the glorious pasta of italy

I grew up eating pasta—lots of it.

Actually we called it macaroni, and I don't think anyone in my family has called it pasta in all the years I've known them. My nana was born in the states. In Brooklyn to be precise, and she lived her life just a few blocks from where I now live with the Mr. and girls.

My family is Italian-American, through and through. We are a different breed from Italians hailing from the homeland. I'm a third generation Italian-American, and really only half since my father was Finnish and Flemish. Yet, I've never considered myself anything but Italian, my words flecked with the hurried hand movements and gestures for which my people are so well known. 

My connection to my family and heritage is one I've never questioned, and I just assumed my children would always feel this strong bond too. The first time Isabella asked "what are we mommy?", I replied "human beings". Frustrated, she sighed threw her hands in the air and said "no, I mean where do we come from?".

Again, I thought this was some existential question, and replied "well, some people believe God created us, but there's scientific proof that life started as a few cells millions of years ago". A few more stomps of the feet, and I realized what she meant. Isabella was asking what country we came from, and was obviously looking for an answer to a more important question. She knows one of her best friends is Jewish, another is from France. She senses they have a connection to something that extends far beyond her Brooklyn stoop.

My heart sank a bit at this realization. Have I been doing something wrong? How was it possible my daughter didn't know she was Italian? She understands without doubt that she is Jewish. I serve apples with honey at Rosh Hashanah, fry latkes at Hanukkah and prepare an entire meal sans leavening agents for Passover. She understands these food rituals represent a link to the traditions and background of her father and grandmother.

Yet,  every time I put a plate of pasta in front of her, the eyebrows raise and a sigh of disappointment escapes her lips. Isabella just doesn't feel the fondness for pasta that I do. She may as well stick an uncooked strand of spaghetti through my heart.

In her defense, I will take some of the blame. I can easily fall into a rut when it comes to pasta. A delicious one, made with fresh tomatoes, spicy basil and fragrant browned bits of garlic. To a developing palate though, perhaps she seeks something more than the bowl of comfort food I'd gladly eat every day for weeks before boredom might possibly set in.

Then a few weeks ago Domenica's book came. As I flipped through the pages, it was clear we share the same passion for our food heritage, though I couldn't help but feel her's is more authentic having spent summers in Italy with family. My first and only trip didn't happen until just a few years ago. Still I long to go back. I felt like I was finally home as the ferry made it's way to Venice, even though my mother's family is from Naples and Sicily.

After curling up with The Glorious Pasta of Italy two things happened. First, excitement set in since I knew I'd actually get to meet Domenica a few weeks later at Eat, Write, Retreat. Then I pondered which recipe I'd make first. It seemed apropos to begin with the Classics Worth Keeping chapter. Italian-Americans are often mocked by real Italians for our bastardization of their food culture. I don't how we evolved to scatter Parmesan on our linguine with clam sauce (a big no-no), or decided spaghetti should swim in a pool of red sauce.

Not Domenica, though. She doesn't mock me. She doesn't make me feel inferior. She just makes me want to cook the food that binds me to a culture I want my girls to love as fiercely as I do. The Glorious Pasta of Italy is a lovely bridge of what I know about Italian food, both past and present, and a reminder of all I still have to learn.