SLOW FOOD/FAST COFFEE

Last year, my sister visited from Italy, and I took her to a beloved neighborhood coffee place. We placed our order for two espressos, and then I stood back to analyze the various stages of shock she was bound to experience. The reason? The espresso making took FOREVER. My sister stared in increasing disbelief as the barista took all the time in the world to go through the 7 Steps of modern American artisanal espresso-making:

1. Pour ground coffee into the handle in atomic increments.
2. Press the coffee down with complete concentration in carefully-applied 30-lb thrusts.
3. Polish the border of the handle until it shines, completely speckless.
4. Let the coffee drip into the cup with monastic patience.
5. Examine the espresso closely for possible flaws that would nullify the process.
6. Send a silent prayer to the coffee gods to ensure future blessing.
7. Place the finished espressos on the counter for the costumer to finally enjoy. (Avoid eye contact.)

You know what it's like: It took at least 10 minutes from start to finish. My sister looked at me, her brown, life-filled Italian eyes wide open, and said, "We need to open our espresso bar. We'll be millionaires!"

See, espresso in Italy (we call it coffee) is actually a very quick experience. Even in the nicest torrefazioni (cafes where coffee is roasted and served), it might take a minute at most for a perfect espresso to appear in front of you after your order. It's not only that Italians barista are quick, it's that they have to be. We Italians are physically and culturally addicted to coffee and to its almost instantaneous kick, so much that we don't even care about sitting down at a coffee bar. We need our espresso, and we need it NOW. That's why at home we use the little stovetop moka, because it produces a concentrated coffee in a matter of minutes.

Anyway, my sister thought Americans would love to have their coffee just as fast. She thought, arent' they addicted, too? Well, as much as her fantasy of opening an espresso bar appealed to me, I knew it would never work in America. Nobody cares about a fast espresso here. Instead, a carefully-poured espresso is popular because it reminds American of the artistry and tradition of coffee. An express espresso would not have the same charm.

So I started thinking, and I realized there is a major difference between American and Italian approach to food and coffee that I summarized in this handy infographic:

Italians will happily wait 20 to 30 minutes for the appetizers to show up and would never dream of having lunch in the car, but need their espresso right away, preferably standing up, and five minutes later they're already on their way. In Italy, a barista is as swift and invisible as a ghostly apparition, seen only with the corner of your eye.

Who is right, then? Well, Italians, of course. We're always right on food. But I will concede that slow coffee has its charms. I very much appreciate the dedication that American baristas are giving to our home staple, and I am definitely thankful to them for taking espresso seriously enough to transform it from a bitter soup to a creamy deliciousness that is often just as good as the original. And as soon as you get addicted as Italians are, I know you'll learn to make it quick. See you on the other side.

IS HOME COOKING ANTI-FEMINIST? AN ITALIAN PERSPECTIVE

At the end of last year there was a resurgence of articles questioning the feminist or anti-feminist nature of home cooking. The debate is not new, but it flared up in response to the publication of "The Joy of Cooking?" (the article is not longer available for free, so buy it here or read about it here), an article by three sociologists from North Carolina State University that was based on their interviews with 150 black, white, and Latina mothers and on over 250 hours of observation of 12 working-class mothers dealing with cooking and family life.

The article was quite discouraging for those who believe America should embrace home cooking in the name of public health and a lesser environmental impact. What emerged from it is that mothers, even when they hold full-time jobs, are still the ones saddled with cooking and all its implications, from meal planning to grocery shopping, from making the time for cooking to cleaning afterwards. To make matters worse, the onerous home-cooked meal stands a good chance of being rejected by the kids AND the husband, so the whole ordeal might end up in a maddening waste of time, energy, and money. The mothers' uphill battle is not only confined within their homes: Junk food is advertised everywhere and easily available, and school cafeterias most often serve just that (it reminded me of a comment in the movie Fed Up, defining some schools today as "7-11's with books"), so convincing their children to start eating healthy, home-cooked meals becomes a near impossible task.

To be fair, the article never uses the terms "feminist" or "anti-feminist" to define the problem, but much of the debate that sparked from it posed that very question. Is home-cooking feminist? The debate intrigued me. I've often heard Italian mothers complain that they have to do all the cooking, but I had never seen the blame being put on home cooking. In fact, home cooking is still upheld as one of the best things Italians have accomplished, and I've always agreed. But should I? I started thinking about my Italian experience with home cooking, about its rituals, meaning, and consequences on Italian family life. As you may already know, food in Italy is pretty much sacred, and most Italians are very educated (and opinionated) about nutrition. We have a great, incredibly varied cuisine that spans from the very simple to the refined, from the perfectly healthy to the obscenely sweet and/or fat. Is cooking for Italian women a source joy, a necessary chore, or just a tool of oppression? I decided to talk a little bit about food culture and home cooking in Italy to see if it could help shed some light on the American cooking conundrum.

