Those who know me know how much I love animals, and I will do everything necessary to honor the responsibility I take on whenever one comes into my care. When a cat or dog lands in my life, I belong to them for life. Just as I do with every serious commitment, I design my life around the promises I’ve made. When it comes to fur babies, I do whatever it takes to make sure they’re healthy and happy.

Never mind getting graffitied with long, white dog hair on my elegant dark attire just as I’m walking out the door for a business event or an evening out. I keep a lint roller in my car just in case. Or finding the occasional strand while washing salad. Or discovering that the new pants I carefully folded on my bedroom bench have been confettied with cat fur.

I’ve overcome allergies, endured countless hours of cleaning and dusting, and made less convenient life choices to uphold those promises. I don’t plan on changing that anytime soon.

Ciao Maggie

After recounting that morning in late July of 2019, I suddenly found myself thinking about how Maggie was there with me. She had been my friend who kept me company, and now, seven years later, I was suddenly flooded with a sense of guilt. I hadn’t seen her in six years.

She didn’t know what happened to me, or why I suddenly left.

I picked up my phone and sent a WhatsApp message to her owner, Valentino. I noticed when I opened up our contacts, the last time we exchanged messages was on Christmas of 2023.

Why is this just occurring to me now? What happened in the years before? Is she even still alive?

Within minutes, my phone rings. It was Valentino.

Me: “Ciao, how are you?”
Valentino: “I’m OK. Maggie, not so much.”
Me: “What’s going on?”
Valentino: “Maggie was urinating blood the other day, and it turns out that she has a tumor in her bladder. Then, last night, she collapsed because she has a severe bladder infection and a fever, so I rushed her to the hospital last night.”
Me: “Oh no! Are you going to go see her today? Can I go see her?
Valentino: “Visiting time is at 6 p.m.; I’ll be going then.”
Me: “How about I meet you there?”
Valentino: “Yes, it’d be really great to see you.”

It was 11 a.m.; I still had my workday ahead of me, and getting to the animal hospital located in Moncalieri meant going 45 minutes out of my way. But I needed to get there. I needed to tell Maggie I was sorry, that I loved her, that I hadn’t forgotten about her, and that I was grateful for what she’d given me in this life.

The day was a mixture of extreme heat and rain. When I got there, Valentino was just rolling up in his black Mercedes. We stepped into the veterinary clinic, and Maggie was much more alert than we’d both been expecting. Her fur was supposed to be white, but being Maggie, as usual, she was completely multi-colored in dirt… and smelly.

She was walking fine and wagged her tail, barely acknowledging me. She gave me a few sniffs and started inspecting the environment. I thought for a second that maybe she didn’t remember me, but then again, she was giving her owner the same treatment. She seemed more focused on finding a way to escape.

Valentino said, “The vet told me if she’s doing just as good tomorrow, she can go home.” He seemed genuinely sure she still had some time left and talked about getting a biopsy for the tumor.

I left that interaction feeling a bit better and glad I had listened to my intuition. Two days later, Maggie died.

The Curse of Proximity

After I dropped that bag off with my letter on Emanuele’s doorstep on that hot summer morning in July of 2019, I spent the rest of the day in shock.

When I was thirteen years old, my mother had given me advice that would shape a major aspect of my love life.

It came when I was crying over Jimmy Imsland - a tall, dark, and handsome kid in my grade (at least that’s how I described him in my diary). Apparently, Matt (whatever his last name was…) had told him I had a crush on him, and rumor had it that Jimmy’s reaction was, “Ew, gross. Emilia Delena.”

After two days of non-stop tears, my mom sat me down and said. “Look, when a man tells you he doesn’t want you, he is dead to you. Yes, have your funeral, and then get it out of your system. Even if he comes back begging, don’t ever give him a second chance. He is dead.”

I took my mom quite literally and followed her advice throughout my life very faithfully. In about 3 days’ time, I was over whatever heartbreak. It was like this weird off-switch.

It always went down like this: heartbreak, cry until you can cry no more, and then it’s over. New day, new world, new me.

From that day on, any boy or man that told me that didn’t have feelings for me died in my head. My reaction to being rejected was often met with shock and disbelief on their behalf, and most of them came back to me with tears, begging for another chance. But they never, ever got one.

The funny thing was, my mother didn’t actually follow her own advice. Years later, she confessed having unrequited love that she yearned for long after it ended.

Over the next three days, I used my proven method to overcome Emanuele.

On day 2, the world was coming to an end; on day 3, I was sad and depressed, and my eyes were puffy after having produced 48 hours’ worth of tears. On the 4th morning, I woke up, got dressed, and put on my makeup. I felt reborn. A warrior ready to take on the world.

By staying indoors for four days, drowning in self-pity, I completely eliminated the chance of running into Emanuele.

Around 11 a.m., I walked across our garden and towards my little powder-blue metallic hunk of crap with my head held high. As I placed my hand on the door handle to open it, I heard a voice from the balcony above. “Emilia…”

I looked up. It was Emanuele looking down at me with a very sad look on his face.

I said, “Hi.” And proceeded to open my car door. As I put my first foot in, he said, “Can we please talk?”

Me: “I said everything that I need to say to you in the letter.”
Emanuele: “I need to tell you something.”

I sighed heavily, took my foot out of the car, and asked him, “What do you want?”

He replied, “Please come upstairs. I really need to say some things to you.”

I marched up the stairs on a mission of self-preservation, with enough emotional armor to carry me through even the most devastating of wars.

He looked like he too had been tearful. He invited me to sit down as he pulled out a chair from his kitchen table. I looked at him, almost daring him. I felt sure and unmoved as I lowered myself into the chair.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked.
Me: “No thank you, I have to go in a minute. What can I do for you?”
Emanuele: “How are you?”
Me: “Actually, incredibly good.”

I went on to talk about some positive and exciting work updates that had transpired since we last spoke. I was enthusiastic and natural, seemingly untouched by what had happened just a few days before.

He reached for my hand, and I jolted it back. The rejection was clear.

I then asked, “How are you doing?”

He lowered his eyes and said, “Less happy than you.”

