Five Things That Tick Me Off

I love that everyone loves Italian food, by all means embrace the delicious form of tomatoes we like to call sauce, engorge on my Nonni’s lemon cookies, and mom’s chicken parm all you want. Eat as much of it as you can when you’re out to dinner or come to my house. However, there are a few things people need to hear if they are going to consider themselves an Italian food connoisseur. 

1. Ragu

Please, I’m begging you not to fall victim to this red paste some people have the audacity to throw on pasta. 

Ragu is a sorry excuse for a sauce and if you’re asking me, it shouldn’t be in the same category as the delicious red stuff that comes off my Nonni’s stove. If you’e going to make Italian food do it right, you don’t see me using SPAM to make corn beef and hash.

2. Pronounce gnocchi correctly

For the love of god people it’s not pronounced ga-na-ch-ee. 

The ‘g’ is silent. Nothing makes me cringe more than when I’m out to dinner and I hear someone ask the waiter for an order of the ga-na-ch-ee’s. It takes everything in me not to give them a lesson on the Italian language.

By the way it’s pronounced knee-own-key.

3. Panetone Bread

If I have to demo this at work one more time and listen to people call it pan-a-tone bread I think my brain is going to implode. 

P-on-e-tone. It’s probably the easiest Italian food to pronounce and people still mess it up. I mean do you go to a Mexican restaurant and say “That tack-o was so good?”

4. Olive Garden Is Not Real Italian

Anyone who watches that commercial and actually thinks they’re getting a “tour of Italy” needs to revaluate their life. It’s literally frozen food they warm up and take out of bag. The only good thing going for them is the bread sticks, and those aren’t even made from scratch. 

You want real Italian, go to Grandpa Sam’s, Pasta Villa, Pane Vino, but please spare me with the whole Olive Garden has great Italian food thing because I may slap you. 

5. Espresso…

Last, but certainly the thing that pisses me off the most.

Can someone explain to me when the letter ’s’ took on the sound of an ‘x’ because I would really like to know. Apparently ex-presso is the new form of Italian coffee and every Italian on earth missed the memo. 

Read the freaking word people: ESPRESSO. There’s no ‘x’ in there.

Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving!

Thanksgiving is by far my favorite holiday. Don't get me wrong I love Christmas too, but there’s something about Thanksgiving that makes it slightly better than Christmas. 

The food is probably at the top of that list. Nothing compares to the smell of Thanksgiving dinner cooking when I walk into my aunts house. Turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, sweet potatoes, stuffing, pumpkin soup, and squash ravioli; nothing, absolutely nothing can beat that. I wake up, have a small break fast, and literally starve myself for the rest of the day that way I don’t feel guilty for eating as much as a 300 pound man. 

Not to mention the dessert. I don’t want to toot my own horn, but I make some damn good pumpkin cookies. And then there’s grape pie, apple pie, pumpkin pie, pumpkin cheese cake, and Nonni’s chocolate chip cookies, the list goes on and on. You stand there debating what dessert to take and you finally give into trying a little of everything because, eh it’s a holiday.

And then there’s the company. What’s better than eating your life away with the people you love? Oh yeah there isn’t anything better. I love giving and receiving gifts at Christmas, but Thanksgiving is just about being together. There’s no pressure about buying a great gift or pretending to like something so you don’t hurt anyones feelings. It’s just about having a good time with the people you are most thankful for. Then you get to go back for leftovers, eat thanksgiving dinner for a second time, and see your family again.

P.S. Not to mention the mannequin challenge we completed and Nonni completely crushed it. 

The Best Memories Are Created Around The Table

Family.

Family, all the descendants of a common ancestor.

Family, a group of people who share the same blood line.

Family, the people in your life that you’re related to.

Family, the people who come to your birthday parties.

Family, a group of people that celebrate holiday’s together.

Family, the people you see every weekend.

Family, the people who make you laugh until you can’t breathe.

Family, the people who make you smile when all you want to do is cry.

Family, the safe haven you will forever have.

Family, the people you want standing with you during the most crucial moments in your life.

Family is the feeling I had when I watched my cousins win the state championship today. 

Family is the feeling of accomplishment and pride I felt when I watched them fight until the final second.

Family is more than the blood that connects you.

