Bello Papá

On the days I work from home, I have lunch with my parents.
For the past two weeks, I’ve eaten a piadina (sandwich) nearly every day.

Piadinas, a type of flatbread that originates from the Emilia-Romagna Region, have gained increasing popularity throughout Italy, especially in the past few years.

They’re light, easy, inexpensive, tasty, and you can grab them on the fly all over town, and lately, in Giuseppe’s kitchen.

Have I mentioned that my father, since he’s been retired, doesn’t leave the house unless he has to?

Now hold that thought and combine it with knowing that there are certain things he prides himself on being “cheap” about.

One of those things is not spending money on pre-prepared foods. That includes foods from supermarkets or restaurants. So that naturally means we make a lot of things at home that most “normal” families just grab off the grocery store shelf.

What he isn’t cheap with is calories. Nor has he ever been particularly concerned with the relationship between food and health. He prioritizes flavor above everything else, so oil, salt, and anything else needed to make something powerfully tasty are not spared.

However, his “just do it yourself” mentality (which is mainly tied to his frugality and perfectionism) has not only made every family member a potential contestant on the reality TV show Survival, but has also kept us from eating pretty much anything processed.

So, unintentionally, I’d say we have healthier eating habits than the majority of the population simply because my father insists we look at the price per Kilo and pay as little as possible for everything we buy. Whatever, it works.

Now, at home full-time at the age of 73, the man spends his days rebuilding 1/2 the house and making a mess in the kitchen for us girls to clean up.

When he worked full-time, he used to do those things on the weekends. I can’t recall a moment in my life when our family home wasn’t under construction.
I don’t think a week has gone by without my mother complaining, “I can’t stand the dust anymore!”

But now that he doesn’t have a job to go to anymore, he just busts everyone’s chops at home with his full-time hobbies. Let’s just say that if you knew Giuseppe personally, you’d understand he is truly living his best life. And the women complaining about their diets, flour everywhere, and tools in the middle of the kitchen, have yet to be a deterrent.

Growing up with Mr. Delena (in the temporal sense) can mostly be defined by phases of temporary obsessions: focaccia, cheese, roasting coffee beans, hamburger buns, spicy oil made from his own peppers, and pizza. Whatever captured his attention became a mission.

His perfectionism wasn’t limited to food. It extended to wall surfaces, business plans, aesthetics, grammar, posture, logic, and occasionally, complete strangers on television. No one was spared.

In his world, “perfect is good enough.” Except “perfect” never arrives.
Believe me when I say that man is not for the weak at heart.

Now that I’m once again living at home, every day, after lunch, my dad makes two cups of espresso. One for me, and one for himself. He puts all the fixings in it, just the way I like it, stirs it, and serves it to me. And while we’re drinking it, he asks, “What are we having for dinner?”

On the days I don’t have time to linger around the table and have to rush to an online meeting, he walks up to my office and quietly serves me in the background, making sure no one online can see him.

In those cases, shortly after I’ve had my coffee, I sometimes get a WhatsApp message from him: “What should we make for dinner?” Or a mid-afternoon phone call from the main floor, “What would you like to eat tonight?”
Our lives revolve, and always have, around food.

Drama.. Passion.. It’s all the same thing.

You know Dirty Harry? Take away the gun, and give him a set of lungs, and you’ve got Giuseppe.

The upside to that is you never have to guess what he’s thinking; the downside is you always know what he’s thinking.

The commandments

Being a part of his circle of trust requires following certain guidelines, and while they’ve always been clear, as a kid, it takes time to get them right.

The Italian side of my family has been raised around the table for generations.

And while many of the fundamentals seemed rooted in food themes, it took me years to understand the deeper meanings, and that food has simply been the main vehicle.

Our character development and value system on themes such as discipline, gratitude, respect, priorities, timing, family, resourcefulness, and standards were boiled, fried, and garnished, and it pretty much went something like this:

1. What’s that still on your plate? Eat it. = your resources are precious, don’t waste them.

2. The family sits down and eats together = Respect your family, share with others, take time for the people that matter to you

3. When it’s time to eat, drop what you’re doing and get your butt to the table = respect other people’s time, manage your own accordingly, and understand that some things don’t revolve around you

4. Eat and shut up = this is not a democracy

5. Don’t overcook pasta = respect tradition and pay attention to what you’re doing

And those are just the top 5 reasons why, in our family, food and emotional intensity go hand in hand: tears, laughter, yelling… pasta, oil, garlic, salt, tomatoes, and onions have always been present, or somehow involved in our dramedies.

Mamma mia!

My mother, being American, didn’t always get it right, and oh man, when she didn’t, the whole neighborhood knew.

As aforementioned, my father came equipped with a powerful set of lungs, which he can either use as a weapon of mass destruction or to woo the most kindred souls.

When he threatens to use his “opera voice”, it usually doesn’t mean the latter version, which, when we were kids, produced countless tears. As adults, it produces endless comedy.

Some would call it extreme.
He calls it perspective.
My mother calls him an “Asshole,” to which he replies, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Food as a religion

Let’s talk about GOD.

My father has a first name, a last name, and nothing in the middle.
Years ago, while at Best Buy purchasing a new large-screen TV, the salesperson stood before him, filling out a form.

Please spell your first name:
“G-I-U-S-E-P-P-E”

Last name?
“D-E-L-E-N-A”

Your middle initial?
“O”

The salesperson looks up at him and says, “Your initials spell GOD?!”

My father, “Yes, exactly.”

Many would faint to hear such sacrilege. But not papá. He is not a lover of the church for a variety of reasons.

One of those reasons is tied to his strong attachment to logical thinking. He’s always questioned the purpose of “faith,” so much so that he doesn’t even believe in Atheism, because, as he puts it, “You’d have to be sure that there is nothing. I’m not sure of anything.”

What an oddly humble analogy coming from a man who’s incredibly sure of his worldview.

In any case, while he may not be a believer in the Bible, his unwavering devotion to food manifests in almost religious ways.

While others say grace, he says, “buon appetito.”
While people close their eyes when they pray, he closes his when he’s done eating and says, “Goddamn, I ate too much… where are the oranges? You want one? Then go get me one while you’re at it.”

Religion is a matter of interpretation

The holidays are particularly important to him.
Why?

Again, it’s not because of Christ; it’s because it’s an excuse to have a huge feast with our family and friends.

About 10 days out, while, of course, sitting around the table, the conversation starts like this:

Christmas is a little over a week away. Who’s coming?
We discuss the potential guest list.
“What are we making for antipasti?”
We usually decide on 3 or 4.

“What about the ‘primi?” A ‘primo’ is Italian for the first course. Notice I use the plural word “primi.” That’s because there’s no way in hell (no pun intended) he’s going to agree to make just one. I usually end up negotiating him down to just 2: A pasta and maybe soup or rice.

“The secondi?” - the second course. This is also plural for the same reason. After much discussion, we usually choose about 2-3 types of meat and/or fish, accompanied by 3-4 different vegetable dishes.

After that, we serve cheeses, nuts, desserts, and finally, coffee and grappa. Or, as my sister likes to call it, “Crappa.” It’s an acquired taste.

It never fails that while we’re creating the menu, I say, “Papá, we’re making enough food for an army. There’s no way anyone can eat all that.”

