Sunday Lunch

Lunch on Sundays is a big deal in Italy. It is traditionally the day where the family gathers at the table to enjoy a big meal insieme- together. Kind of like Thanksgiving in America except it happens every Sunday.

There is one big rule though- don't be late.

My husband is notorious for being late for Sunday lunch. He has never been late for work one day in his life but getting him to la casa della famiglia in time for Sunday lunch is a job in itself. For some reason, he likes to lay in bed until about 11:30 (please note lunch starts promptly at noon and it takes us 10 minutes to get there- door to door).

Why should I care, you might ask? Well I am the wife of an Italian which in itself is a big responsibility. You have to make sure your husband is fed, his clothes are clean and well-ironed and that we are never late to family affairs.

He also is notorious for spending a lot of time in the bathroom. I don't ask what he is doing in there but I know that it takes at least 1/2 an hour.

And I just hate to walk through the door late. Cris just walks through the door smiling with a sing-song "Ciaaaooooo!" His mom glances up from her plate as she is eating and asks, "Perche' sei in ritardo?" But it's a question that never has the right answer. Soon voices are raised and there is a lot of yelling in Italian (not always can I understand it) and before you know it, his mom is serving the pasta. Like nothing happened.

For no matter what the issue is, eating food when it is hot is key to a good meal. And no issue is more important to Italians than a good meal. Especially on Sunday.

And Then There Was Coffee

I never thought it could be possible to be so excited about coffee. But in the land of espresso, finding caffe' Americano is like finding $10 in your pocket on laundry day - complete joy because it is completely unexpected.

So you can imagine my delight while browsing through the coffee aisle at Esselunga with Mamma G., I found American coffee- and even better- it was flavored! Because nothing with me is easy- I don't just want American coffee- it has to be FLAVORED American coffee. There is nothing better to me than a cup of hot, flavored coffee in the morning. But not flavored with those sicky, sweet syrups some coffee bars put in the coffee- the flavor has to be roasted with the bean. I know- AMERICANS! That is my husband's response on this topic.

What a process it has been so far to even have it on hand. For my birthday in March, I asked my dad to send me some. And he did but it cost $40 to ship (costs more for the shipping than the coffee) and the supply was gone in three short months. Then came the frantic call to my mom to ship me some coffee....once again, gone in a few months. I then tried stocking up while in the U.S. this summer but I didn't estimate correctly how much I would need to get me through until the next trip to America and alas, that stock was depleted by September. At which point we were in Greece and I did find American, flavored coffee but again, I didn't buy enough. You would have thought I would have learned by now to stock up on supplies like I did when I lived in Miami during hurricane season but.....no.

They say it's the little things in life that bring the most joy. Now, meno male (thank god), I have found coffee in Italy.

From Miami to Masate

It is day 4 now of no sun in Masate....nebbia actually which is the Italian word for fog. Welcome to "autunno" in Italy. I have lived here almost a year now with my wonderful husband who grew up only 3 miles down the road in Cambiago. It's amazing how Italians never move far from home. For the first 6 months we lived here, his mom mentioned at least once a day that he made a mistake buying a home in Masate and not Cambiago. To the point where eventually he had to say "Basta!" In America, if you moved 4 hours away, you were considered close.

It was around this time last year we decided it would be best I quit my job and come to Italy to live with him. We were, after all, married so it made sense but the thought of living in Italy seemed so huge to me for I had lived in the U.S. my whole life. But here I am...from Miami to Masate.

Masate is a small village about 30 minutes east of Milano. It is a typical Italian village- just enough shops to get by: two small stores to buy groceries, one pharmacy and 3 coffee bars (cafe' e' molto importante in Italia!). At first I didn't know what to do with myself- where was the big grocery store where I could buy everything? And then I discovered the beauty of buying food everyday - FRESH.

After living here for about 6 months, I finally got up the courage to go to the store here by myself. Right away they knew I wasn't Italian. The American accent is like a flashing light on your forehead. But they now call me by name and hold my favorite bread for me daily and going there has become my religion.

So I have found the beauty here in Masate...a beauty I could not find in 3 years in Miami. E' una bella vita.