That’s Amore! An Unforgettable Wife, Memorable Meals and My “Italian Thing.”
How’d, did it all start I often wonder – this “Italian Thing?”
I guess I could start from the beginning. However, I think I’ll start with how I met My Wife Laura, who is an Italian American, and my Best and only friend.
In 1995 I had moved back to California, after living on the East Coast for some time.
Upon return, I decided to attend a Chiropractic College only to graduate with no job and an uncertain future. Eventually, I was able to get hired as a “Massage Therapist” at a trendy hotel in the Wine Country.
The Massage Therapy job seemed ok for a while, however, I was always struggling financially. The work was seasonal and when there was “Work” I was doing ok. But, then there were the dry months – and after awhile, I got tired of being broke during the winter months. So, I quit and got a gig at a wholesale wine outlet and it was there that I met my wife.
Now oddly enough I had visited a psychic who was doing readings in the town of Windsor. I heard she was really good. So I went and got a reading. This woman, who I’ll call “Nancy, ” told me a bunch of events that were coming up for me. One of the standouts was I would soon be in a relationship with a woman who had dogs and a fondness for animals. Also, the name “Rose” would be significant. Well, woo woo stuff aside, I just chalked it up to “another interesting Life Experience” and carried on with my loco vida.
Time passed and no “woman with dogs” magically appeared so I kind of forgot about it.
Then one day, as I was making way through the office labyrinth, I saw hanging in this cubicle a picture of James Dean.
Since I had gone to acting school in New York I was very familiar with this actor and was surprised to see his picture in an office cubby.
A woman had her back to me was working on her computer. “Hey, are you a James Dean Fan? ” I asked.
She turned around, and I found myself staring into a pair of beautiful hazel eyes that had a mischievous twinkle in them.
Her name was Laura, and she came from an Italian American family who had their roots in Sicily.
She had a delicate bone structure and a great figure with thick brown hair crowning her head. I would have pegged her family roots from Northern Italy if I had made a guess. But no, her parents were from New York and their parents had migrated from Sicily.
“Yes, I am,” she said and we kind of hit off talking about Dean’s movies, a little bit about her family coming from New York and how I had lived in Brooklyn, etc. Heck, I was impressed. I didn’t meet too many women my age with James Dean pictures hanging on their walls.
Anyway, I liked her right away. And it wasn’t long before I asked to out for a cup of Joe at the nearby Starbucks.
Laura had this great sense of humor and she made me belly laugh quite a few times about the antics of her dog “Pelushi.” She was incredibly proud of her daughter who was on the honors list at school and she was proud of her family. But I was to learn more details of her personal life later on as I got to know her.
She was so much fun to be around that I began to ask her to go with me to get coffee whenever I had a break at work. And it wasn’t long before we started dating.
At some point, I got to meet her family at her parent’s house during a celebration for one of the kids. Really nice Folks. Her Dad had a firm handshake and her Mom was a lovely welcoming hostess who made me feel right at home.
It wasn’t long after meeting her family that I decided to ask Laura to marry me. She accepted my proposal and we were married in July 2008.
Laura and I have been together for over 11 years. And though there have been some typical ups and downs we continue to love one another and work our differences out.
From her, I have learned about Loyalty, Love, Family and Italian Food. Valuable lessons, for a guy like me, because without her – I don’t know how my life would have turned out.
Oh, and did I mention Laura’s middle name is “Rose?”
Now about this “Italian thing” – I don’t really have an answer other than my journey through life seemed to be destined to be attracted to all things “Italiano.” And over the years I have managed to have a lot friends who were all Italian.
Funny, I just got back my DNA results and I have absolutely no Mediterranean connection whatsoever. I am 68 % British, 22% Celtic – Irish/Scottish and a smattering of Norway, German and European Jewish ancestry. So no Latin roots. So it ain’t in my DNA. Weird!
I was kind of thinking there might be a little Latin blood in there but, nope. I am pretty much a Brit in my genetic makeup.
Which would make sense since my Mom was an immigrant from England back in 1952.
Ok DNA aside.
I have always thought that maybe my attraction to things Italian was because of their food, culture, and women. Hey, I watched all three parts of the Godfather, consumed all the episodes of the Sopranos, and eat pasta on a regular basis. Oh, let us not forget cannoli’s – I love those. There is something about that sweet ricotta filling with the crunchy pastry shell that just gets me where I live.