Family is the closeness and love you allow into your heart so you can share some of the greatest moments with the people you love. 

What Is Really Behind A Bowl Of Pasta

I was once asked if all my family does at gatherings is talk over each other and eat? And as I sat there trying to put into words what my family actually does at gatherings, I realized what we do is in fact talk over each other and eat. I’m not sure whether it irritated me more that I couldn’t come up with a better answer, or that as an Italian family we conform to what society has painted Italians to look like. 

Yes, we are loud, we talk with our hands, we swear a little too much, and like to eat until it’s painful to breathe, but all of that has a much deeper meaning than people realize. Behind all of the food, all of the obnoxious voices, lies something much more valuable. 

When I was younger I used to wonder why it was that we always ate pasta on Sundays.

My parents would tell me “We’re Italian, on Sunday’s we go to Nonni’s and eat lunch,” and I would shrug it off because they’re my parents, so I had to do as told. 

I would sit at my unofficial assigned seat at Nonni’s table, eat my pasta, and be a part of the tradition I didn’t quiet get. The next day I would come home from school and ask what was for dinner. The answer? You get one guess…

Pasta. 

Pasta mom made, pasta dad made, left over pasta from Nonni’s the night before. The pasta was never ending, it was sitting in the fridge to be eaten every single day. It’s pasta and sauce, it just some eggs and flour thrown into a bowl and rolled into whatever shape you want them and topped off with some tomatoes, and I didn’t get it.

It’s just pasta, what’s so significant about pasta? Little did I know it wasn’t the pasta itself that was significant, it was everything the pasta represented. 

One Nonni, three children, three in-laws, and ten grandchildren were together every Sunday because of something as simple as pasta. It wasn’t until I started to get a little older that I realized it wasn’t because we were sticklers for tradition and needed pasta every Sunday, it was because every Sunday the tradition of eating pasta gave us an excuse to all be together. 

No matter what was going on we always found time for Sunday lunch. It was the unwritten rule, the one sure thing, the thing that made your week go by faster than you can blink because you knew on Sunday you would get to see your cousins. 

Pasta is just something that creates a way for a family to bond. I have had some of the best moments with my family over delicious meals filled with gnocchi and Nonni’s sauce, and I for one wouldn’t change a thing about it. 

As for the obnoxious hand gestures and deafening voices, well what can I say? With a family like mine you have to yell every time you talk if you ever want to be heard. 

Four Forbidden Phrases

I have come to learn that there are four phrases you must never say to Nonni. The moment the words leave your mouth you’re cursing yourself for saying them and want nothing more than to rewind time and never say them. It’s like word vomit, the sentence pours out and there’s no going back… 

1. “I’m full.”

Oh, you’re full? Too bad.

Nonni doesn’t understand the meaning of the word “full” and probably never will. From the second you arrive at her house, to the moment you leave, you will be consuming some sort of food or drink, and by the end of the night you’ll swear that you’ll never eat another gnocchi in your life. 

How do you avoid over eating so you don’t have to endure the pain of a food baby? You can’t.

You have to sit there and put a smile on as your aunt continues to scoop heaping amounts of pasta onto your plate, even though you know there’s a second course coming. But to please Nonni, you sit there and allow yourself to grow three pant sizes and tell her how good it tastes because let’s face it, she’s a damn good cook.

2. “It’s too ____.”

Stop. Whether it’s too salty, too oily, too whatever, stop talking before these words become the bane of your existence. 

Nothing, I repeat nothing, is ever too seasoned in Nonni’s eyes. And don’t try to argue because she will shut you down faster than you can even come up with an explanation as to why you think that. She’ll proceed to say, “I putta just enough.” You’ll bite your tongue as she shows you the amount of oil she put on the green beans and your eyes widen when you realize that you alone are taking in at least a cup of oil during this Sunday meal. 

As Nonni continues to show you the amount of oil she uses to cook, you’ll begin to feel like you’re the size of a peanut when she uses the adorable old lady voice that reminds you she worked hard to prepare this meal. So you shut up and eat the oil coated food because even though you’re concerned about your health in the near future Nonni’s food is too good to pass up. 

3. “I don’t like that.” 

Leave. 

At this point go home. The amount of hurt in your Nonni’s voice when you say this makes you want to crawl under the table and cry. 

