Bella Ciao!

April 25th. In Italy this date marks the liberation from Nazi-fascism. Festa della Liberazione is a public holiday, schools and businesses are normally closed and people get the day off. On this day we normally go on a picnic, or take a walk in the park. We snack on the first fava beans of the season, pairing them with sharp aged pecorino romano. We snooze after a few glasses of wine. We each celebrate the recurrence in our own way. One thing that's common on venticinque aprile however, is signing "Bella Ciao!"

"Bella Ciao!" album cover

Younger generations may know the song from La Casa de Papel. People my age and older know it's actually the anthem of anti-fascism.

Partigiani in the mountains, along the Gothic Line

"Bella Ciao!" was originally a protest folk song of the mondine women, protesting against the harsh working conditions in the paddy rice fields of Northern Italy, in the late 19th century. The song was later modified and adopted as the hymn of the anti-fascist resistance by the Italian partisans between 1943 and 1945 during the Italian Resistance against Nazi German forces occupying Italy. The author of the modified lyrics is unknown.

Valentino Petrelli / Public domain

It's a song we all know the words to. My friend Laura's mother would sing it to her as a lullaby. I used to hum it to myself when I was racing down the dark corridor in the big house where I grew up.

"Bella Ciao!" is a song about Rememberance and Courage. It's a song of Resistance, of Sacrifice. It's a song that talks about the invader and of death.

A new kind of invader has recently entered our lives. It has broken our courage. It has us locked us into our homes, divided us from family. It has ruined our life. The enemy, silent and faceless, has taken away our jobs, our freedom. It has taken many, too many lives. This year there were no picnics, no naps in the park. We sang "Bella Ciao!" from the window, confined in our homes.

Banner in Bergamo: "Freedom is like air: you realize its value when you're short of it.
Thanks to those that resist. Now and always."

In addition to the difficulty of living in lockdown, I personally am still in shock for having lost someone I knew to the new invader. Matteo was an old love and for the past 17 years a dear, dear friend. He was a romantic, an artist and an epicure. Matteo was handsome, witty, smart, talented, kind and gentle. Anti-fascist to the core, he was dearly loved. He leaves behind one big incredulous and heartbroken family spread across Bari, Sydney, Puerto Rico, New York and Rome. Yet, he died alone in an ICU unit in New Jersey, unconscious. A true partisan fighting in a battle that he lost in only 4 weeks.

It was surreal singing "Bella Ciao!" this year: a song about freedom as prisoners. I opened the window at 3 pm and sang. Shyly, a little choked. Then the somber remembrance of the victims of Nazi-fascism––with every word I uttered––turned into a loud, hoarse scream against the cruel new invader that took the life of so many, including my friend's.

"Bella Ciao!" is the hymn of the partisans who helped liberate Italy from fascism 75 years ago, giving their life for freedom. From now on "Bella Ciao!" has a new, added significance: it's also the anthem of all those that are still fighting against the faceless enemy, and I will continue singing it in remembrance of those victims defeated by the new invader of 2020.

Italy on pause

This is actually happening.

Italy is in lockdown. Zona Protetta, as Prime Minister Giuseppe Conte defined the country: a protected area.

"The country needs the responsibility of each and every one of you, it needs 60 million little big sacrifices. Let's keep a distance today to hug each other more warmly and to run faster together tomorrow. All together we will make it through."

The day after the decree was issues with hashtag #iorestoacasa (I'm staying at home) as national directive for people to stay put and help stop the contagion from increasing, the World Health Organization elevated the outbreak to pandemic.

I have to keep reminding myself, this is actually happening.

The perception abroad, given the media coverage––both domestic and foreign––is of Italy's deserted streets and monuments, hoards of people fleeing home from Lombardy, Emilia-Romagna and Veneto aka "red zones" where the contagion and casualties are higher, and general hysteria at the supermarket.

It's a lot more than that.