My father: “What are you talking about? (in the usual bombastic tone he uses when he rejects a statement that contradicts his thinking). I don’t want people to starve when they come over!”

Then, once the guests leave, he inevitably says,
“We made too much food. Where are we going to put it all?”

Then the strategy for food preservation begins.

And so it goes, every holiday without fail.

While we didn't go to church, we were raised watching the head of the household peel fruit and pass slices to everyone at the table, as though each meal were the Last Supper.

There have essentially been sermons on how to twirl your pasta properly. Every non-Italian guest who has shown up at our house over the years has left capable of handling spaghetti properly.

We’ve performed miracles by transforming tasteless dishes (obviously cooked by somebody else) into something worth eating simply by adding some “more oil and salt.”

And if you think this is me recounting my life through some cheesy metaphor, let’s talk about sunny-side-up eggs and dried basil.

The Egg Heresy

When I was 10, I was spending more time in the kitchen. On a beautiful Sunday morning, I made my dad sunny-side-up eggs.

They were perfect! As I placed them on the plate, my eye caught a glimpse of dry basil, and I thought… Scratch that, I don’t know what in the world I was thinking. Let’s chalk it up to me just being a kid.

Anyway, I sprinkled the eggs with the basil and placed them in front of my papá. As I turned back towards the stove, I heard a fist pound on the table, and in his full “opera voice,” he emphatically pronounced, “What happened to these eggs?”

I sheepishly replied, “I put basil on them.”

In a decibel fit for announcing the end of the world, he asks, “Why would you do that?”

Mustering up all the courage I had, I uttered, “I thought I’d try something different.”

And finally, he replies with the words that still burn in my memory today, “Don’t get creative with my eggs! Don’t mess with my food. Food is my religion!”

In a normal household, most fathers would say, “Oh, sweetie, thank you for making me breakfast.”

Nope, not papá.

And the egg incident was far from being unique as I learned to cook over the years.

“You’re using the wrong knife!”

At 13, I quickly learned that you don’t use a chef’s knife to cut bread, a bread knife to cut cheese, or a steak knife to cut a tomato. Using the wrong knife was not something you wanted to get caught doing. I still wouldn’t be able to tell you if stealing would have been considered a greater offense.

As my father puts it, “Use the right tools for the job.”

It’s too sour. It’s too sweet. It needs more salt. It could use more oil.

At this point in my story, it’d be easy to conclude that I hate to cook. I assure you, I’ve loved cookbooks since before my teens, and the sparkle of high-quality cookware at Williams-Sonoma still tickles my fancy and entertains many of my fantasies.

Cooking remains one of my greatest joys, and I am truly fluent in food, and much of this is due to my father’s unforgiving palate.

His constant constructive criticism was always equally matched with many words of encouragement and appreciation for what I did, indeed, do right. And it was through both feeling terrified of using the wrong knife and being lifted enough to be courageous and face a challenge, that I learned to discern between what tasted right and what did not. It ultimately led me to become an expert at balancing flavors.

A national pastime

If you’re not from Italy, you probably think lasagna is lasagna and pesto is pesto. Not even close.

Italians will and do spend hours arguing about whether a recipe is authentic, whether a sauce is made correctly, or whether someone’s grandmother would approve.

Case in point: my mother had always proudly told us that her grandmother on her father’s side was half Cherokee and half Blackfoot. She always explained, “That’s why I have high cheekbones, and my skin tone has red undertones, especially when I get hot.” Never mind that my mother just looks like a white lady with fair skin.

After taking a 23andMe test, my sister surprised my mother on her 67th birthday with the results of her bloodline. Native American: exactly... zero.

Now imagine what sentiment that must have produced in my mother, and apply it to some months later, while in the Dolomites with our entire family from Bologna.

My grandmother was an exceptional cook, but she didn’t originate from Bologna; she was raised between Napoli and Bari. When my grandparents moved to Bologna after having my father, she adapted to her new home by cooking the local cuisine. Ragú alla Bolognese became a staple in her kitchen.

I can still remember her standing over her tiny stove as she sauteed carrots, celery, and onions in a pot, then adding beef, and a little sausage (they’re big on pork meat in Emilia-Romagna), maybe some chicken livers, then simmering it in a splash of red wine, stewed tomatoes, salt, pepper, and... nutmeg.

My father’s siblings, having all grown up in Bologna, had married people whose families had been in Bologna for generations.

On that mountain trip, while we were all relaxing at a bar, a rather heated debate broke out about Ragú alla Bolognese because my uncle’s wife and mother were arguing that nutmeg does not belong in the original recipe!

My father briefly experienced the culinary equivalent of my mother’s DNA test results.

When it comes to Italians and food, it’s practically a national pastime. It’s always about who’s right and who doesn’t know what they’re talking about; let’s just say, entire friendships, marriages, and regional rivalries have survived (or not survived) less.

So the next time you think you’re publishing some cool “Italian recipe” on social media, I’d check your sources if you think anyone in Italy could see it. An Italian will think you’re hilarious and make an example of what he or she sees as an abomination.

There are entire reality shows built around people arguing about food.

And this is where I tell you, I was on one of those shows.

Cleveland, Ohio, early fall of 1976, in a discotech:
A 5’9 23-year-old Italian man with an afro, wearing platform shoes, flares, and gold chains over his hairy chest, spots a long-legged, bleached-blonde bombshell sitting at a table, looking at him from across the room as he instructs a group of women on how to line dance.

What that Italian man didn’t know was that she was checking out the guy standing next to him. And even if he had known, knowing him, it wouldn’t have changed much.

The Italian man walked over to her table and asked if he could buy her a drink. The bombshell accepts: “You can get me a beer.” So the Italian man goes over to the bar to place his order. In the meantime, the man she was checking out walks over to her table. The Italian man, seeing the interaction, leaves the drinks at the bar, interrupts their conversation, and asks her if she’d like to talk outside.

Not everything adds up in this story because there are two versions of it, and the details get a little muddied because of it.

Anyway, the first version goes like this:
The man takes the woman outside and kisses her. She says, “Why did you do that?” in an annoyed tone.
He responds, “Can I have your number?”
She answers, “Look it up in the phone book.”

The 2nd version goes like this:
The man takes her outside and kisses her. She looks at him for a very long time, and then in a soft, sweet voice says, “Why did you do that?”
He asks her for her phone number, and she responds, “It’s in the phone book under Zeman.”

The first version of that story belongs to my mother, the second to my father.

I’ve heard the two versions a million times. My father’s ending makes more sense because, otherwise, how would he have found her?

There are still so many question marks.

Like, why would my mother agree to go outside with a stranger she had just met?
At what point did she say, “Hi, I’m Kathy?” Before or after the kiss?
And why did my mom tell him to get her a beer when, at the time, she didn’t like beer?

What is certain is that at 27, my mother was ending her marriage to Wayne and taking a real chance on that Italian immigrant. They tied the knot 5 months later, one week after her divorce was final.

Because I’ve been hearing that story forever, my mind just always accepted it as my parents’ story. It wasn’t until a couple of years ago that I really started to think about how daring it was.

I mean, if someone had come to me as an adult and said that, at the age of 27, they had two small children, a nice home, a husband with a good career, and they were leaving it and marrying a 23-year-old broke college student 5 months after they had met, I don’t know… I’d think, “Oh boy.”