“You no like-a my food?”

“No I like your food, just not this particular dish…”

*Cue hitting yourself over the head*

You’re human you don’t like every type food that the world has to offer. It just takes Nonni a little longer to understand this. So when these words leave your mouth, and your Nonni turns her head to the side after you ask if you offended her, she’ll answer, “You no offend,” just take the food and act like you ate it to please her. 

4. “That’s my favorite!” 

Not for long...

I’m not sure what’s worse, telling Nonni you don’t like something or telling her that you do.

*Flashback to the first ten years of my life when Nonni brought my sisters and I packages of Hostess Cupcakes and Honey Buns every weekend.*

If you tell Nonni something is your favorite, it won’t be your favorite for much longer because Nonni will beat it to death. That food will somehow, someway find it’s way to your fridge or pantry so often that the sight of it will make you gag. 

You’ll get so sick of it that you’ll give it to your neighbors because they love it and their mom never buys it, and all of the sudden you’ve become the Hostess Cartel smuggling them across the boarder that lies between your house and your neighbor's. 

Four forbidden phrases, four sentences to never say, four groups of words that you never want to tell Nonni, but will never make her love you any less. 

The Seven Deadly Questions

There are a solid seven questions every Italian is asked when a stranger first discovers they are in fact Italian. Typically not in any order, but these seven questions are questions I have been asked at least once in my life. These seven questions are the seven that get extremely old and cause the same internal response. 

1. Is your family a part of the mob?

Why, just why is this a question when people discover my ethnic background is Italian? 

When people ask this I get genuinely concerned about my generations intelligence. I live in the suburbs of Spencerport and you think my dad is a mobster? My father is the most non-confrontational person I have ever met and the thought of him being a Mob King literally makes me roll over laughing. I mean this man feels bad killing deer that are too young. 

This is 21st century America people, get a grip.

2. You must be a good cook.

No actually I suck. 

I can make all of three meals by the skin of my teeth. Tacos, vodak sauce, salmon, and nothing more. I can’t even cook rice. It somehow always ends up burnt and sticking to the bottom of the pan. I tried to cook cutlets one day and the pork was so rubbery even my dog wouldn’t eat it. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I can’t cook and my future family is going to live off of microwaveable rice and any cutlets my mom decides to cook for us. 

3. Why do you always have to go to your Nonni’s on Sundays?

Because that’s just how it is. 

Sundays in my family are equivalent to the tradition of prayer in a religious family. Sundays are an Italian's version of St. Patrick's Day, but on a weekly basis. You don’t miss or skip a Sunday for the sake of skipping a Sunday. You’re not there, you better have a pretty damn good explantation. You have the flu? As far as Nonni’s concerned you can be sick and throw up at her house and hopefully scarf down some pasta in between the copious amounts of fluids you have to consume. 

4. Do you go to Italy all the time?

HA. HA. HA.

Yeah, let me just drop $4,000 on a yearly basis to travel to Italy every summer. Scratch that. Let my parents drop $20,000 a year that way our family of five can travel to Italy for a quick family vacation. 

No, I do not go to Italy to vacation, nor have I ever been to Italy. I would love to go and so would my parents, but growing up they saved money for much more important things than taking my sisters and I to Italy. 

5. You’re so loud, you must be Italian.

I’m loud and talk with my hands and yes I just happen to be Italian as well. 

I’m probably one of the loudest people you will ever cross paths with. I walk, breathe, and talk loud and it’s not going to change. The minute I speak anyone in a mile radius can hear me and any one in a 50 foot radius can see my hands moving. They say "you're yelling quiet down." And all I can think is how I was talking quietly... 

6. Do you eat pasta for every meal?

Yes. Three meals a day, seven days a week I eat sauce and pasta. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. 

Seriously? You think I eat pasta for every meal? Do you realize how many carbs I would be intaking on a day to day basis, or how unhealthy it would be for my diet to only consist of rigatoni and sauce? Shockingly enough Italians don’t only consume pasta. We like to expand our horizons into other food groups than solely carbohydrates.

7. Are you related to everyone?

Make as many jokes about my family spreading across almost every suburb in Rochester, but no I’m not related to everybody.