The following considerations come from my personal experience (I do not work full time at the moment, but I was raised by a mother who did) and that of a few Italian female friends I spoke to who were raised by full-time working parents or are working mothers themselves.

HOME COOKING IN ITALY

How Do Italians View Food? 

Of course you know this, but I have to say it: Italy is a food-centric nation. Italian cuisine is exceptionally varied and relies on a fantastic quantity of amazing produce for each season. It is also worth remembering that Italians' rural past is just a couple of generations away. Almost all Italians have strong connections to people growing produce or raising livestock, be it in their family or in or around the place they live in. In my personal experience, even though I grew up in the city with two full-time working parents, my family would often stay at my grandfather's home in Tuscany, which had a small farm right behind it where my sister and I would pick fresh fruit and eggs, help with the animals, and occasionally be given the chance to milk a cow.

How Does Home Cooking Work in Italy? 

I would say the vast majority of families eat mostly home-cooked meals during the week, although, compared to previous generations, they tend to prepare easier and quicker meals (home-made pasta is a treat to make once in a while) and eat out more than in the past. Cooking skills are passed on from generation to generation, and even if you were not interested in cooking or your parents were less insistent on your learning (that would be me), Italy as a whole is permeated by a constant conversation about food and its preparation. You cannot be immune to that information: You are going to pick up at least the basic techniques, recommended ingredients and combinations, meal planning ideas, nutritional information, etc.

Who Cooks? 

Mostly women. Men in my family did grocery shopping and some of the cooking, but I know that was not the norm among my acquaintances. I have to be honest about this: Italian culture is still deeply sexist, and men are not expected to provide any help in the kitchen. In fact, some of my male friends grew up never once helping around the house whereas their sisters were absolutely expected to. Italian men may cook for their own pleasure or on special occasions, but it's not common to see them actively participating in every aspect of meal planning, preparation, and cleanup. I know the situation has evolved, but we can't talk about equality yet.

Is it easy to eat healthy food in Italy? 

Yes, and the reason is simple: Produce is still the cheapest option in Italy. Even in the expensive Northeast where I come from, you can subscribe to a CSA to provide you with organic produce for a family of four for 7 euros a week. Non-organic produce is even cheaper and readily available in markets.

How Do People Shop for Groceries in Italy?

Today many Italians might visit a supermarket once a week like Americans, but up to the 1990s (when big distribution really took off in Italy) the situation was different. Italian cities and towns were still densely packed with small specialized grocery stores where people could by quality local food easily and cheaply. Small stores disseminated all over the cities made for frequent but quick visits that allowed for a pantry populated with fresh food. Even though today many of the small grocery stores have closed, especially in the North, people still tend to have quick and easy access to a wide variety of foods in their neighborhoods and towns.

Do Italian Children Eat Everything? 

No, they don't. Some of them do, but just as in the United States, many children have very definite preferences and aversions that need to be defended at all costs. Yet, junk food in Italy is much less available compared to the United States, and society expectations on children's diets are higher (Italian restaurants do not serve kids meals, except for smaller individual pizzas), so I think Italian children tend to grow up appreciating a wider variety of foods.

What Food is Served in Italian Schools? 

There might be some debate about accessibility and quality of Italian school cafeterias, which are only present in preschool and elementary school (from middle school onwards, Italian kids are mostly home for lunch), but food options in school cafeterias are much healthier than in the United States. It's unthinkable for a school to offer fast-food items to children, and desserts are generally absent (fruit tends to end a meal). Mealtime in Italian school is seen more and more as an opportunity to teach children about healthy behaviors. It doesn't work all the time, but at least the school cafeteria is not sabotaging the parents' efforts.

What's the general opinion about junk food? 

Italians have always had a strong stance against processed food, so fast-food never really took off in Italy like it did in the United States. I actually remember the uproar when the first McDonald's opened in my town in the early 1990s: Even as a teen willing to try the greasiest of foods, I knew very well that was unhealthy and could never become a staple in my diet. Also, a McDonald's meal was still much more expensive than better-quality food made at home, so the appeal was simply not there. I would say that, for Italians, junk food is a guilty pleasure to be enjoyed in moderation, but hardly a meal-replacement option to be consumed several times per month (this survey suggests that about 39% of Italians practically never eat at fast-food restaurants).

My conclusion 

So this is it. I offer no solutions, no great idea for steering America back towards home-cooking, and especially on how to help working American and Italian women lessen their burden. And yet... Even though Italy is a sorry mess of a country, economically and morally, I do think that the Italian experience might have something to teach us at least in terms of availability (both economic and physical) and a proud culture of healthy eating.