Well, those two crazy “kids” somehow managed to stick together.
And while, like most long-lasting marriages, they’ve had their (very) questionable moments, nearly 50 years later, they’re still going strong.

At 24, my father took on the emotional, logistical, and financial responsibility of two small kids. At the time of the wedding, my brother was 6, and my sister was 3.

Soon after, my father graduated from the Cleveland Institute of Arts and landed a job as an automotive designer at Ford. And from there, the new family of 4 moved to Michigan.

My siblings’ father opted to spend occasional weekends with them. I have only a handful of memories of them leaving to visit their dad.

My brother and sister grew up with the same rules as I did. We sat around the same dinner table, and were all disciplined the same way.

And yet, we’re completely different, pretty much in every single way imaginable.

This isn’t a story where I tell you that we don’t get along. Quite the opposite. I love my brother and sister immensely, and when we see each other, it’s like no time has passed. But as I said before, it’s like we’re from different planets.

Eat and Shut Up Methodology

Some nights could be torture, for one of us, two of us, or all three of us, depending on what was on the evening’s menu. My father didn’t let us leave the table until our plates were clean, and what was on our plates wasn’t up to us.

My brother and sister hated raw tomatoes (and still do). I, for one, have always considered tomatoes one of the main reasons that life is worth living.

I hated onions, and a few other things that I’ve since changed my mind on.

When backs were turned, we’d swap onions for tomatoes. We had developed a technique: The tomato or onion would magically land on the napkin beside the plate. Then the napkin would be passed under the table to the sibling willing to eat whatever was in it.

That elaborate underground onion-and-tomato trafficking operation was a bonding experience.

My father never tolerated hearing, “I don’t like it.” In his mind, “I don’t like it” was the complaint of a spoiled child who didn’t understand what it was like to be uncertain about whether or not there would be food on the table the next day. “I don’t like it” was a lack of gratitude for being provided for.

His automatic response to that complaint has always been, “Too bad. Eat and shut up.”

We kids didn’t get it, and, truth be told, maybe we didn’t need to. Some things you don’t get to understand until you too become a grown-up.

Think about it: since when has explaining to a child that “there are starving people somewhere else on the planet” been effective in convincing a kid to eat the food on their plate?

My father has always lived by the philosophy that you don’t always need to explain why to a child. You teach a child to just do as they’re told. The why will come later.

My father grew up in a post-war home in Italy, where making ends meet was sometimes a real struggle. His own father lived through a time when there wasn’t always food on the table.

So, for my papá, it was important to drive home the lesson that you don’t take for granted the luxury of having an abundance of available food.

It’s sacred. It’s to be respected. It’s to be cherished.

So cheese doesn’t get thrown in the garbage just because it has a little mold on it. You cut it off.

You don’t put more food on your plate than you’re sure you can eat. Take less, and maybe seconds.

Don’t assume that just because you don’t like the color, it’s no good. Try it anyway.

If you have leftovers, turn them into something even better the next day.

You can apply those same rules to many things in life. And on me, it certainly worked. On my brother and sister… well, maybe a bit less.

Same house, same table, two totally different outcomes

Objectively speaking, my siblings were quite young when they first came into contact with my father’s Italian philosophical ecosystem. And yet, nearly 50 years later, they remain largely unaffected by it.

I, on the other hand, haven’t been able to live without Italy. I spent the entirety of my teen years convincing my parents to let me go to college here. Apparently, I succeeded.

In 1996, I attended the “Istituto Europeo di Design” in Turin, Italy, where I got my fashion design degree in 1999. My ex-husband Stefano and I had been together for about a year when I graduated. We had decided months prior that we’d move to Michigan right after school was over.

We got married that fall at the little wedding Chapel in a strip mall in Southfield, Michigan. By Christmas, I was dreaming up ways we could move back to Italy.

It’s a long, complicated story that I’ll get to later on, but let’s just say, Emilia and Michigan never quite jived.

I’ve been back in Italy for 15 years now, and I don’t see leaving anytime soon.

My brother and sister don’t share my sentiments on Italy and Italian culture at all.

They go to Vegas, Cancun, and on cruises. They enjoy Disney World and Cedar Point, sometimes several times within a single year.

Not on my top priorities list whatsoever. Maybe if someone offered me a free trip.

My siblings have started visiting more frequently in recent years, about every 18 months, give or take.

While my sister Karen is here, she orders a Rum and Coke Zero starting as early as 10 a.m. If you know anything about what Italian baristas are like, you know they’re muttering something judgmental under their breath, and if they’re polite, they’ll at least try to hold back the sequential eye-roll. They do the same thing when tourists order a cappuccino after lunch or dinner.

Karen does this multiple times throughout the day for the entirety of her trip. When she’s here with my brother, fuhgeddaboudit. It’s a marathon. Consequently, I’ve come to know bars that I wouldn’t have otherwise ever even noticed.

When I moved to Italy for those two years in 1986, my siblings decided to stay with their father. My brother lasted only a year with him before showing up at the Turin airport.

It was mostly fun having my brother Paul around, but the dynamic was a lot different without my sister in the picture.

When I was little, my brother and sister would playfully beat each other up, and I was always used to help one get back at the other. It was a blast!

At 9, I was no longer the accomplice; I was the target.

Paul learned to speak Italian during that year and made friends. He’d disappear for hours on his motorcycle and drive through the hills and mountains with them. He recalls his time here with fondness, but when we moved back to the States in 1988, that was it. He didn’t return for a visit until the summer of 2023. Thankfully, he’s since visited more than once.

To this day, they both go occasionally to Italian-American restaurants. I’m not certain, but I suspect that they’ve yet to blacklist the Olive Garden. They will still order Little Caesars or Domino’s Pizza (I can’t tell you which they prefer these days), eat Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, and, if you open their fridge, Miracle Whip and “Italian” salad dressing can likely be found in the door.

And when my sister called me from “Italy” while at Epcot in Florida, and said she was enjoying a nice “Lemoncello Spritz,” I looked at my mom standing in front of me, and she just shrugged and said, “Don’t look at me, you can’t take the ‘Wayne’ out of them.”

While sharing only 50% of our genetics explains some things, like why my sister has a retirement plan, and I have enough shoes to fill a museum, it doesn’t explain why her list of foods deemed unsafe for human consumption includes...

Anchovies.
Raw tomatoes.
Most seafood.
Anything with visible organs.
Half the vegetable kingdom.

Uh-oh, SpaghettiOs.

Technically, I lived in the United States until I was 8. But our household was essentially an Italian Embassy.

During the first 8 years of my life, I fell in love with Wonder Woman, She-ra (He-Man’s sister), Rainbow Bright, and... SpaghettiOs. Well, at least the idea of it. Those commercials showing happy kids eating “O” shaped pasta with its special sauce coming out of a can! What a novel idea!

I specifically remember asking my mom and papá if we could get some SpaghettiOs. My papá bluntly replied, “We’re not buying that crap.”

Disappointed, I archived the hope and categorized it as “someday.”

Someday finally came after us moving back from Italy in 1988. It was the summer before 5th grade began, and my parents let me stay at my childhood BFF’s house for a week. The first few days were so much fun. I got to enjoy being with all my friends from my old neighborhood, doing the things we used to do before I moved to Italy.

