Italian Weddings: Three Weddings & a Funeral

In Italy the film went by La Sposa Cadevere

I always like to see what's in Italy's "basket of goods" pegged to track inflation in the country...the basket changes almost yearly, to make good on items going in and others out of fashion. Like say, adding SmartPhones and removing land line-type telephones. Or adding little robot vacuum cleaners instead of the famed Folletto (little elf) sold door-to- door [a necessity for sure, so Italian housewives can keep dust from gathering even under the usual 24 hours on their floors.] Announcements of the new and improved basket of goods generally makes headlines. 
And so it was, a few years back, when women woke up to the fact that not even Armani's shoulder-padded power suits of the 1980s was bringing them any closer to power...that we collectively ditched our tailleur - or fabulous-fitting work suits.
Year in / year out, I usher them from closet to closet when I change over for the seasons, another tried and true Italian tradition; Hoping beyond hope that they make a comeback lest my treasured Chanel herring bone ends up in the trash heap outside my door.
But the other day, I heard of the most uncanny of traditions - it was so amazing on so many levels, that I couldn't believe it:  

Up until not so long ago, on her wedding day, the mother-in-law to be would gift a beautiful tailleur - by Ferragamo - to the bride. Understood by all as something quite wonderful, so that she may have a one perfect outfit to wear at said mother's-in-law funeral.

My Italian friends stated emphatically that it had always been a wonderful thing to receive; after all, couples starting out would not have that kind of disposable income. So for formal events (like funerals) the young bride would always look impeccable. More recently, I have been stunned to see that this particular practice in the land of Bella Figura has more or less gone the way of Americans wearing pajamas on airplanes.
Friends were asking if it was true that Americans still wore black to funerals. I don't think so, but I do think they still don their Sunday bests. In Italy, I have seen ripped jeans and tennis shoes galore...and that was the family of the deceased.
But moving back to dear old mother-in-law, I couldn't help but think up a Saturday Night Live skit for the practice: I mean, here it is, the happiest day of your life, and La Mamma hands a giftbox to you. Marking her death. It sure gives new meaning to the You haven't lost a son you've gained a daughter platitude. The hidden message being, I want you to look good now that you've driven a spike straight through my heart. But don't worry about me...
So now that the tailleurs are no longer in fashion...and marriage is no longer as well, what's a designer - or a mother-in-law to do?  Please share your gift ideas for a mother-in-law to give to the bride...in our very own update of a basket of ungodly goods!

Sophia Loren visits the Chanel tailleur show (okay, so they're not Ferragamo)
but thanks to the blog, Come Eravamo

It's the Great Pumpkin - Or make that...The Grande Watermelon in Italy!

Halloween may have come and gone, but for many of us who want to relish the gorgeous fall weather (even if we can't enjoy the trees changing colors before our eyes - we still have umbrella pines - ha!), it's never too late nor too early to love Peanuts. On a recent trip to Milano I visited the outstanding Comics Museum, or WOW! Spazio Fumetto, worth going off the beaten track just for their bookshop alone. They were hosting an outstanding collection of Peanuts old and new, with amazing interactive tables revealing past cartoon strips and movies, original prints and letters from the inimitable Charles M Schulz, the first "Chuck", as Peppermint Patty would no doubt have had the audacity to call him to his face. 
Italians have always loved Peanuts - even producing their own catalog of cartoons, Linus. Not as popular as Topolino (Mickey Mouse & friends), but he's a tough one to beat: I believe it outsells the Bible 'round these parts - with or without our beloved Pope Francis.
So the collection also revolved around Italian lore in the world of the tiny characters. And as the Curator took me through the rooms, I was stunned to learn that the Big Great Watermelon - Il Grande Cocomero as it were - was not a mistake in translation, but actually intentional. 
This was disappointing for two reasons: First, because I have long held up the Grande Cocomero as an example of what gets lost in translation...We can only guess what the Bible stories originally held for the masses...When it went from ancient Aramaic, to Ancient Latin, to Ancient Greek and back again before going into Italian then English. I mean, pumpkin to watermelon? I shudder to think of the generations of young children who saw pumpkins here and there, and insisted they were watermelons. To say nothing for the mistaken seasons. I mean, watermelon in November? It reminds me of my college Italian prof - who I am convinced delighted in leading us seriously astray - telling us to always ask for the gabinetto, when we needed to go to the loo. Turns out, I asked many a hostess if I could use her outhouse until some good samaritan finally corrected me on that account.
Secondly, the translators actually chose it - because they wanted a masculine version of Babbo Natale, or Santy Clause...and thus they sneered at the Grande Zucca (feminine). They felt they had to come up with a macho veggie that grew in patches in the great outdoors. I find this explanation quite ridiculous. First and foremost, for the visual cue that is hiding in plain sight, much like the Great Pumpkin himself. Green watermelons / orange pumpkins, but hey, who can tell? But I'm irked by the fact that Italians, much earlier and more prominent than ol' jolly-faced St Nick, an import, have always celebrated their own gift-giving lady...La Befana. Clearly they could have made the Zucca a Zucca and everyone would have been the wiser.
Anyone who follows my blog or Twitter account knows that I am relentless in sticking up for the invisible women of Italy. Our society chooses to ignore them unless of course it's mealtime (Master Chef excepted) or when they feel amorous, or worse, like killing someone.
So, just like Linus learned...an invisible force of women...is much like the Great Pumpkin: Everyone says you don't exist...but I believe in you. So to the publishers in 2015, I would say, bring us the Grande Zucca once and for all.

Away from the Manger-Christmas Eve in Italy

Christmas Eve is the night Italians often celebrate the birth of the little baby Jesus. This event is quite significant, especially if you are to judge by their crèche or manger scenes; something we Americans can only remember with nostalgia of days of yore.
But you see, Italians are nothing if not highly literal people; especially given their long history of language, discourse and oratory, starting with Latin and Lord knows what languages even before. And so it is with their manger scenes.
When I first came to Italy, I thought all those presepe showing an old Giuseppe and his young wife looking fondly down on a heap of hay, standard issue donkey, sheep and even the Three Kings in the distance, was simply yet another indication of Italians' poor planning: Someone clearly had forgotten the Baby Jesus!!!

Who stole Baby Jesus?picture from GodsDiscussion.com

After seeing this a few more times, I thought: 'Okay, who stole the Baby Jesus?!!'

But then, I finally figured it out: This is a country in which article after article, conversation after conversation, they feel the need to warn you prior to making a joke or a cynical statement, just in case the meaning is lost on you - so you don't take it literally.  [I always envision this practice much like the Robot in Lost in Space: “Danger! Guglielmo Robinson! Giovanni said, with a note of irony…”] In Italy, unless forewarned, and if no hidden meaning is implied, they take the sentence for what it is fully worth.
And so, little Baby Jesus never shows up on the manger scene until the stroke of midnight. Although, in their search for authenticity, something is always a bit amiss. You will always find him looking more like an 18 month old, than a cone-headed red-faced newborn; bright-eyed and chubby on Christmas morn.
Incredibly, to add to the veracity of the scene, I have only recently discovered that those three kings, though smaller in size, to represent distance, actually creep up day by day, until January 6th (the Epiphany, for you pagans out there) when they bestow their gifts on the Baby Jesus.
What I don’t get in all of this figurative placement is why, then, they don’t swap a very pregnant Mary for a less pregnant mamma (and perhaps decidedly exhausted one due to labor pains whilst riding a donkey) the next day, too. I guess they don't take it that literally, after all.

Buon Natale a Tutti!

