio ceramics is a proud importer of Italian hand painted decorative ceramics. Our goal is to maintain a clientele with taste and a fond appreciation for Italian Majolica (also known as Maiolica); Italian Mosaics; Italian dinnerware handsomely hand painted; unique decorative accessories, Italian gifts and much more.
Perfect meatball cutter ideas?
I’m looking for a Christmas gift for a friend who cooks Italian food quite often. Is there anything utensil other than an ice cream scooper to make meatballs faster? I was thinking either some specialized scooper or a tray that has some type of cut outs to press onto the meat.
The tool you’re looking for is call the Meatball Magic, as seen on TV
Hello, I’m italian, and I’m going in Glasgow in August…
I’ll stay in accomodation of University of Galsgow, exactilly in Hillhead Street….I would know if in this accomodations cooking utensils are present…and I would know if some supermarkets are present near Hillhead Street and if prices are very expansive…and I would know how the weather is in this period…I’m sorry for my bad English…
thanks, bye
Temperatures don’t get extremely cold here in winter but you will need a warm winter jacket and a pair of gloves for deep winter.
You are right in the heart of the West End. Nearby there is a Somerfield and a Marks and Spencer supermarket on Byres Road. Somerfield’s prices are usually quite cheap and this is probably the best shop for you. Marks and Spencer is very expensive.
Most student accommodation has utensils provided.
a story im writing, im stuck part 1?
A big white house. A dirt road bending and twisting. A young girl sitting on the wide front steps. A small town outside London. And me standing at the end of the dirt road near the rusty mailbox, a suitcase in each hand, a book bag slung over my shoulder. The girl was staring at me looking curious and angry at the same time. There was a huge wrought iron gate separating us. Something in her expression was glad about my standing on the other side of this gate. I stood there, watching her not wanting to push the gate forward. I slowly looked around myself. There were woods on both sides of the road that led back towards the small old fashioned town. I hated that this was my only choice of a home; a place where the shopping mall probably wasn’t closer than three hours and there wasn’t any cable; a town where everyone was behind the times; about twenty years behind the times to be exact. Everyone here still acted as though it was the eighteen hundreds. There was an old bakery in town, along with a blacksmith, sewing store, chimney cleaners, horse stables, cotton plantation, and a few other things. But I guess I would have to get used it; I had no other place to go. Not even the orphanage would take me. They thought that a rich, spoiled girl, would never fit in, and they were right. I had come from the heart of Italy. I’d lived nearly my whole life there with my mom. Before that we had lived in London, but moved to Italy to be close to my mother’s family after my father’s death, when I was seven. My accent was a strong British one mixed with and Italian accent. I thought it was very pretty. My mother had died two weeks ago. She was hit by a train in her car. I stayed with our nanny for two weeks but once the funeral was over she was rushing to find a family member for me to move in with. My grandpa was the only person who would take me.
I sighed, and pushed open the gate. The girl jumped up and disappeared into the house. I stopped dead wondering why she had run away. She had just been staring at me but then when I pushed open the gate separating us she ran. I shrugged closing the gate back and continuing down the long dirt path. The house was huge, the sort of house you see in old movies on a plantation. I walked slowly taking my time. The dirt crunched under my black simple heels. I had worn a dark teal colored skirt, and a gray blouse with black heels. I matched a black beaded necklace that hung down to my belly button. I figured I better look nice, as to make a good impression. My hair was pulled back from my face in a dark teal bow. I went up the old steps carefully and stopped at the door. I bent to set down a suitcase but the door swung open.
“Look at you!” a voice rung from the hallway. I stood up straight and looked into the face of a motherly looking woman. She had curly brown hair pulled back in a bun and she was wearing an apron around her waist over her simple yellow sun dress. I smiled and hesitated.
“Oh now, come in dear, we don’t want to let the heat in.” she gestured quickly for me to come in. I stepped in the door and she closed it behind me. She took my bags including the one on my shoulder and set them at the foot of a marvelous grand staircase to the right. She led me down a hall calling over shoulder, “Get her things Martin; the butler.” She added to me seeing my confused expression. She steered me into a big kitchen, with all kinds of fancy cooking utensils and sat me down at a small table in the center. I smiled up at her when she stood in front of me.
“Well don’t you look just like your mother.” She put her hand on my cheek. “Such terrible news too. But it wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t meant to happen.” She smiled weakly and turned to the counter.
“Um, excuse me miss, but how do you know my mother?” I asked. She turned back to me whipping her hands on a cloth on her waist.
“Well dear, I’m her sister.” Her smiled faded some, seeing as I had no clue that she was.
“Oh.” Was all I could manage.
“Yes, well I see just like the rest of my family she prefers not to mention me.” She nodded thoughtfully. I waited hoping she would speak again. She did. Her voice was worn and caring, and soft. She smiled at me turning back to her work on the counter.
“Excuse me, but why don’t they mention you?” I asked slowly. “Not that I’m trying to be rude you do understand.” I assured her. She sighed and turned to me then pulled out a chair and sat down next to me.