Being here and living this surreal situation feels more like the country is on pause.

We are living in one of those strange nightmares. The ones where time is prolonged and everything feels unknown, like a heavy burden. Trying to run away from the monster with lead in your legs.

What exactly is a lockdown? And why are we in it?

What: Lockdown means the entire Italian population is asked to stay home and only leave the house for absolutely necessary errands like buying food, going to the pharmacy and taking a short walk with our kids and pets. Italy is essentially shut down at least until April 3.
We don't congregate, we keep 3-ft social distancing and we wash our hands much more than usual.

Why: We are closed off from the outer world so that we don't infect others and put countless people at risk, and by the same token we potentially avoid contracting the virus from others who may be infected. That's because coronavirus is sneaky, its symptoms appear after a 2 to 14 day incubation period.

A monumental effort. But necessary.
I feel proud that I'm doing this for our elders, our community and our country.

We can no longer go to the bar for espresso (or a grappa, or both). It was tough enough grabbing a coffee while maintaining the 3-ft distance between barista and other customers, given our average personal space is much smaller than the rest of the world's. Now I miss my cornetto like it's crack.

Buses are still running, but the few I see driving by are always empty. We can no longer visit museums, watch a match at the football stadium, attend a concert. We can't hug our aging relatives. We can't go to the gym. We can no longer do impromptu pizza night with friends. We'll hold off on going to the cinema, theater, ballet, getting manicures, haircuts. You'll just have to accept my grey roots showing.

No more day trips to the lake or the countryside. In order to leave our region of residence, we have to carry a signed self-certified declaration stating the reason for the transfer. Work and emergencies are permitted, trespassers without the signed form (or a not good enough reason) outside of their region/province will be fined up to €290.

Don't think martial law. Just strictly applied rules.

The general feeling is of melancholy. A strange new sadness.

So many questions are flooding our minds.

Will my family and I stay healthy?
Will cancellations continue to pour into our mailboxes?
Will I have to homeschool my teenage son who in June is supposed to take a major final written and spoken exam to advance to high school?

We're so used to multitasking and going about our busy daily routine that all this "spare time" is also, quite frankly, driving us a little nuts. But we Italians are also creative, resourceful and never forget our sense of humor.

Lack of work and restricted activities are obviously causing everyone trouble. The travel industry is on its knees. People's livelihood is at risk.

My heart goes out to Venice, my beloved Venice. After the acqua alta in October, now this.
Forza Venezia, we can do this!

As soon as the quarantine lifts, and when it will be safe to travel again, I personally will go to Venice and support its artisans, guides, gondoliers, restaurateurs, bartenders, hotel managers and the general population with my presence, my money, my love. I will do the same with my friends in Bologna, Parma, and other gravely affected areas.

This suspended time will furthermore allow us to do all the things we had previously put on the back burner in the name of fast-pace stakhanovism.

Little sister and I will teach our 82 year old mother (who lives 2 blocks away) to use Skype and Facetime, so we can do video-calls.
I'll make it a habit to check in with family and friends more regularly.
I'll have more time for writing.
I can polish off the book pitch.
Get free pet therapy with our new puppy.
I'll beat my son at scopa.
He will defeat me at Monopoly, as per usual.
I'll finally have the time to read, work out, and do nothing––rare commodities for self employed entrepreneurs…

We will beat this.
We'll find solidarity, our sense of compassion and community––all at a distance.
We'll wash our hands for 60 seconds humming the alphabet or "Tanti Auguri a Te" twice.
We'll try not to touch our face.
We'll stay at a safe distance from others.
And we will make it through this moment.

We will resume complaining about traffic and crowds.