The plea in his eyes didn’t bend me. I simply responded, “Sorry to hear that. I’ve got to go. See you around.”

I walked out the door, feeling liberated, uncrushed, and like I had won.

Days went by, and I stayed firm in my position. I said “hi” when we crossed paths, but otherwise managed to keep my distance. For a little while. About ten days in, my armor started to soften.

My mother’s advice had always worked beautifully. Unfortunately, it had never been tested on a man who lived one balcony above my car.

It’s one thing to cut someone out of your life when you can avoid them. It’s another when they are continuously standing in front of you. I’ve never been particularly good at holding grudges, a trait that proved to be both beneficial and unbeneficial. This instance was an example of when it was totally inconvenient.

It took me years to realize that holding grudges and letting them go are two sides of the same coin. But that deeper understanding came much later on.

The distance between us shortened throughout August. His friends would come by, and if I happened to be in the garden—which I often was—he would walk over and introduce me.

Conversations in groups of people made it feel awkward to be at odds. I’m a highly social being, and it is not my nature to simply brush people off. I can’t pinpoint the precise moment the dissonance faded, but by the time my father showed up at my house on August 30th, Emanuele and I were once again in a situationship.

We’re Just Friends

My father arrived from Paris at about two in the morning, in a van with our eight-year-old family dog, Bianca—a huge, white, long-haired Great Pyrenees. My mother was two days behind them, flying directly into Turin.

They had officially retired in Italy.

Giuseppe and Kathy Delena had always taught me that our pets were family members. They deserved the same love and care as everyone else.

My parents feared putting Bianca through the stress of yet another unnecessary flight. So my father embarked on the endless drive from Paris to Turin to make the journey as easy on her as possible.

Emanuele initially kept a discreet distance. Eventually, however, he crossed paths with my parents and shook their hands.

My family had already met too many of the wrong men over the years. “You really can pick ’em, Emilia” had practically become their motto.

I wasn’t prepared to introduce Emanuele as someone I was dating. The minute I did, they would give him the (well-deserved) suspicious side-eye, and I still felt as though I needed to figure out exactly what this was.

As I sit here now, I have to laugh. I still haven’t figured it out.

Mr. and Mrs. Delena stayed with Elena and me for a couple of weeks while they signed the closing papers on their new villa in Gassino Torinese.

Located in the northeastern hills of Turin, among old farms, churches, and villas, the house had a surprisingly similar look and feel to the home my father had spent twenty years renovating in Franklin, Michigan. It was in the right place, at the right price. It had us at hello.

I had come across the villa while carrying out the house search my parents had assigned to me the year before.

Those two weeks were… interestingly awkward. I could tell my parents strongly suspected that something was going on between Emanuele and me. Fortunately, he wasn’t the only man I was “talking to,” so their suspicions were tempered by the sight of me getting dressed up and going out with others.

Elena is exceptionally good at keeping things to herself. Thank God.

The new family dynamic quickly became clear. Elena and I were no longer mother and daughter. We were the kids, and my parents were the adults. We had always had each other’s backs, but now, we were more like accomplices.

They’re Like Potato Chips: You Can’t Have Just One

When I had first met Emanuele, he initially told me that he didn’t like dogs. They made him nervous because he had been bitten as a kid.

Maggie was a part of my everyday. Her owner, Valentino, doesn’t have the same relationship with dogs that I do.

He had gotten her off a sheep farm in Abruzzo, where his mother, Assunta, was from.
Puppies born out in the pasture were common, so the farmer just gave Maggie to Valentino while there for a visit.

I met Maggie for the first time in 2013 when she was just 2 months old. I was living in Castelvecchio for the second time in my life, and Valentino lived about 6 minutes up the road. I remember him opening the door, and there she was sitting in front of the couch, just a sweet little white furry pupper with skunk breath and sharp teeth.

Valentino had always been the sort of person who solved one problem only to create another. I’d known him for thirty years, long enough to recognize the pattern. Getting Maggie was one of those decisions.

Valentino lived alone, and he got her to keep him company. He’s an entrepreneur. When Assunta was still alive, she often helped with Maggie when he was away, but she lived in the city, didn’t drive, and Valentino was always situated in a place that necessarily had to be reached by car. Arranging for Assunta’s help wasn’t always possible.

Assunta loved Maggie. She always gave Maggie strict orders in a commanding voice, and Maggie always obeyed. Assunta would just giggle lovingly and say, “She’s so cute.”

When Valentino became my neighbor in 2018 in Strada Valpiana, I had known him for thirty years. He was Assunta’s son, and Assunta had been our custodian when she still worked at Castelvecchio back in 1986. We kept our relationship going even when my family moved back to Metro Detroit in 1988.

Assunta had a third-grade education, but her values were extremely noble - more noble than some nobles I had come across in my life.

She helped me and my family countless times. Took care of Elena, took care of me when I needed it. She even flew into Detroit with me during Christmas of 2011. Assunta was family. Valentino was a natural extension of what I shared with her.

Like Emanuele, he too became enamored with where I was living, and when the apartment next to me freed up, he moved in next door.

It wasn’t until I watched Valentino leave for days at a time, unconcerned, leaving Maggie outdoors without any food or water - no matter the weather conditions that I realized how unconscientious he could be.

While I knew she was drinking water from the brook in the forest behind the house and seemed to never be starving, I just couldn’t bear thinking no one was taking care of her. So in lieu of Assunta’s presence, I started caring for her as though she were my dog, often staying indoors with us, sometimes overnight, and often while we sat down to eat. She knew I was a sucker; I love to share what’s on my plate, and Maggie, like family, was there to accept my offerings.

The first time Emanuele dined at our house, he looked at Maggie and said, “Can’t she go outside while we’re eating?”

I just looked at him and said, “No,” while offering her a little piece of meat that I had cut from the chicken on my plate. Emanuele watched in disgust as she gently took the little piece of meat with her front teeth, never daring to touch my fingers.

She may have been a country dog that often smelled like a wild hog, but she was always very elegant, often sitting politely with her front paws crossed.

The day after Emanuele moved in, I had gone up the stairs to his balcony. As I went to knock on the door, I turned around, and there he was, napping on the ground while embracing Maggie.