I called my mother to ask if I could extend my stay by a few more days, and she agreed. After I hung up the phone, I walked over to the lunch table, and what was being served?! SpaghettiOs!

I was so excited. I had waited my whole life for them, and finally, there they were waiting for me on my plate!

I took one bite and thought, “Uh-oh. I’m going to vomit.” Surely there had been some mistake. Maybe this particular can had gone bad.

I could not fathom how millions of people were voluntarily eating this.
The memory of its flavor still traumatizes my taste buds.

Within 30 minutes, I broke out into a fever, feeling violently ill. So after lunch, I called my mom and asked her to come get me.

The minute she arrived and kissed my forehead, I began to feel better.
I was safe. No more SpaghettiOs. Civilization and decency had been restored.

During the 30-minute drive home, my hunger returned, and my request for dinner was, “Real spaghetti with tomato sauce.”

The same simple sauce that appeared on our table countless times growing up, and the one I still make today.

Basic Italian “Pasta al Pomodoro”

Serves about 4-5 people

About 2-3 tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil + 2-3 tablespoons (or more) for final garnish

1 fresh garlic clove

1 can of stewed tomatoes (15 oz. whole or diced)

3-4 fresh basil leaves

Salt and pepper to taste

100 grams (3.5 oz.) of dry pasta per person (this is traditionally the serving size in Italy)

Place a large pot of water on the stove for your pasta (approx. 1 liter, or 34 oz., per serving). Once you get that going, you can start your sauce (This may sound obvious, but the pasta goes in after the water starts boiling).

In a saucepan, pour in enough olive oil to coat the bottom.

Crush the garlic clove or chop it up. This comes down to a question of preference. Some people sauté the clove and remove it at the end, or just chop it up and leave it. Personally, I alternate between the two options, but if I choose to leave the clove whole, I eat it before anyone else tries to steal it.

Remove the saucepan from the flame once the garlic is cooked, and let the oil cool for a few seconds; otherwise, if you dump your tomatoes into the oil when it’s too hot, everything will splatter everywhere. If my laundry room could talk, it would tell some dramatic stories.

Once the tomatoes come to a simmer, turn the heat down so they don’t boil. Boiling isn’t necessarily bad; it’s splattering we’re trying to avoid.

If you opt for whole stewed tomatoes, break them up with your spoon so the chunks aren’t too big. Add your salt. Don’t overdo it until you’ve cooked your pasta. Sometimes the water is too salty, so give yourself some grace to adjust the final outcome accordingly.

Simmer your sauce for about another 10-15 minutes, stirring occasionally. You don’t want to overcook your sauce; the tomatoes should taste fresh, just not uncooked.

If your sauce is slightly tart, you can add a pinch of baking soda, and I mean it, just a pinch. More than that, you can taste… well, baking soda. Anyway, baking soda is great because it naturally removes just enough of that acidity without altering the intended flavor.

Some people advise using sugar or milk. I’ve done both; it does change the flavor of the food in a way that isn’t always ideal, and it doesn’t always effectively eliminate the acidity. From experience, the safest option is just that tidbit of baking soda.

Add the fresh basil leaves (whole) in the last minute or two. You don’t want to overcook them; you’ll kill the flavor. In a pinch, people will add dry basil. It tastes nothing like the fresh; it’s not nearly as good, but if you really have no other option, then go for it.

Once the water starts to boil, dump a couple of handfuls of large rock salt into it. Fine salt is fine if you don’t have rock salt. Whether you should add it before or after the water boils is a huge ongoing topic of debate.

I choose to do it after the water boils because, in theory, it’s supposed to keep the salt from corroding your pans.

You can tell if the water has the right amount of salt by tasting to see if it tastes like soup. If it tastes like soup, then it’s perfect.

If you’re making spaghetti, don’t snap it in half. It’s considered a sin.

Boil the pasta until it is “Al Dente” (to the tooth). I’ll explain in the next chapter the implications of cooking your pasta beyond that state.

Do not rinse the pasta. That’s another sin.

Mix it all together in a large bowl with the last couple of tablespoons of raw olive oil at the end. Place your servings into individual bowls that people can opt to top with grated Parmigiano Reggiano (not Kraft Parmesan cheese, it’s basically sawdust in a green can).

That’s it. No adding tomato paste, no cooking it for 36 hours, or whatever urban myth you may have heard that was passed down by someone’s grandmother.

Nothing more, nothing less. So the next time you want fast food, there you go. Now eat and shut up.

Sabato pomeriggio mi trovavo davanti a diverse scatole piene di vecchi ricordi. Ho sospirato pesantemente. Era l’ultimo grande pezzo dell’infinita organizzazione iniziata dopo mesi e mesi di traslochi l’anno scorso.

Alla fine avevo deciso di mollare tutto, chiudendo un capitolo che comprendeva una cascina del Seicento dove avevo accumulato animali domestici e quantità industriali di drammi.

Gli animali resteranno con me finché respireranno. I drammi, invece, ho deciso di lasciarli andare e di arrendermi a una vita ragionevole.

Ora ho 48 anni e, a quasi un anno dal trasferimento dai miei genitori, la nostra casa è composta da mia figlia di quasi 24 anni, 5 gatti e 5 cani di grossa taglia. No, gli animali non erano tutti miei.

Dietro questa quantità assurda di pelo da aspirare quotidianamente c’è una storia fatta di cambiamenti familiari, relazioni finite, traslochi e decisioni discutibili. La situazione degli animali meriterebbe un capitolo a parte.

Quello che non mi aspettavo erano le scoperte esaltanti dentro quelle scatole. Dovevo decidere cosa tenere e cosa buttare, proprio come con tutte le altre scatole aperte nei mesi precedenti.

Questa volta, però, è stato quasi sconvolgente. Ho trovato fotografie, lettere, vecchi passaporti risalenti addirittura alla mia nascita… e due diari appartenenti a due fasi molto importanti e di transizione della mia vita.

La prima lettera significativa era di mio nonno. Bologna, 16 febbraio 1978. Indirizzata a mio padre, spedita due giorni dopo la mia nascita. Sei pagine piene di umorismo ed emozione.

Mio padre aveva sposato mia madre un anno prima, quasi lo stesso giorno, il 15 febbraio 1977. I miei nonni non avevano ancora conosciuto mia madre e i miei due fratellastri americani.

Nella lettera parlavano della gioia di aver sentito la felicità nella voce di mio padre durante la telefonata del mattino in cui ero nata.

In Italia esiste la tradizione di dare ai figli il nome dei nonni. Se fossi nata maschio, mi sarei chiamata “Francesco”. Mio nonno scrive: “Tua madre ci teneva che ti dicessi che sul nome ha vinto lei.”

Mio padre era convinto che sarei stato un maschio, ma mio nonno gli fece notare: “Vedi? In fondo è la stessa cosa, no?” Disse tante cose affettuose e commoventi che mi piacerebbe condividere, ma credo di aver reso l’idea.

Era conosciuto come un uomo irascibile e dal carattere difficile, ma quella lettera mi ha dato un senso molto più profondo del cuore della nostra famiglia, una vera fotografia emotiva di quel momento. Mentre mio padre leggeva le pagine con la voce leggermente incrinata dall’emozione, mi sembrava quasi di vivere quella scena in prima persona.