Personally, I think cooking is a wonderful skill. I know, I have a food blog, so of course I'd say that. But I also really believe there's something magical about the way cooking can make us healthier, happier and bring us together. Good ingredients, a touch creativity, and a table with family and friends to celebrate a great day or to gather in silence after a horrible one. It is a gift of health, human connection, and time. And also, there are so many practical skills we can learn and share with our kids, and home cooking is one of the easiest to tackle.

If I think about the gender implications of home cooking, I wouldn't say that home cooking is in itself anti-feminist but that serious issues of gender inequity surround and complicate the matter. In fact, as I reread the original article, I have a nagging feeling that one real problem was left unexplored. I never see fathers questioned about their role in all of this. Once again, this looks to me like it's being presented as a women's issue rather than a family issue. Sure we should indict an economic system and a food culture that pushes junk food before healthy food, but why are fathers never mentioned, never asked to participate? Home cooking can greatly contribute to improve the health of the Italian families, but we can't expect mothers to do all the work.

A MID-SUMMER SNOBALL MIRAGE

In late July, my family spent a week in Fenwick Island, a lovely coastal town sandwiched between the romantic charm of Ocean City, MD and the austere beauty of Bethany Beach, DE. We were joined by my sister and her two kids, aged 10 and 12. After lying on the sand on a particularly sunny morning, we dared order a "Snoball", which is shaved ice topped with flavored syrup served in a styrofoam cup. We were hoping it would taste like a Sicilian granita, the heavenly inspiration for what you call "Italian ice": It did not.

Because of my sugar-free credo, I didn't order a Snoball for myself. I did, however, taste everybody else's: watermelon, orange, chocolate, and bubble-gum. As the kids sprinted to play in the water under my sister's watchful eyes, I slipped into a nauseated sleep. I'm sure it must have been the combination of the sugar, the synthetic flavoring, and the heat that introduced a strange and unsettling vision that haunts me to this day, and that I will recount to you now in this post.


Shortly after falling into my sugar coma, I woke up to find a plump, tanned woman in a black bikini sitting right next to me and looking towards the ocean. I had no idea what she was doing there, and I thought she was sitting a little too close, but there was something reassuring about her so I didn't protest. She was sitting against the sun in silhouette, so I could only catch glimpses of her face. What I could see is that she was probably in her mid-sixties, with long wiry grey hair and thick dark eyebrows. Her belly was big, round and smooth and the color of a cappuccino, and so were her thighs and arms. I remember thinking she actually looked like a giant smoked scamorza.

"There are lots of dolphins in the water today," she said, still looking at the ocean. Her voice was familiar somehow and carried a faint Italian accent; it reminded me of my mother's voice, but with a more deadpan tone.

"Are you Italian?" I asked.

"Yes, but I moved here a long time ago," the woman replied.

I asked her where in Italy she came from, but she didn't hear me, or decided not to reply. Instead, she started talking as in her own private conversation.

"The beach here is so different from Italy. It took me a long time to understand the waves."

"I know!" I exclaimed. "My husband put me on a body board four years ago, and I almost died. Two giant waves swept me off and I must have spent thirty seconds rolling underwater like a rag in the spin cycle. I haven't gone in since. I miss the Mediterranean Sea... calm and flat and unchallenging like an infant tub."

"And what about American beach food?" she asked, and I think I saw a complicit smile.

"Oh god! It's just burgers and pizza everywhere!" I replied. "And funnel cakes and fries! I think I'm getting tanned but it's just liver spots. No prosciutto e melone, right? Or a nice gelato."

"I miss the fresh fish," she said. "Not the frozen, chewy stuff they serve here. A big tray of fritto misto, to be shared with friends."

I was still trying to see her face through the blinding light of the sun, when I was distracted by my son calling me. He wanted me to go play in the water with him. I waved to my sister to take care of it. After the Snoball sampling, I wasn't sure I could move my legs.

"Is that your child?" she asked me.

"Yes. I have another one at home. He's napping with his dad now."

"I also have two boys. They're big now. They still come to the beach with me sometimes, but they have their own ideas of vacation now. They want better waves, so they can surf."

"No crossword puzzles under the umbrella for them, I bet!" I joked.

The woman shook her head slowly in response. She looked again towards the ocean and smiled at my son, but I knew her mind was elsewhere. My son was now happily running around his cousins, who were burying each other in the sand.

"Another thing that scares me," I started again, "is looking at families here, when they stroll on the boardwalk. Loud kids running all over the place and eating junk food into the night; their parents clothed in fluorescent T-shirts and khaki shorts, staring into space, just putting one foot in front of the other until they reach the next gadget shop. All the while the most god-awful music from ten years ago is blaring through all the speakers, canceling all their thoughts. Is my family going to look like that one day? Chilling, really."

The woman turned her gaze to me, and said, "Do you really think your family will be any different?" I could pick out a hint of a mocking smile on her face, and I immediately felt like an idiot.