“You may call me Aunt Honey.” She smiled at me. “Anyhoo, when I was very young, and our father died I became very ill. My mother couldn’t care for me, and I got sicker and sicker. My mother kept trying to care for me, but she grew sick too. I became so ill that I should have died, but I didn’t. My mother did. It was my fault she died. I never let her have one moment away from me while I was sick. But I got over it. Two years later my father died; I had gotten sick again and insisted that he care for me instead of take
A big white house. A dirt road bending and twisting. A small town outside London. A young girl sitting on the wide front steps. With me standing at the end of the dirt road near the rusty mailbox, a suitcase in each hand, a book bag slung over my shoulder. The girl was staring at me looking curious and angry at the same time. There was a huge wrought iron gate separating us. Something in her expression was glad about my standing on the other side of this gate. I stood there, watching her not wanting to push the gate forward. I slowly looked around myself. There were woods on both sides of the road that led back towards the small old fashioned town. I hated that this was my only choice of a home; a place where the shopping mall probably wasn’t closer than three hours and there wasn’t any cable; a town where everyone was behind the times; about twenty years behind the times to be exact. Everyone here still acted as though it was the eighteen hundreds.
There was an old bakery in town, along with a blacksmith, sewing store, chimney cleaners, horse stables, cotton plantation, and a few other things. But I guess I would have to get used it; I had no other place to go. Not even the orphanage would take me. They thought that a rich, spoiled girl, would never fit in, and they were right. I had come from the heart of Italy. I’d lived nearly my whole life there with my mom. Before that we had lived in London, but moved to Italy to be close to my mother’s family after my father’s death, when I was seven. My accent was a strong British one mixed with and Italian accent. I thought it was very pretty. My mother had died two weeks ago. She was hit by a train in her car. I stayed with our nanny for two weeks but once the funeral was over she was rushing to find a family member for me to move in with. My grandpa was the only person who would take me.
I sighed, and pushed open the gate. The girl jumped up and disappeared into the house.
I stopped dead wondering why she had run away. She had just been staring at me but then when I pushed open the gate separating us she ran. I shrugged closing the gate back and continuing down the long dirt path. The house was huge, the sort of house you see in old movies on a plantation. I walked slowly taking my time. The dirt crunched under my black simple heels. I had worn a dark teal colored skirt, and a gray blouse with black heels. I matched a black beaded necklace that hung down to my belly button. I figured I better look nice, as to make a good impression. My hair was pulled back from my face in a dark teal bow. I went up the old steps carefully and stopped at the door. I bent to set down a suitcase but the door swung open.
“Look at you!” a voice rung from the hallway. I stood up straight and looked into the face of a motherly looking woman. She had curly brown hair pulled back in a bun and she was wearing an apron around her waist over her simple yellow sun dress.
I smiled and hesitated.
“Oh now, come in dear, we don’t want to let the heat in.” she gestured quickly for me to come in. I stepped in the door and she closed it behind me. She took my bags including the one on my shoulder and set them at the foot of a marvelous grand staircase to the right. She led me down a hall calling over shoulder, “Get her things Martin; the butler.” She added to me seeing my confused expression. She steered me into a big kitchen, with all kinds of fancy cooking utensils and sat me down at a small table in the center. I smiled up at her when she stood in front of me.
“Well don’t you look just like your mother.” She put her hand on my cheek. “Such terrible news too. But it wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t meant to happen.” She smiled weakly and turned to the counter.
“Um, excuse me miss, but how do you know my mother?” I asked. She turned back to me whipping her hands on a cloth on her waist.
“Oh…well, your grandfather dear, yes, yes, pictures.” He said hesitating, sounding not-so-sure of herself.
“Oh.” I mumbled quietly.
“Yes, well you must be hungry, such a long, trip here! It’s been so long since you’ve been to London, I’m sure it’s different being back here.” She rambled as she cooked. After a minute or two I could smell chicken broth, and carrots, and bread baking in the oven. I heard a clank as she set the top on the cast iron pot on the stove. She turned back to me smiling waiting for an answer.
“I don’t remember it much; I was only seven when we moved.” I gave her a simple answer to work with. I wasn’t in the mood for talking; more for sitting in my room and crying. I had held the tears back on the plane ride here. It all was a horrible nightmare. My mother had just died and I was forced to move back near London, which was where my father had died. I didn’t even know my Grandpa, I had never met him, and if I had I didn’t remember him well.
THE ADDTIONAL DETAIL IS JUST THE STORY REWRITTEN.
I HAVE TAKEN SOME OF YOUR ADVICE AND FIXED SOME PARTS.
SO THEY ARE DIFFERENT VERSIONS.
I liked how strongly it started. I love stories that immediately put you into the moment with a strong word-picture. After that, it got a little bit run-on, a little too much information to absorb so quickly. We’re just getting to know the main character, so Aunt Honey’s past history overwhelms me a bit, so soon in the story.
But the plot sounds amazing. I already want to know more!
What kind of equipment do Italians use to cook?
Do they lay out their utensils in a certain way? How do they set their table? What kind of equipment is used in food preparation?
I’m doing a project for my foods class and NEED to know!
Thank you to those that answer!
FIAT fry pan and an ALPHA ROMEO spatula….along with some Lambrusco wine for taste…. and have a passionate argument over which coffee machine is better
What have the spaniards been known to be good at?
I always hear about the french being good at making wine, good cooks, good lovers,and the italians being good at cooking also, and good lovers.
Also, you’ve got the germans who have been know to make good tanks, weapons, machinery, kitchen utensils etc. My grandma has told me the spaniards were good sailors is this true?
Guitar. Flamenco, Cooking, Handsome men