I-Talian

The clock ticked ever so slowly during eighth period. So slowly, in fact, when I looked up from my desk I counted two student sleepers, four doodlers, one drooler and five day-dreamers. I hadn't even noticed I had lost their attention. The fortunate (or unfortunate, depending upon how you look at it) reason for that is that I was less engaged in Macbeth's dreary plight of murder and pillage than I was with two, beautifully green, edible bouquets in my veggie drawer beckoning me home. I bought artichokes at the first sight of spring-much like normal women purchase flip-flops- and my mind continuously wandered like an unfaithful lover to the scent of imported Brenta cheese and freshly chopped garlic.

This may or may not surprise you, considering only a few, short years ago, I was neither Italian, nor a cook. I have since claimed both, which, according to me, is completely within my rights after struggling long and hard as the only Vanderberg growing up on a block full of Tony DiVencenzos.

I've wanted to be an Italian my whole life. Please, do not take this to mean that I am not aware or proud of my own heritage- Florence Nightingale and I are distant cousins, didja know?-but it doesn't change the fact that my classmates in the little town in which I was raised couldn't point out a potato unless you artfully described the wort-like spud used to delicately craft their beloved gnocci. To make matters worse, I wasn't even Catholic. No pasta bolognese OR first holy communion? What was this, a conspiracy? Who hates the Dutch kid? Hands up!

I walked through life an outcast- made to lurk surreptitiously in doorways to catch the scent of stewed tomatoes wafting on the breeze. Destined to forever order pizza from one of the Tony's who would not be coerced to give out his great-great-great grandmother's secret spice to cooking time ratio.

Until.

Until I married.

Richard Shannon.

Don't let the name fool you.

Do you know what his mother's maiden name is?

D'addio.

Yup.

That's right.

It took more than several attempts, frantic late night phone calls to my ever-so-patient new mother-in-law and hundreds of tablespoons of sugar to balance the salt from my tears in my inedible tomato gravy to finally find my sweet spot in the kitchen.

Now, with the increasingly warm smell of bubbling artichoke gurgling happily on the stove, I can put my feet up, say a Hail Mary and scribble out a list of different yeasts to try out for some decent Paesano bread (you just can't find a good one in the store anymore these days) and what heirloom tomato seeds to purchase for the spring garden.

Just like any decent I-Talian would do.

Yo' Mama

Mothers are strange creatures. Mine is no exception. My Mom wears pink more often than Lady Gaga changes her eyeshadow. She loves buying stuffed animals for our cousins that talk when you squeeze their bellies-though they are old enough to ride their bikes to school. And read chapter books on their own. She coos over every and all things monogrammed.

Though the list of strange-Mom-behavior could go on, I would simply be backing myself directly into the corner in which we'd inhabit together. Because, for all of the weird things my Mother does, the weirdest of it all is that I happen to be right there in the life boat with her, rowing the same damn way.

With that said, the fastidious writer that I am could not let this post go without a comprehensive list of the weird things my Mom and I share.

1. We both laugh until our faces turn an unattractive plum and tears hold our mascara hostage all the the way down our(long)noses at America's Funniest Home Videos (the Danny Tanner version, not the new Dancing with the Stars guy), the story about the babysitter who got attacked by a squirrel and mom forced to go home early due to the fact that she thought rabies was an airborne disease, and fart jokes. Fart jokes, are, alas, always funny. Especially when my sister tells them.

2. We love to eat. We love to eat like Tom Cruise loves weird religions with aliens. Not only are we master consumers, but we are fearless and voracious in our eating. Tripe? Send it our way. Kim-Chi? More, please. Escargot? Why not? We may send it back if we hate it, or make funny faces and lie poorly about how "interesting" it is, but that will never stop us from shelling out some cash to try something new. There is never too great a price for a decent meal. Or, a good story. If you don't get the one, you end up with the other.

3. We get bored. Easily. We have 800 hobbies between us-some, I bet we don't know the other has. We like to learn new things, do new things, play new things. I bought her a red bass for christmas. She got me a kitchenaid. We're strange, strange productive people.

4. We're both maniacs on the road. We've never taken a running tally of how many times we've both been pulled over, with good reason. We tell cop stories like vets tell war stories. Mainly, to each other. It makes everyone else a little nervous.

5. We make shit up. Words. Ideologies. Pants sizes. :) It's the creative spirit in us.

It's an amazing thing why it's so surprising that we would be similar to the one that carried us for nine months.

But if I start buying pink sweaters, someone remind me that it's in our differences where we find ourselves. :)

Love you, Mom.

Muchness

Have you ever wondered what Tim Burton and Helena Bonham Carter discuss over dinner? I have. In fact, that's fairly all I wondered about as I sat through Alice in Wonderland
on opening night. Visually stimulating with all of the darkly, quirky details that is quintessential of the eccentric director, I left the theater feeling as though I paid orchestra prices to watch amusing spectators fight in the balcony. Perhaps, it was the gaggle of hipster, teenage girls with black nail polish and lip-rings whining aloud about the lack of testosterone in the audience throughout the duration of the movie that tainted my viewing experience. Perhaps, expectations were too high, even for Johnny Depp (who stretched his long-running pirate accent thin in his crazy rantings as the Mad Hatter). Whatever the case may be, for a film based upon "muchness", there was much to be desired.

(This does not mean that I will not continue to be the first in line for the next Burton production. I'm loyal. What can I say?)