There is a silver lining to all this (because I always try to see the glass half full).
The air smells amazing. Smog levels have dropped. In the early morning when I take the dog out for his first walk, the dawn smells of flowers and springtime. Reminds me of when I was 17.
This is not going to last forever.
We reach out more and talk to each other on the phone/FaceTime instead of messaging.
Banding together as a community and following the rules feels empowering.
It will be fun to declutter
There will be time to learn a new language... Russian is high on my list.
We Italians, so famous for our love of sharing food, have made no visible effort to raid shelves and panic buy. We've left enough for everyone.

If across the web you've been seeing photos of handwritten sticky-notes and rainbows on banners hanging outside windows, you may be wondering what Andrà tutto bene means.
Literally: "Everything will go well."

I'm baaack!

Yes, I'm back. As some of you may have noticed, I have resumed regular posting. Something that hadn't happened in a while. A long while.

To celebrate the resuscitation of Aglio, Olio e Peperoncino, I'm happy to kick off a brand new post series (I love series, just like I love lists). I have yet to decide what to call it. For now, let's just say that the post you're reading replaces and outmaneuvers all previously published (and broken) apologetic "sorry-for-not-being-consistent-in-updating" posts.

Media is so visual these days. I feel I have dedicated way more time to my Instagram than I have to updating this blog. I owe my readers an apology. Especially those who have remained loyal and that have stayed on board. I'm obliged to explain what happened in these last few years. I need to account for my blog's disappearance from your feeds.

I'm doing this in pure Lola fashion––steadfast readers will remember Lola was my blog signature and nickname––spelling out the reasons for the "slump" in list form. For old time's sake.

Now that I'm back I hope you will resume your regular visits to my virtual kitchen, stop by for a chat, and uncork that good bottle of wine I have been saving for you. I will soon be remodeling the space, but the welcome will be the same warm, friendly one of when we left off a few years ago. You'll come back to the usual weekly family stories, recipes, lists and tips. In the meantime, please accept my apologies for having been away. Here's why:

1. I lost my office job one month before Christmas.

This threw me into a dark hole of despair. A single parent, no longer in my employable prime, jobless, no outlook in the forseeable future. The situation was un disastro. Yet, I picked myself up and left nothing behind of the dreadful year that was 2014. Several affirmations, and sleepless nights later, I managed to enter 2015 on a high. In hindsight, losing the job was the best thing to ever happen to me, because it left space for what the future had in store for me.

2. I became an entrepreneur.

In April 2015 I partnered in the launch of Casa Mia Italy Food and Wine, a cultural association that offers food, wine and cooking adventures in Rome, Florence, Sicily, Naples & Amalfi. Emilia-Romagna and Puglia may be new areas in development, but you did not hear it from me. In the months building up to, and following the launch, I quickly learned that running a business is no easy task. Obviously, I shifted most of my focus onto the newly inaugurated business, which made it impossible to maintain my old blogging habits.

3. I wrote and starred in a TV show.

In June 2015 I showed up to a meeting with Gambero Rosso, Italy’s number one food network, with a 1-page pitch for a show on cheese. At the end of the meeting my writing partner drew me back down to planet Earth, "We start filming next week." I don’t know exactly how it happened but on November 12^th the pilot aired, followed by 9 other episodes of Season 1. Which were then followed by Season 2 and now Season 3. I've been busy researching new topics and writing new shows, plus co-running the culinary travel business, updating the blog regularly became virtually impossible.

4. I cheated on my blog.

As the partner responsible for the social media and blogging end of the business, I began crunching multiple food and travel blog entries for the Casa Mia Italy Food & Wine blog, as well as for The American in Italian Magazine, a collaboration that first started in 2010. You loyal readers know this because most of the posts published on this blog in 2016 and 2017 were blurbs linking back to the magazine. Again, I apologize for that.