Dentro quelle scatole era tutto buttato insieme alla rinfusa. Ho riso davanti a pettinature terrificanti, rare foto venute bene (davvero poche), alla bellezza di mia madre durante gli anni “Barbie Doll”, ai periodi imbarazzanti di mio fratello e mia sorella… e ai miei.

Ho iniziato a fotografare alcune vecchie immagini col telefono e a mandarle a persone con cui sono ancora in contatto dopo 25 o 40 anni. Le risate e gli emoji che ricevevo in risposta erano impagabili. Tra lettere e fotografie c’erano momenti esilaranti e altri più malinconici.

Alcune lettere erano di amici che purtroppo non ci sono più. E mi sento immensamente grata di aver conservato tutto questo così a lungo, perché per un momento ho avuto la sensazione di stare ancora un po’ con loro.

Poi sono arrivati due diari. Il primo mi era stato regalato poco prima di tornare negli Stati Uniti dall’Italia.

Mio padre lavorava come designer automobilistico per la Ford. Nel 1986 ci trasferirono a Torino per permettergli di fare la sua “esperienza internazionale” presso la sede Ghia.

Mio fratello e mia sorella decisero di restare in Ohio con il loro padre.

Noi affittammo una parte di un castello medievale chiamato Castelvecchio, sulla collina di Moncalieri. Quando arrivai, non parlavo italiano. I miei genitori decisero di mandarmi in una scuola elementare pubblica italiana, la Scuola Santa Brigida, una scelta piuttosto insolita per una famiglia straniera, soprattutto considerando che la scuola americana era letteralmente dietro l’angolo e la Ford si era offerta di pagarla.

Sono felicissima che non abbiano scelto quella strada. Gli anni alla Santa Brigida sono stati tra i più belli della mia vita.

La mia maestra, Rossanna Bargis, era una figura tondeggiante e materna. Alta circa un metro e quarantasette. Portava lunghi capelli grigi raccolti in uno chignon francese e aveva una voce dolcissima.

La ricordo con un twinset blu navy di lana media, una gonna dritta sotto il ginocchio, collant color carne arrotolati appena sopra l’orlo (visibili ogni volta che si sedeva) e scarpe stringate nere da suora. Vestita così tutti i giorni, in tutte le stagioni, senza eccezioni.

O almeno… così la ricorda la mia mente di bambina di otto anni.

Avevo sei compagni di classe: Barbara, Fabio, Jonathan, Claudio, Paolo e Mohammed. Dentro la scatola ho trovato lettere di tutti loro.

Le prime settimane nella mia nuova scuola furono piene di gesti e disegni. Nel giro di tre mesi avevo già raggiunto il livello dei miei compagni. Era come se avessi parlato italiano per tutta la vita.

Rossanna Bargis era affettuosa ma severa. Ci riempiva di racconti e attenzioni. Ci portava nei boschi a cercare funghi, ci faceva salire fino a casa sua sulla collina e ci insegnava a fare le tagliatelle. Avevamo compiti tutti i giorni e quando non li facevamo… beh, lei aveva una lunga bacchetta sottile.

Un mio compagno, Claudio, sembrava essere sempre quello in piedi davanti alla lavagna. Raramente sapeva rispondere a qualcosa. Dopo lunghi silenzi e lui che si tormentava la maglietta, lei finiva per trascinarlo via per un orecchio. Tirava fuori quella bacchetta e chiedeva alla classe di rispondere alla domanda. Quando diventava evidente che nessuno aveva studiato… BAM! Colpiva uno dei nostri banchi con la faccia rosso fuoco e lo chignon mezzo disfatto, facendoci prendere un colpo per la forza con cui faceva rispettare i suoi limiti.

Incuteva rispetto e, anche se oggi certi comportamenti sarebbero impensabili a scuola, ricordo quel periodo con il cuore pieno. So che ogni suo studente se l’è portata dentro per anni. Ogni tanto passavano ex alunni a raccontare episodi divertenti.

Mentre le ore scorrevano, lettera dopo lettera, fotografia dopo fotografia, sentivo arrivarmi addosso quella dolce malinconia dei ricordi.

Essere chiamata giù per pranzo sembrava quasi un’interruzione del mio viaggio nel tempo.

Quel sabato si stava rivelando molto più divertente di quanto avessi previsto. Non immaginavo che leggere vecchie lettere e pagine di diario della fine degli anni ’80 e dei primi anni ’90 potesse essere un’esperienza così immersiva.

Mi ricordavo che alcuni amici mi scrivevano spesso, ma finché non inizi a mettere tutte le lettere in pile separate non ti rendi conto di quante siano davvero. Era travolgente. E la me adulta, sapendo quanto il tempo sia prezioso, ha capito quanto valore ci fosse nel tempo e nell’energia che quelle persone avevano investito per scrivermi. Pensavano a me. Si prendevano il tempo di scrivere pagine intere, mettere un francobollo e andare in posta. Se questo non è affetto…

Appena tornata alle scatole, mi sono ricordata di un periodo in cui mi sentivo meno fortunata dei miei compagni italiani. Io ero rimasta lì solo due anni. In Italia, quando inizi le elementari, resti con la stessa classe per tutti e cinque gli anni. E lo stesso succede alle medie e alle superiori.

Può essere un’esperienza terribile e traumatizzante oppure, come nel mio caso, un’esperienza così piena di felicità da definire per sempre il tuo standard di ciò che la vita dovrebbe essere.

Quei due anni in quella classe furono pieni di avventure, comicità e amore, e sullo sfondo c’erano il Monviso e l’intera catena montuosa circostante. Non ricordo un solo momento noioso.

Con il passare della giornata trovai il mio primo diario. Era un regalo di Claudio ricevuto poco prima del mio ritorno negli Stati Uniti. Ognuno dei miei compagni e la mia maestra avevano scritto un pensiero con calligrafia curatissima e un bellissimo disegno, dicendomi quanto gli sarei mancata e sperando che mi ricordassi di loro. Hanno ottenuto quello che volevano.

Quando tornai negli Stati Uniti, passai il resto delle elementari a sentire la mancanza della vita che avevo lasciato in Italia. Credo di averne parlato praticamente ogni giorno della mia vita. Ed è stata una delle tante ragioni per cui sono diventata una specie di pesce fuor d’acqua.

La vita nel castello, con giardini ovunque, alberi da scalare e amici che rincorrevo tutto il pomeriggio, era molto diversa dalla classe di 27 bambini in cui mi ritrovai in quinta elementare a Northville, Michigan. Non avevo ancora realizzato che, come dice Dorothy nel film Il Mago di Oz, “non siamo più nel Kansas”.

Cercavo ingenuamente di salvare ogni emarginato della classe senza capire che esistevano le dinamiche di popolarità. All’inizio abbracciavo e baciavo la maestra il venerdì, proprio come facevo con Rossanna Bargis, e non facevo i compiti perché la mia insegnante americana non me li chiedeva il giorno dopo. Pensavo semplicemente: “Fantastico, qui nessuno controlla.” Una pagella di metà semestre piena di zeri per compiti mancanti mi fece capire che non funzionava esattamente così.

Dato che aevo fatto amicizia con tutti quelli considerati “sfigati”, mi ritrovai automaticamente con la stessa etichetta. E baciare la maestra dava agli altri bambini materiale preziosissimo per prendermi in giro.

