28 Days of Gratitude: Day 12... grateful for being ITALIAN!

Nov. 12th - I am thankful for my family. My crazy loud, Italian family.

There is something about being part of an Italian family.

You know the stereotypical loud crazy Italian families portrayed in the movies? Well, real Italian families are not like that at all.

Well, we’re like that… but so much more.

As a first generation Italian-American, I cannot speak on behalf of anyone else, except maybe my sisters.

I am so proud of my heritage, and feel honored that we are raising our girls Italian. And Irish. I can’t forget about my ¼ Irish roots. However, my mom’s Italian influence was first and foremost in our life. My dad, being half Italian himself, learned what it meant to be part of an Italian club. He learned how to understand and speak the language; crush grapes to make wine and deal Scopa in my Papa’s basement on Friday nights.

My sisters and I were raised with lots of love, but with a bit of crazy. The kind of crazy which is funny crazy, not creepy or scary.

Like the time my Zio Anthony accidentally ran over my Nonna’s pet hen, Henrietta. Oh she loved Henrietta. My mom took me and my sisters to a farm to pick out a special hen for Nonna’s birthday. She loved her and nicknamed her Henrietta. She lived with my grandparents for one summer. Then the accident happened, and my Nonna served Henrietta for unch the next day. I’m not 100% certain it was Henrietta, because my mother said it was just a regular chicken dinner and where was Henrietta, oh, she’s sleeping behind the house. But let’s just say my sisters and I became very leery of eating chicken at Nonna’s house from then on. See crazy weird, but not in a creepy way. (Well, that’s a bit creepy.

Our home was loud (most of the time).

Besides our regular loudness, the volume in my parents’ house rose immensely on the weekend. On any given weekend we seemed to be celebrating something or other in the garage (parties were always held in the garage). My grandparents on both sides would come over, my Aunt, my Uncle, My mom is an amazing cook, and would prepare endless amounts of food: pasta, chicken, potatoes, salad, and desserts. Coffee cake, espresso and biscotti. It was a birthday, a First Communion, an anniversary, a Confirmation. Or it could be just a regular Sunday.

I thought everyone grew up like this.

It was not until I went away to college that I realized just how very special being Italian really was. My parents used to send me care packages which would feed the entire dorm. Pepperoni, sopressata, and biscotti filled the box. Someone actually told me that I was “very ethnic” – I had never thought about it like that before. I mean, I realized not every family made wine or sausage, but just figured all families were crazy close, with no boundaries. Or that we need to know where each other is at any given moment.  My mom is famous for this…

She will panic if she calls one of her daughters and we don’t answer the first time. That will lead her to call the other daughters looking for us, and if that doesn’t work then it’s on to our husbands. She may leave a message, but only if she can’t reach us. A call back literally two minutes later, reveals she was just calling to check in and “Where are you?” and “Why can’t I find you?” I’m here mom, I say. “Well where are you?” Here, mom. What’s up? “Oh nothing, I just wanted to see where you were.” It’s definitely in our genes. I realize the older and older I get, the more I understand her need to talk with us, as I check in with my sisters daily. I feel very bad for my daughters… they do not stand a chance.

We have a love relationship with food and like to make everything homemade without a recipe.

I mean why follow a recipe when you just know how it’s done? Growing up around my Nonna and mother, who were both amazing cooks, we learned by watching. No notes, no questions, just watch. Watch how the dough rises, doubling in size, to make delicious Easter Bread. Watch how the sauce simmers when left on the stove for five hours. Watch how the cutlets are dipped into the flour first before the egg batter and bread crumbs before putting in oil to make cutlets. Food becomes a part of our life from early on… pastina cures all and making sausage with Papa is a rite of passage. And you can never have too many pasteries on the table.

Like other nationalities, we are strong in tradition.

We pray to Saint Anthony if we lose something, and pinch the ears of all of the Anthonys in our family on his feast day. We serve seven fishes on Christmas Eve and Panettone on Christmas Day. We twirl our spaghetti (never cut) and make bread on Nov 11th to celebrate the feast of San Martino. We learn the Tarantella as soon as we can walk, and leave our socks out for LaBefana on January 6th.

It’s not just the food. Or the loudness. Or the craziness. Or the love. It’s all of it.

It’s a warm feeling you get when we are all together at my parents’ home on Sundays. You literally cannot hear yourself think. Someone is crying, someone is laughing. Someone is yelling for something, and someone is setting the table. One of the kids is crawling on the table, and my dad is yelling for someone to watch this kid. One of the husbands is carrying the food downstairs (because of course we eat in the basement kitchen, why dirty the one upstairs) and my other brother-in-law is making espresso. Then perhaps my uncle and his wife will stop by, my Aunt will come over and perhaps a neighbor or friend or two. LOUD.

I love that we see my mom's cousins all over the country. I love that I grew up visiting my cousins in Italy. Spending time there in the summer with my grandparents. And driving to Toronto and Montreal to see my cousins. And lots of trips to Staten Island and New Jersey to visit more cousins. I love how close we all are- and I love that my girls are growing up the same way. I love that my 10 year old can not wait to travel to Italy soon with my parents.  

Thank goodness I married a fellow Italian. David's parents raised him the same way... with love and laughter, and crazy.

And don’t get me started on the accordion…