Mambo Italiano

I am a firm believer that there are two types of people on this great Earth … Italians, and those who wish they were Italian. Now I am not one of those people who is abnormally proud of their heritage. I have no Italian gear … no Italian flag tattoos on my body or paraphernalia hanging in my home. However if I had no cultural affiliation and had to choose what I wanted to be, I would definitely choose Italian. And of course, true to form, it's all about the food.

Perhaps this blog is coming from a place of pure excitement … I will be attending the San Gennaro Festival (or as the real guidos call it … The AVEST) tomorrow and can hardly contain my excitement at eating my way up and down Mulberry Street. I went last year with my dad and honestly had the best time ever. We prayed at some giant statues, stopped by his friend, Baby John’s place, and spent a fortune on Italian pastries. Peeps from all over make their way to San Gennaro, however, don't get it twisted – most of these people are simply posturing, they are literally hoping that by surrounding themselves with Italians, they might somehow BECOME Italian … like through osmosis or something.

It really cracks me up that some people think because they can cook some sauce that somehow they understand, or worse, KNOW what it means to be Italian. One time my mom made gravy for some of my sister’s school friends (in South Carolina, mind you) and this girl actually had the nerve, THE NERVE, to say, 'What is this green stuff, spinach?' Ummmm … no, friend, that would be basil. Don't talk to me about being Italian and shizz until you've woken up to the smell of sauce cooking on a Sunday morning. Or until your grandma feeds you a freshly fried (yes, you heard right) meatball before it goes into the sauce.

When my Nonnie died people did their best to be very comforting, but I felt that very few people understood what I had lost … primarily, my most bestest friend and person I spent the majority of my childhood with. Out of the hundreds (or so it seemed) people that showed up at her wake, there was only one person who I felt truly had an understanding of what the deal was. This guy came up to me and said,

‘A lot of chicken cutlets must have passed through those hands over the years.’

Well yes … QUITE a few actually, and I immediately felt a little better about an overall terribly sad situation. Because here was a man, who I barely knew, that understood exactly what I was thinking (no, not that I would never eat those dar-is-ous cutlets again), but that there was a whole lot of culinary traditions that could never be recreated.

So tomorrow, when I am enjoying myself and time with friends at San Gennaro, I am going to think of my Nonnie and eat many a zeppoli for her (and I guess, in a way, be the nice Italian girl that I was always destined to be).