L’unica cosa che sembravo saper fare bene a scuola era non riuscire a integrarmi.

Riguardando oggi quelle fotografie mentali ed emotive di quel periodo, leggendo i temi scolastici e le pagine del diario, mi rendo conto di quanto vivessi completamente nel mio mondo.

Le mie pagine sono piene di riferimenti al pianoforte, al flauto, alla cucina e alla colatura delle bambole di porcellana. Sì, a dieci anni facevo questo.

Verso le tre del pomeriggio trovai una busta contenente una lettera del 1994 insieme alla foto di un ragazzo e una ragazza adolescenti. Non li riconoscevo, ma apparentemente il ragazzo mi conosceva. Nella lettera spiegava che la ragazza era la sua migliore amica. La lettera arrivava da Novara. Citava la mia migliore amica Summer e proponeva che la sua migliore amica Veronica diventasse sua corrispondente. Poco dopo trovai persino una lettera di Veronica indirizzata a Summer.

Quelle lettere mi lasciarono completamente perplessa.

Mi misi a cercare online e alla fine trovai su LinkedIn una persona con il suo nome che poteva davvero essere lui. Fotografai la vecchia immagine, feci uno screenshot della sua foto profilo e chiesi a ChatGPT se potevano essere la stessa persona. Chat mi disse che era possibile. Così gli scrissi su LinkedIn: “Ciao, non ci sentiamo dal 1994.”

Lui rispose poco dopo: “Scusami… ma ci conosciamo?”

Gli mandai la foto che avevo in mano insieme alla busta con il suo indirizzo di Novara e gli chiesi: “Sei tu?”

Confermò che sì, era lui, e mi chiese come facessi ad avere quella roba.

Gli risposi: “A quanto pare ci scrivevamo nel 1994, ma io non me lo ricordavo minimamente.”

Dopo un po’ di messaggi avanti e indietro trovai una terza lettera, e lì finalmente comparve il contesto. Ci eravamo conosciuti nel 1993 in spiaggia a Gabicce, vicino Rimini. Lui frequentava un gruppo di amici di mia cugina quando io avevo quindici anni.

A un certo punto mi chiese: “Ma noi avevamo una storia?”

Io: “No, avevo una cotta per Pierre.”

Lui: “E Summer cosa c’entra?”

Io: “Non ne ho idea. Evidentemente parlavo sempre di lei. Era la mia migliore amica.”

Continuammo a scambiarci messaggi su dove vivevo all’epoca, dove vivo oggi e così via.

Ore dopo mi scrisse: “Fammi capire bene. Nel 1993 ci conosciamo in spiaggia. Non succede niente perché tu avevi una cotta per Pierre. Mi parli continuamente della tua amica Summer, io provo ad appiopparla al mio amico Veronica… Trentadue anni dopo vivi sulle colline di Torino, stai svuotando scatole durante un sabato pomeriggio pigro che ti sei trascinata dietro per tre decenni e attraverso un oceano. Trovi le mie lettere, trovi me online, mi scrivi e… quello che tu non sai è che proprio mentre mi mandavi il primo messaggio su LinkedIn io ero con alcuni amici di Cattolica che venivano in spiaggia con noi, e stavamo parlando delle estati del 1993 e 1994.”

Forse ci vedremo tra qualche mese. A questo punto entrambi ricordiamo il periodo, ma nessuno dei due si ricorda davvero dell’altro. Magari vedendoci di persona scatterà qualcosa.

Quella sera finii a leggere le vecchie pagine del mio diario. Non ridevo così forte da anni. Mi facevano male i fianchi e mi scendevano le lacrime dalle risate ancora all’una di notte, davanti all’assurdità e alla terrificante coerenza della mia mente.

Alcuni passaggi li lessi ad alta voce a mia figlia, che rideva insieme a me — e del mio spelling terrificante. Tra i momenti migliori: “Caro Diario, scusa se non ti scrivo da un po’.” Oppure: “Caro Diario, come stai?” Oppure: “Caro Diario, stasera non posso scriverti perché vado a leggere.” O ancora: “Caro Diario, buon Ringraziamento!” alla fine di un lunghissimo sfogo sui miei compagni di scuola.

Avevo una vera e propria relazione con il mio diario. Gli chiedevo come stava? Spesso. Mi scusavo con lui? Anche.

La cosa che mi ha colpito è quanto il mio rapporto con il diario assomigli alle conversazioni che ho oggi con l’AI. Il diario era un testimone. Un posto dove elaborare pensieri, emozioni e infinite osservazioni sul mondo. L’unica differenza è che l’AI risponde.

Quando mia figlia raccontò a mio padre quello che avevamo scoperto, lui rispose: “Ci sono voluti alcuni anni prima che tua madre atterrasse sul pianeta Terra.” E non stava scherzando. Vivevo davvero nel mio mondo.

Quello che ho capito è che fin da piccolissima ho sempre guardato il mondo in termini di significati profondi e storie. Uno dei miei esempi preferiti è un compito di quinta elementare.

La maestra aveva scritto sulla lavagna: “Who is Rumeal Robinson?”

La mia risposta fu: “Penso che Rumeal Robinson sia una persona che ha conosciuto Cristo. E penso che il suo nome sia stato menzionato perché forse amava Cristo. Forse era uno dei pochi romani che gli volevano bene.”

Dopo aver cerchiato tutti i miei errori ortografici, la maestra scrisse sotto: “È un giocatore di basketball dell’University del Michigan.”

Direi che questo riassume abbastanza bene il mio mondo interiore.

Da tempo volevo scrivere della mia esperienza biculturale. Non avevo mai davvero capito come affrontarla fino a ora. Forse doveva aspettare proprio questo momento, perché trovare quelle lettere e quei diari è diventato un portale verso la versione più giovane di me stessa.

Dopo aver aperto quelle scatole riesco finalmente a vedere quei ricordi sia con gli occhi della bambina che li ha vissuti, sia con quelli dell’adulta che oggi riesce finalmente a capire quella bambina.

Ci sono temi ricorrenti ovunque, come una pagina di diario scritta a dodici anni in cui scrivo: “Ho aspettato un uomo che mi amasse per tutta la vita”, riferendomi al fatto che tutte le mie amiche avessero il fidanzato. Leggendolo a fatica ad alta voce tra le risate, mia figlia commenta: “Beh, mamma, direi che alla fine non è cambiato moltissimo.”

La quantità di progetti e interessi che porto avanti da sempre.

Il modo in cui ho sempre affrontato il mondo con speranza, gratitudine e il desiderio di trovare un significato più profondo.

Le persone fanno moltissime supposizioni su di me. È quello che facciamo tutti: riempiamo gli spazi vuoti quando non sappiamo qualcosa. E io sono sicuramente una persona che genera parecchi punti interrogativi.

Mi rendo conto che il mio modo di vedere il mondo non è comune. Le ragioni per cui ho scelto di vivere in Italia non sono quelle che la gente immagina facilmente.

Sono una vera romantica. Nonostante tutto, continuo ad affrontare la vita con curiosità, speranza e con l’idea che da qualche parte, dentro il caos, ci sia sempre un significato nascosto.

