My family has trouble following directions. I’m not entirely sure if it’s a my family thing, or an Italian thing. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Like their total disregard for warning signs. Is it a countrywide epidemic? Or is it just that my family is nuts?
I suppose I should have warned Rand. Honestly, though, I thought he knew. That is why I didn’t lean over and whisper, “Pace yourself. There are four more courses to go.” I mean, why else are they called primi and secondi? They are referring to courses. What they don’t really mention in Italian restaurants…
I wish I had taken more photos of the archaeologists in my aunt’s yard, but I was too busy marveling at the fact that there were archaeologists in my aunt’s yard. She was completely used to it, of course. Her village, my grandfather’s own, is ancient. I knew this. The area is full of artifacts…
Yesterday, I may have exaggerated slightly when I said that I found my aunt’s home all by myself. I was caught up in the poetry of it, of the idea that I could wander the same ancient streets that my grandparents did, and find their loved ones’ homes without needing an ounce of help. But…
“What’s the address?” Rand asked. I shrugged. “No idea.” “Is it on this street?” “I think so? The door is green.” (I feel it pertinent to note that nearly half the doors in the village happened to also be green.)
Sometimes I think I have the maturity level of an 11-year-old. Other times, I am absolutely convinced of it. We’ll be walking around someplace beautiful, and instead of taking in the amazing architecture or historical significance of the place, I’ll be doubled over, laughing hysterically because there are two stray cats getting it on in…
Do you ever have a sad experience that lets you reflect on the beauty of existing? (That was a really awful sentence. Sorry. I think I just gagged a little.) What I mean is, have you ever found yourself crying about something, and then you realized that the reason you’re upset is that you actually…
We needed a place to stay in Frigento. The home that my grandfather had bought my grandmother all those years ago didn’t have heat, so it was out of the question. We arrived just a few weeks before Easter, but even then, the house was still too chilly. I didn’t need much convincing on this…
“Is … is that a peacock?” Rand asked me as we walked through the village. “Where?” “Over there, by the church.” “I highly doubt it,” I said, squinting in the direction he was pointing. “I don’t think that-” And then I saw it. “Yup,” I said. “That’s definitely a peacock.”
Tales of Food, Feminism, and Fury
by Geraldine DeRuiter
Paperback Available March 11th
Also available in hardcover, e-book, and audiobook from these booksellers:
