A few weeks ago, I wrote about how my brother, mom, and I all got 23andMe kits for Christmas. Today, I wanted to discuss the results of what happened after I spit into a vial and mailed off. But first, I wanted to thank all of you who felt it was necessary to inform me of…
“You should try to get a photo of your dad smiling,” my friend Kurtis suggested to me before my last trip to Germany. “That’s near impossible,” I told him. And though I was well aware of this fact myself, I still attempted to do it. We all have our Sisyphean tasks. Wile E. Coyote attempts…
Before I begin this post, I feel it pertinent to provide a little background on my relationship with my brother. This is what happened after he shared an article I wrote on Facebook: This was a rare moment of non-vitriol. Most of the time, I just tell him that I hate him and that…
I have so much to tell you. I don’t know where to begin. I’m finally home (for more than just a few hours!) for the first time in three weeks. In less than two, I’ll be in Cambodia. My blog posts are still stuck in Italy, aren’t they? And yet, since then, we’ve been to:…
Going to the castle made me sad. Not because I didn’t have fun. I had a lovely time. But I knew it was all going to be over soon. My aunt and uncle and cousin had to drive back to their village, and the next day we’d leave for the Amalfi coast. I’d be back…
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…
Tales of Food, Feminism, and Fury
by Geraldine DeRuiter
Available Now!
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