"It will" she continued, "But only you will notice."

She moved her head to the side a little, and a ray of sunlight momentarily blinded me. I rubbed my eyes with one hand for a second, and when I looked back to the woman, she was no longer there. I looked around in the semi-deserted beach, but she had disappeared.

My son called me again from the water. I stood up and went to play.

YOU'RE READING MY DIARY

INVASION OF THE MICROBIOME SNATCHER

Over the past year or so, I've be reading more and more reports about how science is now examining how our thoughts and behavior may be dictated by our gut flora (read here and here). To clarify: We always thought stress caused our intestinal problems, but it might be the opposite. This news is truly fascinating to me, and also creepy, if you consider the implications. In fact, if I were a journalist I would sensationalize these findings more. I just can see the titles: "Evil bacteria: At last, scientific proof for demonic possession" or "We found the human soul, and it's made of yogurt".

SPINELESS FAUNA IS MADE REDUNDANT 

Last week the Invertebrates Exhibit at the National Zoo was closed for good after 27 years. That was incredibly sad news for all of us who count octopi and cuttlefish among their favorite animals. The reason for the closure, detailed here, is that the exhibit was too expensive at $1 million per year plus $5 million for a necessary renovation. Which raises the question: Are they really saying they could not find a DC millionaire willing to save the Invertebrates Exhibit? If I had the means, I would LOVE to put my name on the entrance (in fact, I have great ideas for my plaque). Still, I was relieved to hear that the animals will be freed into their habitat. The blue crabs will be released to the Chesapeake Bay, the spiny lobster along the coast of California, and the cockroaches to an alley in Adams Morgan.

IRON MOTHER

For the past 6 weeks, my mother stayed with us to help me cope with the fact I now have two boys in the house, and her visit was a great reminder of cultural differences between Italy and the United States. I think the main difference is that Italian mothers view ironing as one of life's necessities. My mother in particular spent at least one hour every morning ironing all the ironable. I mean, she ironed my yoga pants, and I don't even do yoga anymore. Of course, just two days after my mother left for Italy, all of her efforts were nullified again by my laziness. I have to say, though, it felt great to lounge exhausted around the house in perfectly crisp, ironed pajamas while my boys cleaned their food-filled hands on their perfectly crisp, ironed t-shirts. 

AGING CAREFULLY

I keep thinking about the article on Vice a few weeks ago, lamenting how everybody from their 20s onwards complains about how they are "officially old". I agree with the author, but I have to admit there are behaviors that betray my age and that make me depressed. To start, I often hear myself sighing, "They don't make movies like this anymore," and I have found myself toying with the idea of purchasing "elegant" sweatpants to wear outside my house. More disturbingly, though, I realized that when asked about what era in time I'd like to travel to if given a chance, I always choose the future because there's no way I can live in a time with inferior medical treatments. And that has to be the most depressing answer to that question ever.

MOMMY BURNOUT

Of course I am exhausted being at home with a 3-year-old and a 9-month-old. However, I had to admit to myself that my exhaustion has now reached its zenith (although nadir would probably be more accurate here). The thing is, I think I have put all my parental energies into my first son's first years. The nursing, the pumping, the discipline, the routines, the cloth diapers, the homemade yogurt, the early potty training, the home-cooked meals, the no-TV policy... Now I look at my youngest and the only thing I can think of is, "Oh god, don't tell me I have to teach you the fucking animal sounds. Go ask your brother. Or watch a documentary. Or go to a farm. I'm done." 

DRIVE YOUR ITALIAN HOSTS CRAZY #3: THE WORLD CUP EDITION

The world's heaviest Ferrero Rocher

Usually, I don't watch soccer. The reason being that 1) I never really cared and 2) I was scarred forever when in 2004 the general manager of my local team, Venezia, was caught by the police with a bag with €250,000 IN CASH received for intentionally losing a match. Venezia was then punished by having to play forever somewhere completely inoffensive like the Baby&Tots Itsy-Bitsy Soccer League for Fun, Fun, Fun. Or something like that.

However, every 4 years my soccer soul awakens and stirs like that of a moulting cicada in DC. I resurrect from my soccer slumber and for a month straight I live and breathe World Cup. This frenzy is shared by all my fellow Italians, of course, which brings me to the third rule of the Drive Your Italian Hosts Crazy series.

Rule #3: When the Italian National Team is playing, praise or just shut up. 

I'm sure you're thinking Rule #3 applies to most countries, and of course you are right. However, the degree with which Italians love their national team is rather unique. In fact, I will state that the national team is the only thing that brings Italians together and makes them feel like a true nation. If this comes as a surprise, please remember that Italy is a relatively young country: We became unified only in 1861, which is 85 years AFTER the birth of the United States. Before that year, Italy was a sorry mess of a geopolitical puzzle of hate-filled mini-states and kingdoms, who only came together as one country because it looked so damned cute on the map.

The result is that today Italians still hate Italians from any other area, region, province, city, town, neighborhood, street, floor, etc. Except... when the Italian National Team is playing. Then we're all together, waving the tricolor flag you will never see us waving at any other occasion. We're finally patriotic, just like you Americans, or, what the heck, even the French!

For an Italian, the national pride is surprising and intoxicating, like discovering your family loves you and will also leave you a fortune in inheritance one day. Now that I think about it, it does really feel like family... A family where Italians are all proud parents of 23 wholesome athletes who can do no wrong... Well, except losing a game, of course. Then united Italy and its flag can go fuck themselves.

Look at our boys, all grown up!

THREE THINGS TO REMEMBER ABOUT ITALIANS WATCHING SOCCER

Superstition

From keeping your fingers crossed to actually praying, from holding tight on your genitals at any mention of possible negative outcome to replicating ad infinitum whatever you were doing when Italy scored, Italians believe (truly) that Lady Luck is looking at each and every one of us to decide if the Italian team is going to win. As an American, you're allowed to roll your eyes, because everybody is looking at the screen anyway. But no sighing, unless Italy scores while you're doing it. Then sigh again, now!

"Tifo Contro" 

Americans, you will despise us for this, but we do rejoice when our adversaries lose, are expelled, and yep, fall. And yes, I know, this is the little, seemingly innocent bud of stadium violence in Europe. (I promise I'll try to keep to a fun, not-too-mean level in front of my children and others'.) Our "countra-cheer" is directed at the team we are playing against and at the French team, our arch-enemies.

No Food: We're Busy

American might prepare immense, decadent food spreads or organize a full BBQ to watch your sports. In Italy we don't really eat during games, except for a bowl of chips and a few cans of beer (cheap, crappy, often room temperature). We try to schedule our meals before or after the game, since for 90 minutes our eyes will be glued to the TV screen. Also, you don't want to be holding a hot bowl of penne when Italy gets close to the box. There's a lot of sudden jumping from the couch when Italy plays. The only recipe that Italians might associate with the National Team is frittata di cipolle, or onion frittata, popularized in a 1976 classic Italian comedy (the recipe will soon be on this blog).

EXPERIENCE THE CLASS SYSTEM IN A CAT CAFÉ

You might have heard of a pop-up cat café in opening on Thursday in New York. Cat cafes are popular in Japan (although I've read they originated in Taiwan), and on my 2010 Tokyo adventure, I made sure I visited two of them in the company of Anna (from the excellent Tamago Craft). So, dear American cat people: I know you're drooling at the idea of sipping a delicious gourmet coffee while petting kittens and relaxing to a symphonic harmony of purring. What you're going to get instead, it's a bitter lesson in class system. And let me add this, it's about time!

Notice the patrons pretending they are not crushed by the cats ignoring them.
(www.swide.com)

If the New York cat café is anything like the ones in Tokyo, you will be spending a good fee for entrance, drink watered-down and overpriced cappuccino in fancy but not-too-fancy china, and you'll sit there in excited discomfort for your allowed time (many places have a hourly fee) while painfully beautiful pedigree cats avoid you like the plague. In the best of cases, these cats will just sit in their carpeted scratching-post lofts with their back turned to you. In the worst of cases, you will try to sit next to them only to see them leave immediately for the aforementioned carpeted scratching-post lofts. These cats won't acknowledge your calls, won't purr, won't make eye contact: The only thing they'll make very clear is that they think you're low-class scum.

At times an eccentric cat might approach you for a quick petting session, but it will hurry back to its friends immediately afterwards to show you that was just an ironic social experiment. It's the cat version of the purely aristocratic thrill of occasionally mixing with the peasants.

For you American patrons, visiting a cat café is going to feel like winning a lottery ticket to an archduke's ball, but without any introductory niceties. At this ball, nobody is going to dance with you, nobody is going to socialize with you, nobody is even going to give you the slightest impression they want to see you again. And everybody will look a million times better than you ever will (and they know it).

Thanks to these cat cafes, America can finally experience what other countries around the world are dominated by: an immovable class system, the self-hatred of the lower classes, the awesome power of apparently helpless beings, albeit beautiful, heartbreakingly beautiful beings.

Drive Your Italian Hosts Crazy #2: Demanding Privacy

As promised, here's another look at the unspoken rules that govern Italian life. In this post, I'll discuss privacy, or personal space, which is really the fundamental, inalienable right that makes every American proud to be American. You Americans treasure your privacy, you defend it, you make time for it no matter what. We Italians, well, we don't even have a word for privacy, we instead ended up saying "privacy" in English, just like you (the Italian riservatezza is used for legal privacy or reserve). So here is the second rule:

Rule #2: Italians Stay Together All The Time

When Italians go on vacation or otherwise decide to spend time together, they almost never ask for breaks to enjoy a little solitude. It doesn't matter if they are going to the beach for the afternoon or spending a week in a tiny mountain cabin crammed with 30 other people. They are going to be all together all the time and plan every meal and activity so that everybody is always included. Even on a relaxing beach vacation where there's nothing else to do other than lying down in the sand and getting up to take the occasional swim, Italians just lounge and chat and eat together for the entire length of their stay.