5. My Dad flew away.

It was October 23^rd when at 5 am I received the telephone call I have been dreading my entire adult life. It was my Dad’s wife, Terry, telling me to get on a plane and get over to California asap. "Your Dad's in the hospital. Hurry." I left that same morning from Fiumicino airport with a handbag containing only €45, my passport, a pack of tissues and lip balm. I spent the last days of my father’s life holding his hand, whispering things left unsaid, reassuring him of all my love, and watching him fade away. I flew back to Rome on November 3^rd, knowing that was going to be the last time I'd see him. He closed his eyes and flew away November 19^th, 2017. I wrote a farewell post dedicated to him and not much else since.

6. I traveled.

My siblings and I came together in California at the end of August for the interment of my father's ashes and to celebrate his life. It took each of us varying amounts of time to process, mourn, accept and resume regular breathing after his passing. I packed 2 small carry-ons, one for me, and the other for my 12-year old son. We boarded a direct flight from Rome and 13 hours later the cabin poured what was left of our limp bodies on the tarmac at LAX International. I will describe the adventures that followed in a special dedicated post; one that will be part of another new "travel" series. You know how much I like those.

Dinner nostalgia

As a child, I dined out often with my family. The decades have changed the city's dining scene, for better and worse.

Photo Roma Sparita

My earliest childhood memories are sensory. Restaurant meals played a big part in their shaping. For social and financial reasons, dining out, once commonplace, played a big part in my upbringing. Throughout my youth, I heard the words a cena fuori almost daily. 

I also recall the wonderful feeling of falling into slumber at the end of a meal as adults continued their animated conversation. In the background was the gentle hum of the dining room. I'd hear glasses clink, silverware tap bone china, and the "glug glug glug" of wine being poured. I'd rest my head on folded arms and drift securely into dreamland.

I treasured these post-prandial naps. I'm not sure I ever slept more soundly than as a small child in a restaurant.

For better or worse, that romantically lazy side of the Rome dining scene has vanished. Many places I remember from decades ago are gone or have changed ownership and mood. Charm is harder to find. So are quality meals.

Childhood visions are unique, and I've also changed. My taste is more sophisticated, and more demanding. But let me set all that aside for a moment to remember some of the restaurants that shaped my youth. Modern day alternatives are listed after each memory.

Continue Reading → On Viale dei Ricordi, as appeared on The American Magazine

If I had a restaurant...

This is what it would be like.

My latest contribution to The American Magazine is a glimpse into a fantasy world in which I am the cook and owner of a small neighborhood restaurant in Rome.

illustration by Suzanne Dunaway

My heavy blue canvas apron has a white torchon tucked at my waist, it is wet. I have just finished cleaning the kitchen after dinner service, and my bones ache a little. The metal surfaces shine and the air is redolent of duck ragout and brown butter.

When it rains in Rome, people come into the restaurant mainly seeking shelter. Aficionados growl at these walk-ins who unknowingly steal their customary tables. Take Signor Roberto, for example. He comes in, like clockwork, every evening at 7:30 p.m...

Continue Reading → Notes from da Lola as appeared on The American Magazine in Italia

Dad's favorite dishes

I need to write. Writing is my preferred form of therapy. My father has flown away, and I still can't believe it's true.

I'm grieving and I have no idea how to do it. My emotions overlap and my heart aches. I can't make any sense of what's happening. FYI You're in the wrong place if you're expecting to read a cheerful post.

What follows is a moment of intimate reflection, of deep therapeutic writing that I'm putting out there in the universe (secretly, I'm hoping Dad will read it and smile, from wherever he is right now).

Although we did have time for our goodbyes, for whispered I love yous, and no remorse of anything left unsaid, there are so many other moments that I would have wanted to share with you, Dad.

I would have wanted to see the look on your face when reading the dedication of my first book to you.

Your reaction to the wink in the camera I gave as I joked about eating blue cheese (which you hated) on the gorgonzola segment of my show.

I would have loved E. to hang out with you more, and finally play that golf match you two have been talking about for years.

I so wanted to take you to the Navy museum in Anguillara on lake Bracciano, you would have loved it!