By September, Emanuele and Maggie were always going on hikes in the woods together, and sometimes I’d join them. I don’t think she ever wore a leash in her life up until that point. She roamed the neighborhood freely, and the surrounding fence to our property was full of holes that she could easily slip in and out of.

On the last day of November, Elena came to me with her phone, “Mom, my classmate sent out a message to everyone saying these three puppies need a home.” Showing me a picture of three adorable white fluff balls. “He said his father found them abandoned on the highway in southern Italy, and wants to find homes for them. Can we get one?”

At first, I said, “No.” And then, within the hour, “Well, actually. We live in a place where we could have one…” By the next morning, “Yes, it’s time! Let’s get a puppy!”

I picked up the phone and called my parents. Their immediate response was, “What about the other two? They need a home.”

My mother said, “Giuseppe, let’s take them.”
And it was settled. The three little sisters had a home.

My parents picked all of them up on December 3rd from the man who had taken it upon himself to make sure those three babies wouldn’t be left there to die. He had been feeding them milk and cookies since he had found them. My parents drove them straight to the vet, and Elena and I joined them there.

Elena and I named our chosen puppy Uma, and my parents named theirs Nina and Simona.

Bianca had been slowing down since the move, but when Nina and Simona showed up at the house, her maternal instincts kicked in, and Bianca was once again looking jovial and enthusiastic. She now had a greater purpose than barking at cars driving by and birds.

That night, my mother put down blankets on the kitchen floor and created a little place for the three puppies to sleep. But Nina and Simona, smaller than the height of each stair, made their way up the entire flight to my parents’ bedroom and slept peacefully on the floor in a pile next to my father and Bianca for the entire night. They knew they were home, and they knew who the boss was.

I had advised Valentino multiple times over the years to have Maggie fixed. Every six months, like clockwork, we had dogs from all over trying to breach our yard as soon as she went into heat. Valentino would just say, “Naw… She’s never going to get pregnant. She’s nearly 7, it’s never happened, she’s probably sterile. Besides, I think it’d be kind of cool if she had puppies.”

Well, he got his wish. Like Bianca, Maggie’s maternal instincts kicked in when she met Uma. The difference was, Bianca was fixed.

Something clicked inside of Maggie, and I could tell. At the end of December, she went into heat three months early. Emanuele and I went to Courmayeur together to celebrate New Year’s with a group of friends. Elena stayed behind. She started calling me with a bit of concern, “Mom, Maggie is going with dogs all over the neighborhood.”

When I got home, during the first week of January, I took one look at her and said, “Maggie, you’re in trouble. I think you have some ‘splainin’ to do.”

Ten’s a Charm

Two weeks later, I knocked on Valentino’s door. When he answered, “Maggie’s pregos.”

Valentino: “No… Oh, come on. You think?”
Me: I’m sure. Can’t you see she’s getting a little thicker around the waist?”
Valentino: “She’s just fat. She’s been gaining weight since you’ve been feeding her all the time.”
Me: “Valentino, she needs to go to the vet.”
Valentino: “We’ll see. If she gets bigger, we’ll take her.”

Guess who took her. I did.

I ended up buying Maggie a collar and leash, and taking her furry little bitch buns to the local vet at the bottom of the hill.

The vet felt her stomach, listened with the stethoscope, and said, “Yep. She’s pregnant.”

Over the next few weeks, Emanuele helped plan the delivery. He had become so attached to her that he built her a whelping box, specifically designed with inner rails so that she wouldn’t accidentally crush the puppies.

On March 3rd, at 3 a.m., Maggie came to my bedroom and placed her paw on my arm. She was letting me know it was time.

Completely out of it, I stumbled down the steps with her. She began panting heavily, and shortly thereafter, the first puppy came out. She was white like her mother, but unfortunately, was stillborn. I covered the poor little soul up in a cloth and put her in a shoebox. I was going to have to bury her later.

By the time the second puppy came out an hour later, I was nervous about whether it would be alive. But this time, as soon as Maggie cleaned it off, suddenly, a cry! Just like a human baby. It was almost 4 a.m., and for the first time in my life, I witnessed the birth of a tiny little fur baby. I couldn’t believe it! Tears started streaming down my face with joy. It was so cute! A little boy.

Puppies came out about once every hour. Elena came down at about 8 a.m. and made herself useful.

Valentino came over around 9 and brought his buddy over. Within minutes, I kicked them out of my house. Maggie and I had work to do, and having a couple of guys hanging around just to discuss the puppies’ cuteness while trying to pick them up was not only a distraction, but incredibly annoying and inappropriate.

At around noon, Emanuele popped his head in. As usual, he woke up just in time for lunch.

He opened the door; Maggie was standing there panting. Suddenly, she pushed out a black-and-white spotted baby that resembled a micro-cow. That was Ray.

Every puppy had been all white until Ray.

Then came Carlino, also all white, but 1/2 the size of the others. Then Shamú, a golden pup 1/3 larger than the rest of the litter.

And last but not least, Tabú. He looked like he was wearing a black tuxedo. White paws and a white chest. The mystery of who their father was had been solved. It was Odi, the 1/2 border collie, 1/2 Swiss shepherd that belonged to the family in the next villa over.

By late afternoon, nine puppies were whimpering in the whelping box, and Maggie was grinning from ear to ear.

Just before sunset, I made my way to the forest with Emanuele with a shovel and the shoebox with the stillborn puppy. He dug a hole, we placed the box in the ground, covered it, and we bowed our heads in silence.

In that moment, I was sad, but it took days for me to absorb the events of that night. In the days that followed, I learned that there were techniques for reviving an unresponsive newborn. I began to wonder whether, had I done more research before becoming a midwife, I might have been able to save her.

Weeks later, I confessed my grief to a friend, who finally talked some sense into me.

“Nature did its job. You took care of Maggie and her babies, and you saved a runt. I’d say you did more than your part.”

Lockdown Heaven

My mother had planned to visit Paul and Karen back in Metro Detroit at the end of February. There had been a lot of fear over the previous month surrounding this deadly disease called COVID, along with buzzing rumors that Italy could be locked down.

My mother decided to take off anyway. She’s well known for having a hard time with change. Rearrange the furniture, and it will end in tears.

Now imagine the magnitude of change when it came to moving to Italy.

While it is true that she had gone along with my father’s plan to retire to Italy.
It didn’t mean it would be easy or that it wouldn’t result in at least some emotional turmoil.

Most people, at any age, would have a hard time with that kind of move. Kathy was 70.

It was not much of a surprise that she’d often burst out with threats of leaving my father behind alone in Italy with the dogs. My dad would just shrug and say (as he always does when she’s mad at him), “She’ll get over it.”

She repeated multiple times in the days before her departure, “I’m never coming back.”

It was simply Kathy’s theatrical way of processing the move—until the universe responded, OK, let’s see about that.

Well, exactly one week after the puppies were born, Italy locked down. I remember that I was driving around downtown in the middle of the afternoon, having just left a client’s house.

My cell phone rings. It was my friend, Jane.
“What are you doing?” She asked.
“I’m driving home; the streets are all empty. I wonder what’s going on.” I responded.
Jane: “Get your ass home straight away. If the police catch you, you’re going to be in huge trouble!”
Me: “Why, what’s going on?”
Jane: “Do you live under a rock? They announced today that the country is on lockdown, and you’re not allowed to leave the house.”

When I got home, Elena was upstairs in her room, texting her friends. I peeked my head in.

“Mom, school is closed for the rest of the week.”

We looked at each other and high-fived. It was like having a series of pre-planned snow days.

I couldn’t count the number of times I had driven her to school, exhausted after working through the night, my Starbucks tumbler filled with tea, asking her, “When is this hell going to end?”

A few days later came a moment I’ll never forget. It was dark outside, and I went over to Emanuele’s house. He was upstairs in his bedroom, working out. When I reached the top of the stairs, he looked at his phone and read aloud:

“It’s been declared that the world is in a state of emergency. We are officially experiencing a pandemic.”

It was such an odd feeling. I wasn’t scared. It felt like a scene from a movie—that moment when a major event is announced, and you know people’s reality has changed forever.

That was us in that tiny room as thunder began to clap outside.

I texted Elena. “Come over.”

We huddled in Emanuele’s kitchen and spent the night cooking, laughing, eating, and telling one another stories.

The next morning, the sun was shining brightly. At the bottom of the stairs, Maggie was sleeping with her babies. In the middle of the floor, Tabù was swimming his way across the living room.

Not even ten days old, his eyes still closed, he had somehow climbed over the side of the whelping box and escaped into the middle of the room.

I thought, Oh boy. This one is going to be an escape artist.

I think sometimes I was born opposite of the world.
During COVID, while the world was struggling, I was thriving.

For once, nobody needed me to be anywhere. There were no school runs and no driving up and down that hill one too many times a day. I didn’t have to sit in traffic, cut people off, or get honked at. The total lack of chaos was almost deafening at first.

My days were measured in puppy feedings, long walks through the hills, projects that had been sitting on standby for years, and whatever the three of us decided to cook that evening.

I made pillows and sewed curtains with fabric I had bought years earlier. I created elaborate headbands just for fun. Elena and I baked cookies, bread, and cakes nonstop. The grocery store was one of the only legal places to shop. Lord knows I love to shop, and I love to cook. Let’s just say I found a way to satisfy my shopping addiction regardless of the lockdown.

Every evening after dinner, we crashed on my large white couch and watched a movie together. Mind you, Emanuele had always insisted that he didn’t enjoy movies.

Much like his disdain for dogs, that was something else he changed his mind about.

I would often fall asleep with my head on his shoulder and Elena’s head on mine.

Even financially, I was doing OK. I had enough graphic design work with KI Group, an organic food company, to earn a decent income, and a pile of outstanding invoices that were, luckily, getting paid.

Before COVID, I was active on social media. That was when I stopped. I knew that what the world was experiencing stood in stark contrast to my own life, and announcing how happy I was simply didn’t feel right.

It wasn’t long before we began hearing about people around us dying.

The first was our neighbor’s nanny. Then came friends of friends and relatives of friends.

Meanwhile, my mother was stuck in Michigan, unable to fly home and regretting her famous last words: “I’m never coming back!”

My father, considering that he was on lockdown alone with three dogs, was also doing remarkably well, especially enjoying the peace and quiet at first. He spent his days riding his new tractor around the yard, cooking for himself, gardening, and reading books. But around halfway through, he was really starting to miss my mom and looking forward to seeing me.

As the puppies approached their first month, their personality had already become apparent.

Carlino, the runt of the litter, was still 1/3 the size of Shamú. Had nature had her way, he wouldn’t have made it.

His paws were always freezing cold, so I carried him around in my bra all day to keep him warm, and I made sure that Maggie gave him dedicated titty time because he simply didn’t have the strength to push his way through to the nipple with his siblings pushing him aside.

During the second month, while on one of our walks, we ended up on the edge of someone’s property. Off into the distance, we saw a large, long-bearded man wearing tattered clothes walking towards us. As he got close enough to see our faces, he yelled out, “Zangi?” A nickname his buddies gave Emanuele when he started high school. In fact, it was one of his high school buddies, Michele, living just on the other side of our hill - on a communal farm.

The two friends wanted to hug as old-time buddies do after reuniting. But they awkwardly kept a “safe distance.”

Michele’s kids and wife came out of the house and socialized with us for a while, maintaining that “safe distance.” After an hour, we invited his friend to come by our place next time. They agreed and said they’d be by in two days’ time.

Inviting them over was, of course, completely illegal. In our minds, staying outside in the garden and keeping our distance made it slightly less illegal. It did not.

Emanuele and I returned home hand in hand.

Lockdown Hell

Two days later, I woke up as happy as can be. The babies had left me 32 piles of poo to clean up that morning. I know because I counted them (out of curiosity).

Emanuele was usually at my house by lunchtime. He was always ready to share a meal. But not that day. In fact, by mid-afternoon, there was still no sign of him. I began to wonder if he was OK.

Shortly after, I saw Michele and his family at the gate, and Emanuele going towards it to let them in.

I walked out to greet them, but Emanuele looked at me coldly, as though my presence were unwelcome.

Confused and kind of hurt, I excused myself and closed myself in my house. From the window, I saw him showing them around the property. About twenty minutes later, he knocked on my door. He was there standing with everyone, still making it apparent that things between us were not alright.

He said, “They’d like to see the dogs.”

So I took the pen out to the center of the yard and placed the puppies in it one by one. I didn’t know why, but Emanuele was making it abundantly clear that he did not want me around. So I turned around and went back into the house.

When his friends finally left, he called Elena and asked her to put the puppies back into the house.

I didn’t know what had changed. Maybe nothing had happened that morning. Maybe he had already withdrawn emotionally and was simply going through with plans we had made two days earlier. I didn’t know then, and I still don’t.

For two days, Emanuele stayed silent, locked in his house. On the third day, Elena and I baked some chocolate-chip cookies. I placed some in a bag and left it on his doorstep.

I wrote, “I hope you’re doing OK.”

He wrote me a WhatsApp message minutes later: “Thank you.”

On the 4th day, I walked out to my car to get something in it. Emanuele, seated on his balcony in a yoga position looking down, says, “Can we talk?”
Me: “Sure, when?”
Emanuele: “Right now.”

So I walk up the stairs to his balcony. He sat there in a meditative pose with his eyes closed, legs folded, and hands resting on his knees, basking in the sunlight.

So I sat down on the cushion lying on the ground, and simply waited for him to acknowledge me.

After about five minutes of total silence, he finally opened his eyes. “OK… how are you?”
Me: “I’m fine. How are you?”

There was a heaviness in his tone, and I was just standing there waiting to hear what was stirring in his head.

He took me by the hand and walked me into his house and invited me to sit on his couch.
“I have to tell you something. I know you’ve noticed I’ve been very quiet. The reason is I wanted to process some of my emotions.
Haven’t you noticed we haven’t slept in the same bed since COVID started?”
Me: “Yes, I hinted at it a few times, but I didn’t want to pressure you.”
Emanuele: “Don’t you want to know why?”
Me: “Of course I do.”
Emanuele: “I was afraid that you would expect us, expect me to do something.”
Me: “What are you talking about? Afraid of what?”
Emanuele: “I don’t know how to put it to you, I don’t feel physically stimulated by you.”

I think I heard something crack inside my brain. It was as though there had been a glitch and my mind was scrambling to process what he had just said.

“Emanuele, I thought you were stressed because you had just quit your job. Or nervous about the lockdown. What are you talking about? This has never happened to me before.”

“Guess what? This has never happened to me with a woman before either. I’ve always wanted them. Everyone except you,” he said bluntly.

My vision went blurry, and I could hear some words coming through as though they were in the distance: “You’re like a hurricane. You have too many projects going on at once. You leave boxes with stuff to be put away for weeks before you finally get to it.”

He went on with a series of strange, disconnected observations about how I managed my household.

I curled into a ball and cried out. When I tried to stand, my legs wouldn’t hold me, so I crawled toward the door.

“Calm down,” Emanuele said. “Shhh… This is no one’s fault.” Those words did not comfort me at all. I was being told that I was clearly the problem, but that it was no one’s fault.

Eventually, I managed to pull myself off the cold tile floor and make my way home.

Elena took one look at my tear-streaked face and said, “Mom, what’s wrong?”

Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “He doesn’t want me.”
Elena: “What?! What do you mean?
Me: “He just told me he doesn’t want me.”
Elena: “WTF!? Mom, I’m sorry.”

We had become so close that sometimes she had to absorb pain I should have protected her from.

That was the second time Emanuele shattered my heart.

In 2019, if I’d set foot in the United States, there’s a good chance I would have been handcuffed at the airport.

That January, I learned more about international law than I had ever wanted to know.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it) that particular story can wait.

By May, Elena and I had finally settled back into life when I received a WhatsApp voice message from Emanuele, a guy I had met only a couple of times.

A few months earlier, I had ended a three-year relationship with Paolo, a digital advertising nerd from Genoa, twelve years older than me and known by his friends as “Pablito”—a nickname he had picked up during the years he lived in Ibiza, supporting himself as an electronica DJ.

The relationship had become, to put it nicely, unfun. Especially for Elena.

Paolo complained chronically, and one of his favorite topics was the fact that Elena lived with me 365 days a year. Oddly enough, he had known this before deciding to move from Genoa into our house the year before.

By the time Emanuele’s message arrived, I was exhausted. Somewhere along the way, I had started equating romance with drama, and I wasn’t looking for any more of it.

Emanuele and I had first met at a little bar near my house. We drank red wine, ordered fried sardines, and talked about our shared passion for food. I remember thinking, Nice guy. He could become a good friend, which is exactly why I didn’t listen to his message.

Having spent a year working in dentistry, I immediately noticed the gap between his front teeth. It struck me as goofy. He wasn’t short, but he wasn’t tall either, and “tall” happened to be on my list of demands back then. Then there was his voice. It was soft, much softer than what twenty-something years of bad dating had convinced me I found attractive.

The moment I pressed play, those two little blue checkmarks would betray me. He would know I had heard it, and I didn’t want to encourage the idea that I was interested in anything beyond a friendship. Emanuele had already made it fairly obvious that he hoped for something more.

So I left the message unopened, but by the evening, curiosity had gotten the better of me.

He explained that someone from a television production company had contacted him. They were looking for contestants for an Italian reality show about entertaining guests called Cortesie per gli Ospiti (Courtesies for Guests).

Imagine Come Dine with Me if it took itself much more seriously. Instead of contestants judging one another, three experts—a chef, an interior designer, and an etiquette specialist—come into your home, inspect everything from your table setting to your cooking, and score your evening.

Apparently, someone from the staff had stumbled across Emanuele’s Instagram profile, where nearly every photograph featured food, which made perfect sense.

Emanuele had just left the advertising agency where he’d spent nearly twenty years as a creative director. He was also finishing his sommelier certification, and if there was one thing that consistently pulled him away from the pressures of work, it was food and wine. His social media wasn’t really about him. It was a gallery of dishes, restaurants, bottles, and culinary masterpieces that had caught his attention.

Alone, Emanuele didn’t have all the right elements to be eligible to participate. He needed a nice home and someone who could cook and be his partner.

After finally listening to the recording, I thought, “crap.” Back then, it was exactly the kind of opportunity I couldn’t resist.

Whom am I kidding? I still couldn’t.

So I called him to get the whole story.

I had spent my career juggling a variety of job titles. During that May, I had about six, and my daughter was in high school. And of course, my natural conclusion was, “Sure, why not?” Never mind the fact that I had already decided that I wasn’t going to get involved with him.

The first thing we needed to do was film a small audition. Before he showed up at my house, I had prepared a whole speech in my head about how we “could do this thing,” but only as friends.

The opportunity to perform that speech never came. Contrary to my initial assumptions, Emanuele treated me like a respected colleague during the several interactions we had over three days as we prepared the audition recording.

Since he was no longer formally employed, that meant he no longer had a company car either. During that transitional phase in his life, his only means of transportation was a helmet and an electric scooter he had bought on sale a couple of months prior.

The very first time he visited me at my house, I picked him up at the bottom of the hill with my light-blue, banged-up 2003 Toyota Yaris. The car’s interior condition was slightly worse than the exterior after moving an entire house and countless trips to IKEA.

My home was in a villa just 3 minutes up the hill overlooking the countryside.

As we parked the car, his jaw dropped. Just minutes away from the city center, that view was misleading. It looked more like a vacation destination than a place where five different families resided full-time.

When we got into the house, we plopped down on my white leather couch in my living room and got straight to work. With his notebook and pen on his lap, he started talking about where we could film and what equipment he had available for the audition. And then, he asked me what I thought, seemed to listen enthusiastically, and scribbled down notes and doodled. Doodling has been his thing for as long as I’ve known him.

He paid attention to my ideas and treated them as valuable contributions. I wasn’t used to them being received that way.

Brainstorming has always been one of my favorite things in the world. Give me an idea and I’ll instinctively take it from point A to another planet; especially if someone is willing to come along for the ride.

Working with Emanuele was like crack cocaine for my ADHD. Throw a little emotional ambiguity into the mix and I was cooked.

During the three days we spent preparing our audition video, he stayed exactly where he was. Not once did he hint at wanting anything more. Before I knew it, the script had flipped. I was the one who’d become smitten, while he appeared completely oblivious (or at least that’s what he let me believe).

In early June, we got news that we’d officially been selected, and that one of the guests was a vegan. Three weeks later, filming began in my kitchen.

The week leading up to the first day of filming was nothing short of intense. For starters, I hadn’t even watched an episode yet, so I first had to figure out what the show was actually about.

A wall needed painting, furniture had to be rearranged, six chairs borrowed (and somehow crammed into my battered little two-door Yaris in a single trip) from a friend who lived forty minutes away, flowers collected, and somewhere in the middle of it all I decided that preparing two entirely different menus (so I could also feed the vegan) was perfectly reasonable.

Looking back, what surprises me isn’t how much there was to do. It’s that it never even occurred to me to ask for more help. I was a single mother. Making impossible things happen had quietly become my default setting.

I was a single mom, slumming in an Italian countryside villa with my daughter, for God’s sake!

Years later, what I remember most isn’t the menus or the flower arrangements. It’s flying through the hills in my hopeful, little Yaris as though it had somehow qualified for Formula One. Looking back, it’s no wonder that only a year later the engine finally gave up and I had to have it hauled off to the junkyard.

When the camera crew showed up at 10:06 am, I was feeling rather awkward and stiff. As the cameras began to roll, Emanuele said, “Don’t worry. You’re going to do great.”

He was the calm and secure presence that I needed in that moment. He was a natural performer, and he somehow brought me back to myself.

I had been living alone in Italy with Elena since she was nine. By then, reinvention had become part of my job description. Every month seemed to require a new skill, another side hustle, another way to make ends meet.

A normal Tuesday might begin with designing a website, continue with translating documents, and end with teaching English. The next day I might be creating dance costumes, catering an event, designing a logo, or helping a singer rewrite song lyrics. Whatever paid the bills became part of the week’s itinerary.

The work was unpredictable. The income even more so.

Let’s just say that by the time we were filming the show, I had trained my mind to see uncertainty as part of the cost of our freedom.

“Don’t worry. You’re going to do great.”

It was the five-minute break I didn’t know I’d been waiting for. For that brief moment in time, it felt like someone had my back when no one else did (or could).

In the weeks since that voice message Emanuele had sent me back in May, he showed me how sensitive, interesting, hilarious, and refreshingly normal he was around Elena.

After having been with several men who struggled to accept me as a package deal, normal was a novelty.

Emanuele didn’t ignore Elena. He didn’t try to become her buddy overnight, and he certainly didn’t try to win her over. He simply spoke to her with the same curiosity and respect he showed everyone else.

She was no longer a little girl. She was on the cusp of legal adulthood, full of opinions, and more than capable of contributing to our brainstorming. While she doesn’t appear in the episode, she was there through every step of it.

We had become three peas in a pod, so by the first day of filming, we were there as a team.

As the filming went on, I was no longer conscious about talking into a camera. Before long, I was immersed in making pulled-pork ravioli (and the rest of my Italian-American fusion menu that the casting directors had been so excited about).

By the time the crew shouted “Cut! It’s time for lunch!” I had completely fallen into reality TV.

We packed up and headed down the hill to Birilli. After showing up for the fourth consecutive day, Emanuele and I had already become regulars at the local restaurant.
As we headed towards our chairs, Emanuele spotted an old acquaintance sitting across the room. As soon as he was out of earshot, one of the camera guys sitting next

me leaned over and said, “You should always stay close to him. He’s great support, and you look like you belong together.”

That was the first time I realized that people were seeing us as an item, and while the temptation grew, my logical mind worked hard to override my emotions.

But since when does my logic ever win over my emotions? At best, it’s been remarkably good at writing persuasive explanations for decisions my emotions had already made.

So there I was, sitting at Birilli on a beautiful, sunny day at 1 pm, with a TV camera crew refusing to mind their own business and essentially giving me advice on how to handle my love life.