An Italian forced to enjoy solitude in the United States. A risky experiment.

On my first American summer vacation, my husband (back then, my American boyfriend) and I were joined by another couple. One morning, the couple announced they were going surfing, and immediately jumped in their car and came back later in the evening after dinner (theirs, not ours). That night, and for the rest of the vacation, everybody was relaxed and grateful to have had a day to spend according to their own desires. Conversely, in Italy this would have caused heartbreak, then rage, then an epic fight, and then the end of the friendship, followed by eternal sh*t-talking about each other.

Do Italians love being together all the time? I'm not sure, actually. As you can imagine, such proximity has the potential of driving everybody crazy, and that happens often. I suspect the real reason we stick together is that we think it would be rude to behave any differently. It would imply we are ungrateful guests, uncaring hosts, or selfish soon-to-become-ex-friends. It doesn't matter if we then end up hating each other's guts for the rest of our lives. Etiquette has to be maintained at all costs.

So, what should you, American tourist, do when you visit your family or friends in Italy? Of course, you could simply go ahead and be yourself: a happy, well-adjusted American who can enjoy solitude and make independent plans. But really, if you want to keep your hosts happy (host that cook very well, remember?), I would advise you suck it up and let them take possession of all your time, individual needs, and thinking abilities. You're on vacation, after all.

SPAGHETTI AND MEATBALLS ("FREEBIRD!")

Ever since I moved to the United States, I am regularly confronted with the strangest assumptions about my Italian lifestyle. Everything from my male friends wearing wife-beaters and pinching women's butts on public transportation, to my mother being a widow in a black shawl (my parents are divorced and alive, thank you very much), to the omnipresence of tomatoes in my diet, to the impossibly dramatic discussions I have with my fellow citizens on a daily basis. These stereotypes might be somewhat offensive, and they seem to describe a twisted vision of 1940s Italy spiced with a pinch of operetta, but I have to admit they do contain some truth. I think the American equivalent would be the ranch-owning Texas cowboy doling out dollar bills left and right. There must be someone like that in the state of Texas, but it hardly describes Americans in general. 

Well, this week I made Spaghetti & Meatballs. "Of corse you did!," some of you might say, "That's what Italians eat, right?" Actually, no. Spaghetti & Meatballs is an Italian-American classic mostly unknown to Italians. In fact, I belong to the minuscule minority of Italians who actually ate this pasta in their youth, thanks to my Sicilian grandmother who made it for me ONCE. I think I remember my grandmother telling me that pasta with meatballs originated in Sicily, but I'm not sure. Most websites I checked believe the recipe is completely Italian-American.

Trust me: This pasta should never be photographed in sepia tone.

Did I like it? Yes, of course. I love pasta al ragù as much as any other Italian, so Spaghetti & Meatballs represents a perfectly acceptable combination to me. Still, as I was cooking, I could not help but wonder whether I was committing a form of self-stereotyping. I've seen Italians play up their accent and dramatize their gestures to be accepted or, more cynically, to sell Italian goods. I have also been guilty of the occasional act of self-stereotyping, and just last week I got a chuckle out of some American moms when I told them I don't jog because I'm Italian and I like to take things leisurely. It was a cheap laugh, and I still feel horrible about it.

In the end, I'm not sure what this Spaghetti & Meatballs stirred in my Italian conscience. Maybe I was self-stereotyping in the give-them-what-they-want spirit. Or maybe I was just recognizing something strangely familiar in this rich, tomatoey triumph. After all, this pasta and I are both Italian, separated by an ocean and possibly a couple of centuries. And, like long lost relatives, we may not have much to say to each other, but we will always share a table, and be pretty content about it. That's the way we've both been raised, you know?

Dead Chef's Bucatini & Meatballs

So here is my recipe. It's a hack of the Italian-American classic that brings together my favorite pasta format—the lovely, thick bucatini—and my family's very Southern meatballs, usually served on their own as a second course. I kept the recipe simple, but you can definitely work on a more complex tomato sauce with a soffritto and a splash of white wine, especially if you are not using San Marzano tomatoes. 