I wanted one more walk on the beach together. One more granita di caffè at Tazza D'Oro. One more impromptu softball game in Santo Stefano di Sessanio together. One more.

Just like this blog started eight years ago as a journal of thoughts followed by recipes, today I'm honoring the memory and the greatness of my Dad by assembling an ideal menu made up of all the dishes he loved, the majority of which were Italian––or so I like to think. I'm going to cook them all for him.

So here goes, Dad, I hope you enjoy it.

Antipasto
Prosciutto e Melone – Dad, you loved this classic Italian hors d'oeuvre. If prosciutto was unavailable, you'd sprinkle salt on your cantaloupe. This created the same perfect umami contrast. You often told a story of your Navy days in the Philippines. One of these memories was of you and a fellow officer riding on a boat to a local's house. It was a sweltering hot day. In the distance you saw the woman whose house you were headed to standing on the jetty, holding a jug of what looked like pulpy orange juice. You hated pulpy orange juice more than you hated blue cheese. A mix of disgust and fear of being impolite when declining to drink the beverage washed over you. Imagine your surprise when you soon realized the contents of the jug was crushed cantaloupe melon! You said you didn't let anyone else have much of it. Eating melon will never be the same for me. I will always smile and think of you with every bite.

Primo piatto
Anything al Pesto – You had this thing with pesto sauce. When you'd come visit us in Rome, this was always your first pasta choice. I remember this one time you came to visit when E. was 2 and for the welcome dinner I made gnocchi al pesto for you, a classic go-to and, modestly, a personal showpiece. Well, that night the gnocchi turned out to be a disaster: a collapsed, sticky mass sunken at the bottom of the pot. I fished it out and attempted dressing it with my homemade pesto sauce, which somehow had oxidized and looked dark gray instead of bright green. You ate a full helping of it and feigned appreciation, but I could sense the effort each time you swallowed a bite. Maybe you would have rather eaten my pesto lasagna. Damn, I wish I had baked that for you instead.

Secondo piatto
Scaloppine al limone – I think these were your favorite over saltimbocca alla romana. Whichever veal cutlet recipe it was, the competition was close. I remember how you savored each bite, carefully cutting small portions with your knife and fork, eating them slowly in order to make the joy last.



Remember that great Christmas we all celebrated together in Rome, when Amy and the Anderson gang came over, and we celebrated Christmas Day all together ice skating and then dining in my small apartment? Well, the day you arrived from the airport we went out to eat at La Scala. I'm pretty sure your entree was scaloppine al limone that night.

Contorno
Insalata di finocchi e rucola – You taught me to enjoy shaved fennel bulb and arugula salad. You'd order this side dish at the restaurant, or enjoy eating it at home when you lived in Italy while married to Mamma. The simple condiment, a thread of extra virgin olive oil, a pinch of sea salt and a few turns of the peppermill was all it needed. One side dish we would never dream of serving with lunch when you were in town was broccoli. In a later time of your life you actually did come around to eating broccoli, but as long as I can remember, you hated the stuff as much as you loved mangling its name, "brrrahcklee!"

How I loved your voice, Dad. It was deep and melodious. When I'd curl up on your chest as a little girl, scared or crying for some reason, you'd breathe out with a deep, vibrating hum. That sound was so soothing and calming. It was like Om, but better.


Bread
Focaccia – I'm so bummed that the restaurant Cesarina is no longer what it used to be in the Seventies. You always said how amazing the food was: authentic dishes from Bologna (a sad lack of which we suffer in Rome), courteous service, a legendary Felliniesque host and the balloon focaccia.

You loved that flatbread! Maybe more for the show than the actual taste. The large rolled out dough was baked so that it would puff up into beach-ball size and then swiftly sliced horizontally to obtain two large discs. What I'd give to see you working your way through one of those again.