Except Emanuele had just announced very clearly on national TV that, “We are just friends.” Maybe the cameraman knew something I didn’t. He neglected to mention how the story ended.

The Egg-Eating Vegan

The second day of filming came during the last week of July. We drove over half an hour to our competition’s house.

A beautiful, fluffy long-haired Australian shepherd came to greet us and we were ushered onto the property by the production team.

It would be the first time we’d be meeting the three judges and the opposing team - two nurses in their mid-50s. Their theme was “Vintage Flowers.” They kept calling it “Wintage.” Like many Italians, they were convinced the English V is pronounced like a W (or vice versa). It’s the sort of thing I usually can’t resist correcting, but that day I had much bigger fish to fry.

As soon as our eyes met the “Wintage” ladyies’, we smiled, and we whispered “good luck” to each other. Until then, I was worried that someone would be provoked into making snarky comments, as it often occurs on reality TV. On the contrary. When the cameras weren’t rolling, we told each other about our lives and laughed and acknowledged the experience thus far. They were indeed two very nice women. I found myself really wanting them to succeed.

I wasn’t even entirely annoyed when the vegan pronounced that she had made egg tagliolini. When I looked at her wide-eyed and baffled, she said, “Well, we used happy eggs. They are eggs from my friend’s farm.”

I thought, “Great. I wish they had told me about happy eggs before going through the trouble of making sure everything I was going to make her was 100% animal-free.”

Filming that night went on for hours. The waiting in between takes seemed endless. Our final take for the day was around midnight. I was so tired, I could barely keep my eyes open. But we had to keep going and it was no time to slow down. The next day, it was our turn to entertain everyone at my house.

The “Wintage” ladies must have noticed me and Emanuele spending a lot of time joking a and gazing into each other’s eyes because months later, when the episode finally aired, I heard one of them say during her private interview, “Those two aren’t really saying how things really are.”

I remember laughing. It was funny how everyone had something to say about me and Emanuele. Looking back, I must have looked like I was living in La La Land, even though I was trying very hard to keep my feet on the ground.

Another thing that cracked me up was when the ladies were asked who they thought was going to cook at my house, they replied, “Emanuele” because, as they put it, “Oh, come on, what is the American going to cook? They aren’t exactly known for their culinary capabilities.”

I woke up in morning of our big day with my annoying alarm clock blaring at 7 am, and I swear that Yakety Sax (The Benny Hill Show Theme) was playing in the background the minute I opened my eyes.

We were juggling marinating and chopping, painting a wall, and cleaning up our very questionable mess.

Everything had to be ready by 4 pm because when the camera crew showed up, the first thing they were going to film was me setting the table and getting ready.

With all of the endless things to do, the one thing that brought me peace of mind was the ironed tablecloth. It was there waiting and ready to go. Assunta, our eighty-four-year-old family friend, was like a grandmother to me. She had been my custodian at the castle I lived in as a child. Thirty-one years later, still close to us, Assunta took it upon herself to iron the tablecloth days before filming.

As the cameras rolled, I set the table and finished it off with the beautiful bouquet of light bluish-purple Hydrangeas I had picked up from the florist at the bottom of our hill that very morning.

Shortly thereafter, the judges and our Vintage guests arrived. Everything seemed to be going ok. Except….

Seconds before Saba, the etiquette judge walked into the dining area, one of the camera crew caught my attention by whispering and pointing at the table, “PSTT! Emilia!

Oh my God! With all of the commotion I hadn’t noticed the faded, but evident oil stains going down part of the table. Obviously, Assunta’s eyesight wasn’t what it used to be!

I slightly panicked, but I’d already spent years making impossible things happen. After a while, disaster stops feeling like an emergency and starts feeling like a puzzle.

Instinctively, without hesitation, my hand reached for a few flowers from the vase. I laid them across the tablecloth, which managed to cover the stains seeming as though they were there by design.

The camera woman that brought it to my attention looked at me and said, “Genius.”

It was later during the airing that I heard Saba’s repeated critique during her private interview, “Yes, nice but those flowers should have all stayed in the vase.”

I couldn’t help but think, “Well, you think that’s bad. I wonder what she would have said if she had known what was under those ‘messy’ flowers.”

It’s funny how it all works behind the scenes of reality TV. You make one joke or say something that the producers like, and then you’re stuck repeating the same thing over and over again while the camera crew shoots the same scene from different angles.

“Now hold the glass like that, pick it up, and say what you just said. Do it again. Ok, again. Now, again.”

By the third day, I was looking forward to it all being over.

At one point, while we were all waiting around for the next set of instructions, I asked Diego, the architectural judge, what it was like to travel around the country doing what they did every day. He looked at me and simply said, “It’s like Groundhog Day.”

I still think about what he said from time to time. Such a stark contrast to how I go through life, never even eating the same breakfast two days in a row.

During Diego’s private interview, he said that my house didn’t really reflect my personality and that the architecture of the building was too modern for that type of countryside setting. There I thought, “Well, hello. Renting. Single mom.”

Anyway, cooking and entertaining under normal conditions is very different from doing it with a camera crew shouting, “Freeze! Do that again! Wait...” Then you wait for ten minutes, frozen with a mixed drink in your hand while the summer heat melts the ice.

“Ok, go ahead and start boiling your pasta.” (Five minutes goes by) “Ok, now take it out!”

Me: “Wait, it’s not ready!”

Camera crew: “We can’t wait any longer, you have to move with the plates.”

Me: “Oh crap… Ok, hopefully it’ll be ok.”

Fresh homemade pasta has no exact cooking time. It’s homemade, the thickness will never be identical from one time to the next. It’s just done when it’s done.

At the same time, I was trying to finish the vegan’s spaghetti and meatballs. Everything had to go out together, so all I could do was cross my fingers and hope the pasta was ready.

As I settled into my seat, with everyone finally served, I took one bite of my ravioli and...

U.N.D.E.R.C.O.O.K.E.D.

There are very few things in life I do with absolute consistency. Pasta is one of them. I don’t overcook it, and I certainly don’t undercook it. So why—out of the hundreds of times I’d made fresh pasta—did it have to happen with three judges and a television crew watching?