And speaking of Italian Food…
There’s this little Italian restaurant by our house where the whole family works there. The wife is the chef, the husband works the bar and the front of the house, their sons work as waiters. The place is loud Man, the place is always packed. The walls are decorated with family photos and memorabilia. The food is delicious. They start you off with a serving of homemade focaccia bread and tapenade, a glass of wine and your off! Dishes range from eggplant parmigiana to my personal favorite Linguini Pescatore which is a pasta dish loaded with fish, clams, mussels, and a spicy red marinara. Truly a dish of the Gods in my opinion. Music is played in the background but is usually drowned out by the chatter and noisy eating of fellow patrons.
As far as Italian women are concerned – they are a beautiful group of ladies. I mean – C’mon is there any woman more beautiful than Sophia Loren? Forgeddaboutit! Well, maybe my Wife – who I’d rank as Numero Uno in my book.
Let me not forget Italian cars, and clothes. Just beautiful. Ferrari cars and tailored Armani suits are works of art
And then there is the whole “La Familia” aspect too. Italians are passionate about their families – well that’s kind of the impression I have gotten over the years. I don’t think Italians love their families any more than any other ethnic group – but, that’s how the Italian stereotype seems to be portrayed, at least by the media. And from my experience – stereotypes aside – Italians are a very close group of folks. They seem to be more accepting of their member’s idiosyncrasies than other members of society. Yeah, Uncle So and So maybe a jerk but he is still part of The Family. Case Closed.
My wife, (who makes one of the best Marinara sauces I have ever tasted!), has a whole bunch of cousins and uncles. And thanks to social media, she’s in touch with All of Them! This often confuses me when she starts to tell me about the latest news of what one of her relatives is doing, leaving me just scratching my head, trying to figure out her Byzantine family tree.
If you have read any of my stories, you can tell that my little Family was as dysfunctional as one could get. Throw in a little British repression and voila! You had a recipe for an unhappy upbringing and a pretty miserable childhood.
I have no Family to speak of. My Mom and Dad passed away a long time ago. My younger brother and I are incommunicado, a half brother – who’s half a something – I’d rather not say. I have two distant cousins still living in England – at least I think they are still living – who I don’t communicate with, and that’s it! No uncles, cousins, aunts, nieces, nephews, nothin’.
So yeah, I am kind of envious of my wife’s large family.
So that’s probably been the attraction. The Family and the support system it offers. When I lived in Brooklyn, New York – entire families – including aunts, uncles, grandparents, nephews, nieces, etc. lived within blocks – walking distances – with each other. Which I thought was rather Clannish but Cool at the same time.
While living in Brooklyn and working in Manhattan I used to love going to these little Italian cafes, sitting outside munching on crunchy, teeth breaking, homemade biscotti and drinking “Real Coffee” not the crap that came in blue and white cups with the “We Are Happy to Serve You” logo and called “regular” – two heaping tablespoons of sugar, milk to obscure the taste of dreck that was called “cawffee.”
Ok. Let me start from the very beginning as I have been kind of jumping back in forth in time and how I got involved in my journey Italiano. So bear with me and I’ll try to be more linear in my narrative from now on.
I guess it all really started in College. I went to a State College up in Northern California and it was there that I made friends with my Buddy – “Vince.”
We used to hang out, drink beer, talk about chicks and classes we were taking.
Vince was a cool dude. He wore plaid lumberjack shirts and blue jeans. He was studying chemistry. He eschewed the Greek Social system I was a part of. But we got along just great.
He even took me out hunting once – but, all I remember was taking potshots at birds – missing most of my targets even though I was using a shotgun, which is kind of hard to do considering.
His Family was great. His Dad grilled up some venison a few times and Man, was it good!
One time, Vince took me to visit his grandmother who he called “Nonni.” He explained to me that “Nonno” his grandfather had passed away years before. I thought the name Nonno was a funny name but I kept that to myself.
Noni was pushing 70 something, dressed in black and when we came over, she cooked a big pasta meal for us. It was a simple dish of spaghetti, olive oil, and parmesan cheese, served with a lot of white bread – really tasty though despite its simplicity.
When I moved back East to check out Massachusetts, we lost touch for many years. But I still have fond memories of getting to know him and his family.
In Massachusetts, I started to take some classes at a local State College and it is there I met another guy named Mark (pronounced “Mahk” out there) but I called him Mario. We became friends and we had some good times together. After the semester finished Mario talked me into living on Cape Cod for the Summer. Which was kind of fun even though I didn’t have a car.
Mario was a hardcore New England kind of Italiano. And when I say hardcore he was very proud of his Italian heritage, plus he had a natural disdain for everything that wasn’t Italian.
Case in point – If he had written for Saturday Night – he would have probably coined the phrase “If It’s Not Italian – it’s CRAP!!!” But the ‘If it’s not Scottish” line is funnier and works better as far as gags go.