Dolce
Ricotta e caffè – I don't know how you learned about this typical Roman dessert. It's not really a dessert, it's more of a snack for mid-afternoon merenda, but you loved to eat it at the end of the meal. You'd scoop a couple spoonfuls of fresh sheep's milk ricotta – a Rome specialty – and use a fork to mix it with powdered coffee and sugar. I have a image of you flattening out the resulting beige paste and leaving fork marks all over the surface, and then slowly lifting small bites of it. Sometimes there'd be bread involved too. Or cacao powder.

One thing you were on the other hand very swift at eating was gelato. You adored your Italian frozen delight, and in particular tartufo. Given the amount of tartufo you ingested during your time living in Italy made you a virtual shareholder at Tre Scalini. You ate gelato so quickly that you'd get terrible brain freeze and would moan in pain holding your temple with one hand while wolfing it all down with the other.

Vino
You were never a drinker. I remember you sometimes ordered non-alcoholic beer, but that fad didn't last very long. I don't think you ever drank liquor regularly. There's a story told in the family of when you went to ask my Grandfather for my mother's hand in a Paris restaurant. Waiting to approach the subject during the meal, table manners included sipping some wine. You were in France, what did you expect? When the waiter arrived carrying a 1955 bottle of Château Haut-Brion swaddled like an infant, you accepted a glass but before toasting poured half a pint of Evian in it to water it down. The waiter nearly fainted and I don't know how Nonno reacted. Mom may have kicked you under the table.

I'll end this meal with a treat I know you loved. I made it myself and E. whipped the cream, so there's snow-white spatterings everywhere, including on the kitchen ceiling. We froze the espresso coffee in a shallow tray and scraped it several times to the desired texture. It's not summer, but in heaven there are no seasons, so enjoy. Don't rush it, though.

Those interested in learning more about my Dad's amazing career, can read this beautiful obituary published on the Hollywood Reporter.

Buon appetito, Dad
your Doodah

Food writer on a diet

Working as a food professional, whether be it a home cook, food guide, journalist or food show host – coincidentally, my job description – poses nutrition challenges.

The anatomy of a food writer is always put up against a grumbling stomach. The occupational hazard has to do with constantly testing recipes, cooking many dishes and visiting restaurants (for research!), plates upon plates that need to be described, photographed and ultimately eaten. All this concurs to an ever-expanding waistline.

Personally, the weight was always an issue. Even before I worked in the food world. Even before pregnancy. I was overweight before I stopped smoking, imagine after. 

I blame the quantity of gelato I downed to overcome broken hearts. 

I blame having been educated to clean my plate. 

I blame my slow metabolism. 

I now can blame pre-menopause.

What I never did was take responsibility and blame myself. My sublime ability to procrastinate was never the problem, it was something else.

Continue Reading → Food writer on a diet as appeared on The American Magazine in Italia.

11 years

This photo was taken 11 years ago today. I had come out of the delivery room only a few hours before. I love Elliot's dazed look. His congested 9-months-floating-in-liquid complexion, glazed eyeballs and stupor of having just ingested his first meal straight from my unaccustomed breast is hilarious. He soon after fell asleep and snored in that same position, mouth open. He still does that, collapsing after eating. And snoring, mouth open.

I can't believe Elliot is turning 11 years old today. That little bundle in the photo is now a grown person. With his own opinions, peculiarities and body odour.

This is the last thing I'm writing today. I'll be tking the rest of the day off to be with him. After school we may go to an art exhibit, a movie, or not. We may stay in and order sushi. Whatever he wants, we'll do.

Having a birthday one month after Christmas sucks from a gift-receiving perspective. I try to be as original as possible with my presents. Cooking class, ice-skating party, kart driving... we may even steal away for a weekend somewhere we've never been. The plan is to not have a plan until the very last minute.

Happy birthday, topino. You are my love. My joy. My reason for living.

Ti voglio bene, Mamma.

His favorite lunch

And so it begins.