And guess what, chef Roberto noticed too.

Then came my The Good, the Bad and the Ugly sliders—three miniature burgers inspired by the film: smoked white meat, hazelnut steak tartare, and spicy grilled beef.

Just as I was placing them on their buns, Emanuele stopped me.

“Everyone’s going to get full,” he said.

“They’re sliders,” I protested. “They need buns.”

Emanuele: “We’ll call them bunless sliders.”

Before I could argue any further, the production team cut in. “Time. They have to go out now.”

So out I walked carrying three decidedly bunless sliders. By the time we’d made a second trip out with the wine and the vegan’s spaghetti and meatballs, Chef Roberto had already spotted the problem.

“I never thought I’d say this,” he said, “but I’m kind of jealous of the vegan burger. Where are our buns?”

I knew it.

Somewhere between the bunless sliders and our Turin Vermouth and chocolate cheesecake, the judges took it upon themselves to nudge our “love story” along with comments like, “Great love happens when your hands are covered in dough.”

By the time the meal was finally over, I still really didn’t know who had won. So when we opened the box revealing the winners, I was genuinely surprised on the first take. I really had to fake the excitement by the 12th.

Reality After Reality

The first few days after filming had ended, I was on a victory high. Although the winning part was cool, it was just more about having gotten through all of the challenges without falling apart. It was nothing short of a big bonding experience between me, Emanuele, and Elena.

Emanuele and I spent the next couple of days texting each other pictures, reminiscing about the best moments, and making jokes.

Days earlier, my British neighbor Clair announced that she was going to be moving in with her boyfriend. That meant that her tiny independent home next to the parking area would be free. Upon hearing the news, I noticed Emanuele’s ears perk up.

In fact, only 3 days after the show had ended, he came to me and said, “What would you say if I became your neighbor? I could take over Claire’s house.”

I immediately felt awkward. My head said, “Not a good idea.”

Instead, my mouth said, “Sure! That’d be fun.”

My stomach tied into a knot. Deep down, I knew it was too fast too soon. I was still trying to figure out what I was feeling and what I wanted. But that part of me just didn’t have the guts to put up the boundary my logic was screaming for me to put up.

When I managed to successfully shut up the talking cricket, I thought, “Yeah, like he’s really going to follow though. There’s nothing to worry about.”

That last sentence still lingers in my mind.

Nothing to worry about.

Two weeks later, Emanuele showed up with his new used 2002 cosmetically challenged Renault Kangoo that he bought for 3,500 euros from a hunter, a signed rental contract, boxes of personal belongings, and cleaning supplies.

This was really happening, and there was no going back.

The next day, his sister came by in the late afternoon with her husband to check out Emanuele’s new place and to take him out to dinner at, of course, Birilli.

When they arrived, Emanuele called me over to introduce me to them. After some chit-chatting, they invited me to join them for dinner.

It was one of those evenings that felt effortlessly easy. We talked about childhood, what Emanuele was like growing up, and what his sister was like. Almost a little too easy, in fact.

When our dinner came to an end, Emanuele and I drove back home together. We sat in comfortable silence on the way up the hill. It was that familiar feeling of already behaving like a couple before anyone had actually said we were one.

When we parked the car, we walked up the stairs to his balcony and sat at the little shabby table left behind by Claire. Our conversation was candlelit with full glasses of wine.

At about 1:30 a.m., about an hour into our intimate conversation, Emanuele looks at me and says, “I had a Peruvian girlfriend for 6 months. We met through a dating app called ‘Threesome’”.

For the next forty minutes, I may as well not have been there.

He described in great detail her beauty, her hair, their passionate hotel rendezvous.

He looked completely lost.

I sat there listening to a love story I hadn’t realized I was competing with.

“I had never experienced anything like it. She was the sexiest woman I had ever met…”
As he continued to talk, my heart sank further, and my adrenaline started to take off at neck-breaking speed.

When he finally realized that he was on planet earth and that I was sitting right in front of him, he finally concluded, “And that’s why I’m having a hard time committing to anyone.”

I looked at him, and said, “Commit to anyone? Who is anyone? Emanuele, have you been sleeping with people since we started to film the show?”

He replied in a matter of fact tone, “Yes. I just slept with Chiara last week.”

“Who is Chiara? And… what!?”

I felt so incredibly stupid and duped. I knew we didn’t have a verbal agreement about what we were doing. My head raged with the thought, “This is my bad.”

It was now August, and we’d known each other for a total of two months. This was the first time I had been given any of this information. Not a hint, not a reason to think he had anything else going on. He was so present the entire time. I was so confused.

I just sat there in shock, blaming myself.

“I have no right to feel terrible about him seeing other women. I have no right to expect him to want more.” Those thoughts just spiraled and attacked me over and over.

My heart still racing, I went to bed, but the attempt to relax was futile. I tossed and turned, and turned and tossed. I was hot, then cold, then feeling like a cheese grater was being used to rip up the inner lining of my stomach. I felt like I was going insane.

At 5:30 am, I gave up and got out of bed as the sun was rising. I put on my running shoes, and walked 40 minutes down to the bottom of the hill. Maggie, my neighbor’s dog followed me. I knew she could sense something wasn’t right.

I found a park bench and I laid on it, exhausted, wide awake, sad, angry, and completely raw. The street was dead silent. I wished there had been more going on around me; anything to distract me from the torture inside my own head.

The adrenaline, still pumping fiercely from hours before, fueled my walk home. At about 7:30 am, I took out a piece of paper and a pen and began to write,

Dear Emanuele,

In light of what you shared with me, I’d rather we stayed away from each other. I’ve blocked you on social media. This is not out of maliciousness, or because I’m mad. I’m just feeling really awful and I need the mental and physical space. I need to see and be exposed to you as least as possible. It may be a long time before we speak again. Please respect my wishes.

Emilia

I put some of the odds and ends he had left at my house over the last few weeks, including the notebook he’d doodled in, into a bag along with the note.

I simply placed the bag outside his front door, and walked away without looking back.

And that was the first time Emanuele shattered my heart.

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. Papá (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-….”

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.

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