Living with Mario was a crash course education in Italian American culture. His Dad was a construction shop owner or contractor, who walked around in a white t-shirt and dungarees about his house, he’d yell at us about wasting electricity, snapping off lights, and sticking his head out his window to give us an earful.
Mario had an Italian girlfriend and could understand the language pretty well. At the vacation rental we were living in – we’d eat a lot of pasta because it was cheap to make – this is before Top Ramen became popular for starving students.
One time, we went got all the ingredients to make lasagna. Since we didn’t have a lot of money, each ingredient was carefully prepared. Noodles boiled gently, ricotta cheese judiciously spread, ground Italian sausage carefully added, tomato sauce liberally poured, another layer of noodles, cheese, sausage and sauce, and so on. Then baked in a gas oven.
That gas oven was a pain in the ass to use. I remember one day I tried to bake something in that stupid contraption. Now, I had been used to using electric ranges for most of my life in California – so this damned oven seemed just downright archaic.
I couldn’t get it to light, Mario wasn’t around to help, so I lit a wooden match and stuck my head inside the thing. A huge wall of blue flame engulfed my head with a loud “Wooooofff!” leaving me basically unharmed but missing most of my eyebrows, eyelashes, and other facial hair. So I looked downright goofy until eyebrows grew back.
Anyway, the lasagna turned out to be just incredible. We each ate several large pieces out of the casserole dish and still had plenty left over to last us several more days. And I have to say I have never had a better lasagna ever – and believe me I have tried quite a few at different restaurants and homes of friends.
I left Cape Cod and served 4 years in the United States Marine Corps. Before I was set to be discharged I applied to a prestigious Acting School in Manhattan. I was accepted and began a real arduous process of learning the Craft.
Since I was basically on my own with no family support, I had to work in restaurants to cover tuition, rent, and meals. Food was not a problem as most restaurants fed you and you could pretty well eat cheap at delis and pizzerias.
While the food wasn’t a problem – keeping a job was. Unfortunately, The Marine Corps did not prepare a guy like me to wait on tables – so was fired from some of the most famous and infamous dining establishments the Big Apple had to offer.
Eventually, I figured out which side of the plate to put the damn knife and fork on, how to take an order, and how to carry plates of food to my customer’s tables. So I ended working at this Tex-Mex restaurant down on lower Broadway. Mexican food was really becoming popular in the early 1980s so the tips were really good.
It was during this time, I struck up two friendships with two Fellas from Acting School.
There was Arne, who was my roommate when I was lived in the City for a couple of years before moving to Brooklyn – another Paesano – and a heck of a nice guy.
And then there was Joey.
Joey was from Brooklyn and he was half Italian, the other half was Irish. But he might as well been full Italian from the way he acted. Joey was a very talented actor, but sadly he didn’t stick with it – which is a shame because in time he would have been really good.
Joey and I would drive around Brooklyn in his little sports car and check out cool places to eat. I think one time we ended up in Sheepshead Bay, and I had a fried calamari sandwich drenched in spicy marinara that was freakin’ unreal it was so good.
Another time Joey took me to this little club somewhere in Brooklyn we wanted to check out. Immediately, we were thrown out by the Maitre D, because we were wearing “tennis shoes. ” I had only a moment to glance around. At each table looked like the cast of Martin Scorsese’s “Goodfellas.” There were these guys in suits and lots of broads in furs, jewelry and gowns.
“Holy Shit Chahlee! That’s a Mob Club we just walked into!” said Joey excitedly. As we headed back to Joey’s car, two huge Goons came lumbering out wearing sporty clothes and a lot of gold chains. They climbed into separate Cadillacs and one of them said to the other “Hey Tony, I’ll meetcha layda out behind the Funeral Parlah!”
I told Joey to get me the hell out of there fast and we raced liked demons back into the City. An experiment never to be repeated we vowed.
I continued to live in Brooklyn till 1986 and moved back to California and settled in chilly San Francisco, then relocated to Oakland.
From Oakland I moved back to Brooklyn New York in 1994 thinking I’d give it a go again but after 10 months I called it quits. And so it was – “Go West Young Man” all over again.
Fortunately, I opted to move to the Wine Country and I have been here ever since.
Call it Fate Destiny but moving to Wine Country in 1995 has been totally Awesome when it comes to being a foodie especially Italian Food.
I got a Sweetheart of a Wife, incredible food to eat, wonderful wine to drink and a lot of stories to tell.
This is just one of many.
And for me – “That’s Amore!”
Finis
About This Story
This Story is Dedicated to my Wife Laura “Rose” who is the most Sweetest, and Beautiful Woman I have ever known. This Story is my Love Letter to you Honey. I hope you enjoy it? Te Amo.