My ten year old boy did not hold my hand this morning on our way to school. The dramatic Italian mamma in me is shattered. The pragmatic, forward thinking American half is trying to be all cool about it.

It's an automatism. His hand reaches for mine when we walk side by side, no matter the context. It's always been that way ever since he could walk.

Initially it was support to compensate wobbly toddler legs. Then it was the comfort of protection. Crossing the street. During a long walk on the beach. On the way back from the grocery store. A thing that moms and kids do. At age four holding my hand made him feel safe; at age six his cold fingers spelled that inexplicable knot at the mouth of the stomach that comes with attending grade school. At age nine he held my hand because he was proud to be walking with me. He sometimes even clasps his little sweaty palm to mine while chasing Pokémon.
This morning I let my hand dangle next to his, like I always do.
And nothing happened.
I reached for it and felt no reciprocity. I felt discomfort. There was a touch of embarrassment.
I let it go and chuckled.

"Have we grown out of this now?", I asked. He slanted a sheepish smile and looked away.

The rest of the walk to school was silent. I, oddly heartbroken, aware that the end of something was happening right there and then. He, apologetic. Something quietly tearing inside him? Holding hands for us, I want to make this perfectly clear, is A. Big. Deal. A nonchalant given, yet still a big deal.

I noticed him peering over his shoulder a few times during the walk. Maybe a little girl he likes was walking behind us, or maybe the courtyard bully, and in either case he didn't want to be seen holding his mother's hand. I don't know. I did not turn to look. He's very reserved and hardly ever speaks of his feelings.

I understand now that this is where the slow and painful detatchment begins. It starts with your little boy no longer holding your hand in a routine situation. Coming to terms with it takes lucidity. And stronger coffee than I had this morning.

We climbed the stairs of the school building and he routinely walked in front of me and held the door open for me at the top. As we traversed the large empty atrium, rubber shoes squeaking on the marble floor, I felt his hand slip quickly into mine. A split second. A squeeze and it was gone. His way of saying, 'I feel your pain Mom, but it's time I grow up.'

At the bottom of the large staircase, where I always stop to kiss him good-bye I leaned in for our morning peck. He offered his cheek.
"I'll see you at one", and I watched him lug his big blue backpack filled with bricks and anvils and waved, as always.

At one, when I pick him up, we won't talk about this. I won't say what I'd like to, which is, 'My hand will always be there.'
At home I'll have his favorite lunch ready, risotto and creamed spinach.
Will he notice? Will he say something? Am I exaggerating?

I don't know. We'll see.

Parenting is a mysterious learning experience. You understand things in the strangest circumstances. I just learned my almost-eleven-year-old only child is growing up, and – like growing up kids do – there is no forewarning, it just happens, period. Deal with it, Mom.

The things I took for granted – like holding your kid's hand – are no longer a given.
Better go get that risotto going, or it'll never be ready by one o'clock.

Forget the kid's menu

My boy is a bizarre alimentary wunderkind, but it's not all his doing. As a child, I was a picky eater who whined a lot. I didn't eat tomatoes, fish bones scared me, and I ironically dreaded cheese. I didn't want him to be like me.

So I encouraged him to try different flavors and foods. I never forced him.

He's partial to bold flavors and has always loved fish. These are my gourmand son's top 10 dishes.

Continue Reading ➔

In defense of the fish

Italy is for the most part surrounded by sea, with the peninsula and its two large islands lapping up against various parts of the jagged Mediterranean. This makes most of us Italians very familiar with fish. Given such extended coastal real estate, it's hardly surprising that most Italians are raised catching, cooking and eating fish.

As a child I loved the act of fishing but hardly ever ate fish with bones. I was one of those kids parents dreaded, the ones too freaked out by le spine — bone or cartilage — to fully enjoy a meal of aquatic edibles. But mine wasn't a total embargo: I was simply more of a polipi kind of kid...

Continue Reading ➔

Image courtesy of Massimo Capodanno