1 lb ground beef, or a mix of ground beef, veal, and pork 
4–5 slices of fresh mortadella, tore by hand into small bits* (optional)
1/4 cup chopped black cured olives (or Sicilian olives, if you can find them)
A few sprigs of chives, chopped
1/3 cup grated Parmigiano Reggiano
1 whole egg
dry breadcrumbs (unflavored)
3 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
1 can of San Marzano tomatoes, chopped in the food processor
1 lb bucatini

• Mix the first 6 ingredients in a big bowl and shape into small meatballs. My grandmother's would be about 1'' in diameter, but do what you prefer. Roll the meatballs in the breadcrumbs.
• Heat the olive oil in a large saucepan and add the meatballs. Cook them on all sides until brown, then add the tomatoes. Gently simmer, uncovered, for 30-45 minutes, or until the meatballs are cooked through.
• While the meatballs are cooking, cook the bucatini in a large pot (see Dead Chef's technique here.) 
• When the bucatini are ready, remove the meatballs from the sauce and place them in a large dish. Sauté the bucatini in the tomato sauce and the necessary pasta water. When the pasta is perfectly al dente and infused with tomato sauce, top with the meatballs, a little bit of olive oil and grated parmesan, and serve.

*Do not ever replace with Bologna. Not only Mortadella and Bologna are not the same thing, but Bologna is not even food.

American Foods Italians Don't Get (At Least Right Away)

Italy is a food-centric nation whose inhabitants are either too smug to eat anything foreign or extremely happy to try anything new because, hey, what else is there in life other than food? I fall into the second category, thankfully, and I'm always happy and curious to try foreign specialties and unusual food preparations. In my 9 years in the United States, I've noticed there are some American foods that Italians really struggle with. Some foods can never be loved, others grow on us over time until we embrace them fully.

Peanut Butter

First Reaction: "Help! I think I'm choking!"
When Italians try peanut butter for the first time they are really surprised by how intense the flavor is. I think Italians are confused by the word "butter". I, for example, was picturing peanut butter as a creamy dairy product with a touch of peanut flavor. My first taste was like a punch in the gut to all my taste buds (anatomically confusing, I know). What is even more jolting to Italians, however, is the texture. Italians really don't have anything as sticky as peanut butter, and often their first taste leaves them choking in confusion.
Over Time:  I love peanut butter and I now I eat it happily pretty much every day (it is now even part of my pregnancy cravings, as you can see here), and I know other Italians who really warmed up to it and other nut butters.

Root Beer 

First Reaction: "%#*♘@☆&*!!!"
When I moved to the US at the age of 28, I had never experienced heartburn. Within 2 months of daily American coffee sipped at intervals throughout the day, I finally experienced "that warm feeling" tearing my esophagus apart. "Welcome to America!" said a friend, and the rest is history. I use this introduction to explain what root beer tastes like to me: like heartburn in a bottle. Speaking with other Italians and watching them while they took their first sip just confirmed my opinion. Root beer is the weirdest drink on the planet: It tastes like a medicine, it hurts, and we can't believe American children love it.
Over Time: One sip is enough. I can't see my fellow Italians going near root beer ever again after the first attempt.

Cilantro

First Reaction: "Why are there soap shavings in my burrito?"
Cilantro is not strictly American, I know, but it's sprinkled in so many dishes consumed by Americans every day. To an Italian palate (and to a Spanish and British, too, as far as I know), cilantro tastes like soap, and we all know how great soap tastes. During my first American months, I remember just cursing the universe every time I found cilantro in fantastic-looking South-American dishes, and I even cried a few times when I mistakenly bought cilantro instead of parsley.
Over Time: I personally have changed my mind completely about cilantro, and the same has happened to other Italians I know. I can't believe there was a time I didn't like this wonderful herb, and today I insist all my Italian guests give it a chance. I totally get its fresh flavor that brightens up every meal. Cilantro, you make me happy. Sorry for ever doubting you.

Soft, Chewy Cookies

First Reaction: "Why was this cookie left out all night on the beach?" 
It's a fact that Italians are not dessert-maniacs like Americans are, but still, in Italian cuisine "chewy" is never a selling point: It's a flaw. What Italians do treasure in cookies is friability, or the ability to break apart without too much effort. We want crunch and buttery crumbs, not pliability.
Over Time: Some Italians might warm up to chewy cookies, but I doubt it. In my opinion, the much-maligned cupcakes, as stupid as they've become, are always preferable to this misshapen, sugary mess. Sorry.

Oatmeal

First Reaction: "Wow. The economy must be REALLY bad here."
Italians' first spoonful of this gooey concoction stirs feelings of deep sadness and pity. Wasn't America the land of riches? Why is everybody eating this gruel? It's really a surprise that the country that celebrates breakfast with bacon, pancakes, and omelettes can also enjoy this unappealing bowl of grey, boiled oats. We understand it's healthy, but wouldn't a piece of fruit give you more joy?
Over Time: Here's another food about which Italians can change their minds completely. As far as I'm concerned, once I learned to prepare oatmeal with milk rather than with water alone, and spice it or mix it with fruit, I understood its unadorned, almost Dickensian appeal. I eat oatmeal at least twice a week, and it feels and tastes great to me. It makes me feel like my toddler and I should go on strike at the cotton mill we both work at, and one day we just might!