No joke I do have around 200 (probably more) first cousins, seconds cousins, even third cousins. But it is probably the most irritating thing when someone asks if I’m related to someone they know and I say yes. As soon as the word ‘yes’ leaves my mouth it’s like every person who asks this question is wired to have the exact same response. “Oh my god you’re related to everyone!” 

Really? I didn’t realize I have an absurd amount of family members, please tell me again. 

When Friends Come to Sunday Lunch

Living in an Italian family that is so closely knit together means it’s nearly impossible to have never brought a friend or friends to Sunday lunch. The first time an outsider comes to Sunday lunch is the ultimate test to the friendship. You soon learn whether or not they plan to stick around or decide that you’re just as crazy as your family. 

The first time I brought friends to a classic Sunday lunch at Nonni’s house was in seventh grade. Needless to say they were in for pure culture shock. We’re 13 years old and my friendship with the three of them has been nothing short of sisterly since the beginning of elementary school. I thought it was time they experienced the Sunday lunches that have been consuming my weekends for the majority of my childhood.  

We arrive and there are more than thirty bodies piled in the kitchen, all hovering around the plate filled with slices of cheddar, parmesan, swiss, and provolone cheese. We pass some time by clearing the plate of cheese, then take our rightful spots at the two tables that are pushed together in order to fit everyone. The pasta is brought to the table and the aunts serve everyone one by one. Extra sauce is passed, grated cheese is being sprinkled, and my friends seem to be holding their heads above water perfectly fine. As we stuff our faces with gnocchi for the next fifteen minutes and numerous Italian words that only the parents understand are being thrown around, I notice my friends eating more pasta than normal. 

Do they think this is the only food?

Little do they know what else has to come out. My family, myself included, all love this next part of newbie’s coming to Sunday lunch because no one ever realizes what’s hiding in the oven. We probably should've warned them not to eat so much pasta, but the expressions on their faces were priceless when the two trays of cutlets, two dishes of lamb, four different vegetables, and giant bowl of salad made their way to the table. 

“There’s more?!” They asked me in shock. And all I did to answer was laugh and nod my head yes. After they force fed themselves, they finally thought it was over... 

That is until my Nonni called the grandkids back into the kitchen, “Time to put the fruit out.” Looks of shock take over yet again as we placed watermelon, red grapes, green grapes, cantaloupe, and honey dew on the table. And within the next ten minutes the fruit was nearly gone and my friends seemed to think Sunday was coming to an end, but it was far from the end. 

The coffee was brewing in the pot, espresso was brewing on the stove, and dessert after dessert were making their way next to what was left of the fruit. I’ve now lost all self control and gave into my laughter when I heard one of my friend saying that they’re so full but everything looks so good. And like my family, each of my three friends grabbed a plate and filled it with dessert. 

When the night was finally over, my three friends and I sat in our sleeping bags in my basement recapping the night. They went on and on about how welcoming my family was, how great my Nonni’s cooking is, and how they have never eaten that much on any normal Sunday. And right before we go to bed they asked me, “Can we come back next Sunday?” 

They certainly passed the test. 

Welcome To Just Another Sunday

I would like to begin with saying welcome, and thank you for taking the time to stop by Just Another Sunday. I want to assure you that this topic is near and dear to my heart. I will be back here once a week to offer you insight and some laughs on what goes on in my rambunctious family.

Growing up in an Italian family has made me an expert on the ins and outs of how to survive, how to bring friends around, and how to endure the never ending amount of food you are forced to consume. 

        In today’s world we see numerous families gathering together and continuing the roots of their culture. Italian’s however seem to get a reputation.

I hope to show you what it truly means to be Italian and what I have come to learn over the course of my twenty years. My dad’s parents immigrated straight from Italy, as well as my mom’s grandparents. Growing up, my family has taken those authentic values and made them our own. 

        While the rest of the world may think it is simply just sauce, hand gestures, and more noise than you wish to hear, I have learned to appreciate every single person in my family and the role they play.

As I sit here on yet again another Sunday waiting for my aunts, uncles, and cousins to arrive, I cannot help but think about the countless memories we have created, the laughing that makes your stomach hurt five minutes after you’ve stopped, and of course the food that brings us all together. 

I can only hope that as you sit here reading my blog every week, Italian or not, these stories can bring you closer to your own family and make you think about what your own culture has to offer.