Restare con i piedi per terra richiede uno sforzo extra, ma guardandomi indietro non cambierei nulla. È stata la mia ricetta per scoprire un mondo pieno di verità che raramente vengono riconosciute.

Per tutta la vita ho sentito mio padre dire: “No matter where you go, there you are.” Pensavo fosse una battuta. A un certo punto ho capito cosa intendesse. Quel fine settimana ho trovato le prove.

*Caro Diario,

la mia vita adesso è molto confusa. Due giorni fa Joe ha fatto chiamare un suo amico per lasciarmi. All’inizio ho pianto ed ero arrabbiata, ma adesso non mi sento ferita perché ho appena capito che era quello giusto. Per tutta la vita ho sperato e aspettato che arrivasse l’uomo giusto e che fosse romantico.

Ho appena finito di guardare la mia miniserie preferita, Anna dai Capelli Rossi e Anna di Avonlea. Ho sempre desiderato una vita così, ma credo che non succederà mai. Tutti e tre i fidanzati che ho avuto non sembravano interessarsi al romanticismo.

Non credo di appartenere al presente, ma al passato. Tipo all’Ottocento. Ho sempre sognato il romanticismo, gli abiti bellissimi e le cittadine piacevoli. Mi rendo conto che la vita di nessuno è mai stata perfetta, soprattutto la mia.

Odio la vita moderna che stiamo creando. Probabilmente sono un’altra persona del passato. Ma ho solo una richiesta: chiunque tu sia (non una ragazza), amami per favore… e dammi un po’ di romanticismo.

On a Saturday afternoon, I stood before several boxes full of old memories. I sighed heavily. It was the last big bit of endless pieces that needed to be organized after months and months of moving last year.

I finally decided to walk away from it all, closing a chapter that included a 17th-century farm where I had accumulated pets and heaps of drama.

While the pets will be with me as long as they are breathing, I decided to let the drama go and surrender to a reasonable life.

Now 48, nearly a year after moving in with my parents, our household consists of my nearly 24-year-old daughter, 5 cats, and 5 large dogs.

No, the pets weren’t all mine. There is a “Brady Bunch” story behind the absurd amount of fur that needs to be vacuumed on a daily basis. My pet situation deserves its own chapter.

What I didn’t expect were the exhilarating finds within the boxes. I had to decide what to keep and what to get rid of, just as with every other box I had opened in the months before.

This time, it was life-changing. I found photos, letters, old passports, dating back to my birth... and two diaries from two very important transitional phases in my life.

The first significant letter was from my grandfather. Bologna, Feb 16th, 1978. It was addressed to my father. It was sent 2 days after my birth. A 6-page letter full of humor and emotion.

My father had married my mother one year prior, almost to the day, on Feb 15th, 1977. My grandparents hadn’t yet met my mother and two half-siblings.

In the letter, they talked about the joy of hearing my father’s happiness in his voice during the phone call the morning I was born.

In Italy, there is a tradition of naming children after their grandparents. If I had been born a boy, I would have been “Francesco.” My grandfather writes, “Your mother made sure I mentioned that regarding the name, she wins.”

My father had been sure I was going to be a boy, but my grandfather pointed out, “See, it’s all the same, isn’t it?” He said so many loving and endearing things that I’d love to share, but I think I’ve illustrated my point. He was known for being an irritable man with a short temper, but the letter gave me a deeper sense of our family’s heart, a first real glimpse at an emotional snapshot of what that moment was like. As my father read through the pages with a somewhat emotional voice, I could almost feel as though I were experiencing the moment firsthand.

Everything in those boxes was just thrown together. I laughed at horrible hairstyles, better pictures (although those were few and far between), admired my mother’s beauty during her “Barbie Doll” years, my brother’s and sister’s dorky periods, and mine, too.

I used my phone to take snapshots of some of the old photos and sent messages to people I’m still acquainted with, 25-40 years later. The laughing emojis and comments that came back were priceless. Between the letters and the photos, there were both laughter and some sadder, more melancholy moments.

Some of those letters were from friends who had unfortunately passed away. I’m filled with gratitude for having kept all of that after so long because I got the opportunity to be with them once again.

Then came the two diaries. The first one I received as a gift shortly before moving back to the United States from Italy.

My father was an automotive designer at Ford. In 1986, Ford sent us to Turin, Italy, to live so my dad could have his “foreign experience” at their Ghia office.

My brother and sister opted to stay with their father in Ohio.

We rented a section of a medieval castle called “Castelvecchio” in Moncalieri, in Turin’s hillside. When I arrived, I didn’t know how to speak Italian. My parents decided to send me to an Italian public elementary school (Scuola Santa Brigida), an uncommon choice for transferring families, since the American school was right down our street and Ford had offered to pay the tuition.

I’m glad my parents didn’t go for that option. My years at Scuola Santa Brigida were among the most beautiful in my life.

My teacher, Rossanna Bargis, was a round, grandmotherly figure. She was about 4’ 10” tall, or 147 cm. She had long gray hair that she rolled into a French twist every day, and had a very sweet voice.

I remember her wearing a medium-weight navy wool twinset, a straight skirt that fell below her knees, nude nylons rolled just above the hem (visible whenever she sat down), and black leather lace-up shoes like the ones nuns wear. She dressed that way every single day, every season of the year, without fail.

At least, that’s how my 8-year-old self remembers it.

I had 6 classmates: Barbara, Fabio, Jonathan, Claudio, Paolo, and Mohammed. In my box, I found letters from all of them.

The first weeks at my new school were filled with a lot of gestures and pictures. Within 3 months, I was caught up to speed with my classmates. It’s like I had been speaking Italian my entire life.

Rosanna Bargis was both loving and strict. She filled us with affection and stories. She would take us out into the woods and show us how to hunt for mushrooms, march us up the hillside to her house, and teach us how to make tagliatelle. We were assigned homework daily, and when we didn’t do it, well, she had a long, thin whip of a stick.

One classmate, Claudio, seemed to always be the one standing facing the chalkboard. He rarely knew the answer to anything. After prolonged silence and his fidgeting with his shirt, she’d eventually haul him off by his ear. She’d pull out that stick and ask the class to answer the question. When it became apparent that no one had studied, wham! She’d strike one of our desks, her face beet-red, her French twist falling apart, scaring the bejesus out of us with the scope of asserting her boundaries!

She commanded respect, and while her actions are contrary to what modern school systems allow today, I look upon that time with a full heart. In fact, I know that every single one of her students carried her in their hearts long after she was their teacher. We used to get visitors from ex-alumni who shared some fun stories.

As the hours flew by, letter after letter, picture after picture, I felt the bittersweet memories coming over me.

Being called downstairs for lunch felt like an interruption of my immersive time-travel experience.

Saturday was turning out to be much more fun than I had planned. I hadn’t expected that reading old letters and diary entries from the late 80s and early 90s would be such a transporting experience.

I remembered specific friends writing me lots of letters, but until you start putting them in dedicated piles, you don’t realize just how many. It was overwhelming, and the adult me, knowing how precious time is, made me understand what a treasure it is to hold the time and energy those people invested in writing me. They held me in their thoughts, they took the time to write it on multiple pages, to put a stamp on it, and to take it to the post office. If that isn’t affection...

As soon as I got back to my boxes, I remembered a time when I felt less lucky than my Italian classmates. I got to be there for only two years. In Italy, when you enter grade school, you enter a class that you stay with for the entirety of elementary school. When you switch to middle school or high school, the same thing happens.

It can be either a miserable, traumatizing experience, or, as in my case, an experience so filled with happiness that it defines what your standard for what life should be.

Those two years in that class were filled with adventures, comedy, love, and a scenic backdrop of Monviso and the surrounding chain of mountains. I can’t recall a boring moment.

As the day went on, I found my first diary. It was a gift from Claudio that I received shortly before I returned to the United States. Each of my classmates and my teacher had written an entry with careful penmanship and a beautiful drawing, each telling me how much they’d miss me and hoped I’d remember our time together. They got their wish.

When I got back to the United States, I spent the rest of my grade school education longing for the life I had left behind, so much so that I think I talked about it every day of my life. That was one of the many reasons I had become a misfit.

Castle life with surrounding gardens, climbing trees, and friends I chased around all afternoon was very different from the 27-kid classroom I found myself in when I got to the 5th grade in Northville, Michigan. I hadn’t quite realized that I wasn’t, so to speak, “ in Kansas” anymore.

I naively tried to save every underdog in my class, not realizing that popularity contests were a thing. I initially gave my teacher hugs and kisses on Fridays, just as I had with Rosanna Bargis, and I didn’t do my homework because my teacher never asked me about it the next day. I just thought, “Cool, no one is checking.” A mid-semester report card with a bunch of zeros from missed assignments let me know otherwise.

Because I had befriended every kid that was labeled as a “loser,” I was awarded the same label. Hugging and kissing my teacher only gave the other kids valuable material to rip on me with.

The only thing I felt capable of at school was not fitting in.

Throughout all of that, looking at mental and emotional snapshots of that time, reading through my school assignments and diary entries, I realize now how much I was in my own world.

My entries are full of me talking about playing the piano and flute, cooking, and porcelain doll pouring. Yes, at the age of ten, that’s what I was up to.

At around 3 pm, I found an envelope containing a letter from 1994 along with a picture of a teenage guy and a girl. I didn’t recognize them, but apparently, the guy in the picture knew me. He explains that the girl is his bestie. The letter was shipped from Novara. He mentions my best friend, Summer, and suggests that his best friend, Veronica from the picture, become pen pals with Summer. Then, I find another letter from Veronica to Summer.

I was so puzzled by the letters. I looked online and finally found someone with his name on LinkedIn who looked like it could be him. I took a picture of the old photograph and a screenshot of the guy’s LinkedIn profile pic, and asked ChatGPT if they could be the same person. Chat tells me it could. So I message the guy on LinkedIn and say, “Hi, we haven’t exchanged words since 1994.”

He replies shortly after with, “Excuse me, but do I know you?” I replied with the photo I was holding and a picture of the envelope with his Novara address, and asked, “Is this you?”

He confirms that it is and asks me how I have that. I respond, “Apparently, we were corresponding in 1994, but I don’t remember either.”

After some back-and-forth, I found a 3rd letter, and there it was. We met in 1993 on the beach in Gabicce, near Rimini. He was friends with a group of my cousin’s friends when I was 15.

Then he asked, “Did we have a thing going?” Me: “No, I had a crush on Pierre.” Him: “What does Summer have to do with this?” Me: “I don’t know, I must have talked a lot about her, she was my best friend.”

We exchanged more messages about where I was living at the time, where I live now, and so on.

Hours later, he writes, “Let me get this straight, in 1993, we met on the beach. We had nothing going on because you were crushing on Pierre. You talked my ear off about your friend Summer, I tried to pan her off to my friend Veronica. 32 years later, you’re living in the hills of Turin, unpacking boxes on a lazy Saturday that you had kept and moved overseas with over the span of 3 decades. You find my letters, you find me online, write me, and... what you don’t know is that, coincidentally, as you wrote me your first message on LinkedIn, I was talking to some friends from Cattolica, who used to go to that beach with me, about the Summers of 1993 and 1994.

We might meet up in a couple of months. At this point, while we both remember the period, neither of us remembers meeting each other. Who knows, maybe when we meet face to face, memories will get triggered.

I ended that night reading through my old diary entries. I haven’t laughed that hard since I can remember. My sides were hurting, and tears rolled down my face, still at 1 am, at the absurdity, yet my wildly consistent mind.

Some of it, I read out loud to my daughter, who laughed with me and at my terrible spelling. Some highlights included me writing, “Dear Diary, I’m sorry I haven’t written in a while.” Or, “Dear Diary, how are you?” Or, “Dear Diary, sorry I can’t write you tonight, I’m going to read.” Or, “Dear Diary, Happy Thanksgiving!” at the end of a long rant about my schoolmates.

I had a full-blown relationship with my diary. Apologizing to it? Asking it how it was doing - often?

What struck me was how similar my relationship with my diary was to my conversations with AI now. The diary had been a witness, a place to process my thoughts, feelings, and endless observations about the world. The only difference is that AI answers back.

When my daughter told my father what we had discovered, my dad’s response was, “It took your mom a few years to join planet earth.” He wasn’t kidding. I really was living in my own world.

What I’ve realized is that, from a very young age, I saw the world in terms of deeper meaning and stories. For example, a personal favorite was a 5th-grade journal entry.

My teacher had written on the blackboard: Who is Rumeal Robinson? My response: I think that Rumeal Robinson is a person who met Chist . And I think his name has ben menshoned because maby he loved Chist. Maby he was one of the few Romans that loved him.

After circling my many spelling errors, she comments below: “He is a U of M basketball player.” That pretty much sums up what my inner world looked like.

I’ve been meaning to write about my bi-cultural experience for some time. I never really knew how to approach it until now. Maybe it was meant to wait because finding those letters and diaries became a portal to my past self.

After opening those boxes, I can now see the memory from both the child’s perspective, the one that I’ve held on to all these years, and the perspective of an adult who now understands the child.

There are many recurring themes, such as in a diary entry at age 12, where I write, “I’ve been waiting for a man to love me my whole life,” in reference to all my friends having boyfriends. Barely being able to read that one out loud to my daughter as I grasped for air between laughs, she remarks, “Well, Mom, it looks like not much has changed for you so far.”

The multitude of projects and interests that have been going on since I can remember.

The way I approached the world was with a hope for universal goodness, gratitude, and a desire for deeper meaning.

People make many assumptions about me. That’s what we humans do: we fill in the blanks when we don’t know, and I’m certainly an individual who provokes a lot of question marks.

I realize my view of the world isn’t common. The reasons I chose to live in Italy aren’t the reasons that one would easily conclude.

I’m a true romantic. Despite everything, I still tend to approach life with curiosity, hope, and the assumption that there’s meaning hidden somewhere inside the mess.

Grounding myself takes extra work, but looking back, I wouldn’t change a thing. It has been my recipe for discovering a world full of rarely acknowledged truths.

Throughout my life, I’ve heard my father say, “No matter where you go, there you are.” I used to think it was a joke. At some point, I got it. That weekend, I found the proof.

*“My sweetest Tempesta (Storm),
Your serene exuberance, your joy for life, your warm humanity, and your affectionate presence illuminated our school days.
May our friendship survive time and distance, remaining forever fresh and loyal.”

— Rosanna Bargis, June 13, 1988