Marshmallows on Sweet-Potato Casseroles

First Reaction: "Did you bake this casserole with the plastic top still on?"
Italians know very little about marshmallows, and what they know mostly comes from Ghostbusters. The only marshmallows available in Italy are the white and pink variety, usually coated in a dusting of sugar. We might have seen marshmallow roasted in a Peanuts comic strip, but that's about it. Seeing them burnt and melted on top of a casserole and then biting into their gooey mega-sweetness is just too overwhelming for our senses. Too sweet, too sticky, too absurd.
Over Time: This is another food to which an Italian can give one chance only. I did.

Fried Oysters... On A Sandwich???

First Reaction: "Who's Going to Pay for This?"
In Italy, oysters are delicacy for the few, to be consumed strictly raw and with as little flavor-alteration as possible. Oysters are a kiss from Poseidon given to the rich and the beautiful. Seeing them fried and slapped on a sandwich just blows our minds. What's next: Taco Bell's Caviar and Saffron Volcano Maximelt?
Over Time: The first morsel may puzzle us, but by the second we're hooked. This wonderful decadent and unexpected treat is something Italians can't wait to report back at home to impress their friends.

And now let me answer the question that is burning in your mind, dear American reader. Should you serve these foods to your Italian guests when they are visiting? OF COURSE YOU SHOULD. It does not matter if you're dealing with the mega-nationalist or the happy-traveler guest variety: Italians ask nothing more than to compare their food to yours. If they like what they eat, they'll feel wonderfully cosmopolitan and sophisticated. If they don't, they'll just love to tear your food habits to shreds once they go back home to their peeps. No matter their reaction, they'll be happy as (fried) clams.

Drive Your Italian Hosts Crazy #1: Disrespecting Mealtimes

The rest of of the world views Italy as a weirdly-shaped peninsula whose inhabitants live without the least concern for rules, responsibility, or noise levels. As an Italian, I must admit that is exactly how we see ourselves, and proudly, too.

Do you want to know the truth, though? Everybody is wrong. Italian behavior is actually regulated by a myriad of rules concerning each and every aspect of life. The words we say when we enter or leave a store, the body language we use on a crowded bus, the formalities in making a phone call before dinnertime, the good wishes we express to a friend: All need to follow specific and accepted ways, and any variation will most certainly cause an anxiety attack. The only reason we still consider ourselves adorable anarchists is that all of these rules are unspoken, and we discover their depth only when we live abroad for more than two years (FACT).

In this series, I'll go through some of these unspoken rules so that you, my American friends, can learn to understand our panic and, if you care, prevent it.

Rule #1: Italians eat only at mealtimes. 

This seems normal enough, but what I really mean is that Italians do not deal well with the idea of a lunch or dinner that does not happen at designated times. Here are sample mealtimes for Northern Italians*:

TIME	ITALIAN MEAL
7—8am	Breakfast
12—1:30pm	Lunch
4pm	Snack (only for kids, really)
7—9pm	Dinner

What happens when an American comes to visit, though? Well, let me tell you about my personal experience with yet another handy table:

TIME	ITALIAN MEAL	AMERICAN GUEST	ITALIAN HOST
7—8am	Breakfast	Drinks an espresso.	Drinks an espresso, eats a small breakfast.
10am	(Not a mealtime)	Asks for a second espresso and a ham sandwich.	Drinks espresso, orders small sandwich, fears lunch appetite is ruined.
12—1:30pm	Lunch	Refuses lunch, prefers sightseeing.	Represses hunger pains, dreams about pasta.
4pm	Snack	Asks for a snack, preferably savory and local. Or, massive gelato.	Eats small gelato, fears dinner appetite is ruined.
7—9pm	Dinner	Takes shower.	Feels moderate hunger pains, wonders when dinner might be.
9:30pm	(Not a mealtime)	Demands a pizza and has plans for wine, appetizers, and dessert, too.	Eats a Margherita, pleads with waiter to delay mopping the floor with bleach until drunken guest is done with frozen tiramisu.

As you can see, the natural Italian sense of hospitality allows our American guests to have his or her own dream vacation—which is actually a total mirage—while the Italian host's metabolism and emotional wellbeing become severely compromised. It's a failure on all fronts.

So, my suggestion is: Let your hosts be the guide of your meals and do not trust them when they politely ask what you would like to eat. You don't know what you want. They do.

*Geography affects mealtimes considerably. In the Austrian Alps, it is common for restaurant kitchens to close at 8:30pm ON A WEEKEND, whereas in happy Sicily dinner may not happen before 10pm. I'm from Venice, so I'll write about what I know.