F. Maggi @IrreverentItaly
(decidedly not Magi, like those three wise men!)

Italy's Holiday Traditions

Natale con i tuoi...Pasqua con chi vuoi (Christmas with the 'rents - parents - Easter with whomever you choose) is always a nice way to look at the holidays in Italy.  Many families stay home, delaying beach or snow vacations until after the 25th of December so they can break bread with others in their oft-extended families.  The die-hards who really want a getaway, sometimes take mamma with them, in a case of killing two birds with one stone (and the benefit of free babysitting!)  So you often see multi-generations enjoying the pool during your holiday vacation.
Comparing notes this Christmas with a (German) friend, we got around to the topic of card games and Tombola! (Italy's version of Bingo!) which, after imbibing in the big meal is a hallmark of the festivities.  I remarked that the kids had won 20 euro off of me that day while playing Mercante in Fiera, a sort of bidding on cards that might turn up lucky once you've accumulated enough in your hand.
And it dawned on us both...how ironic that the celebration of the birth of Jesus was observed by heavy duty gambling, bartering and card dealing?  I'm not sure where the tradition started...perhaps long before Alexander the Great decreed Christianity as the official religion...but, wasn't it Jesus who eventually threw the money changers out of the Temple?  After losing more and more as the day grew on, I too, found my inner Jesus and wanted to go after the ones changing my money into theirs!
According to donna.tuttogratis.it, it was actually the Bourbon King of Naples who instigated Tombola...Reasoning that, by making it legal, they would do away with the dark underbelly of illegal gambling.  And so it was that Tombola Neapolitana entered into the homes of all Italians and those immigrants to foreign lands.  Leave it to the crafty neapolitans who love their traditions and you've got Tombola! 

Italy: the Grapes of Wrath

The fruit of the spirit by Magnolia Heartbeats

One of my good friends and loyal blog fan, Carolinrome held a warm holiday evening so I could present my book to a group of women readers & expats...We all enjoyed a few good laughs doing what women do best: Tell incredible stories.

Using the book chapters as a launch pad, it wasn't long before everyone was telling one of their own...These ran the gamut from post office woes (where one woman actually called the toll free number pondering exactly, why, people didn't 'go postal' in Italy given the services were so much worse) to toilet flushers (from my brief run-down in the book called Royal Flush).

We also discussed some of the other unique features to Italian living, such as never ever touching one's food with one's hands.  In my book (Peel me a grape, Beulah - click here for entry), I imagined this was for pesticides but then again, I decided it was just germs combined with the impeccable table-training at the apron skirts of mammas everywhere, in order to exhibit one's exceptional Bella Figura. 
Turns out, I may be wrong.  A woman stated that her own (Italian) husband, will not let her peel his mandarin oranges or clementines for him...She discovered that it upset his bodily harmony...Again, I immediately assumed this was due to the perceived onslaught of germs perhaps from her handling her fork prior that might be lurking around just waiting to get under that orange peel and onto a juicy slice.  I was wrong. 
In what might lead to a certain revision in the book, she was told in no uncertain terms that the way she peeled the tiny oranges released acidic juices so as to upset his stomach.
As I stated in the book, In Italy, stomach upsets out-trump all other existential conditions.  Therefore she was left with no other choice than to simply serve the oranges as nature intended them and let him sort out his own gastric juices accordingly.  
-----------------------
As a postscript, I found these warning labels for grape eating on the website The Perfect Shape.com: 

Although it seems that grapes can have a huge positive effect on the human body, there are some RESTRICTIONS/ WARNINGS regarding their consumption. Here are some of them:

1. Neither grapes, nor grapes juice are recommended for persons suffering from stomach ulcers, diabetes and obesity;
2. Eating grapes or drinking grapes juice can cause dental problems. If you have a cavity in a tooth, it is not recommended to consume grapes, as they will intensify the destruction process of the tooth;
3. Grapes cannot be consumed along with a relatively large number of food products, like: milk, fish, beer, mineral water, melons, etc. The combination of these kinds of food products with grapes can cause serious stomach problems.

Perhaps we should all wisen up and take our cue from the Granmammas whose health precautions are probably the soundest advice one could ever have gotten prior to the internet (and even afterwards)!

Italian Food: Worth licking your plate over

Over the holidays, when they bring onto the front burner those desultory articles of seemingly low import, some major bombshells were dropped about Italians and their eating habits.  As a 'sloppy seconds' American, these came on like tsunamis in my world view.

We know that Italians conquered the food world, right about the same time that poor man's polenta became so chic, it was priced at about $5 per sliver.  Baloney, or Bologna's melt-in-your-mouth mortadella was something you only dreamed of finding on your plate at Happy Hours.  Then, they did it again when they won over the American FDA in the 80s, and were allowed to ship over their prosciutto by the ton.  Competing ferociously for the American dollar, Italian wines -- and my favorite, prosecco, still carry the day, if not the entire evening as well.

In the 90s, we were treated to the Slow Food Movement.  Italy's singular response by a great visionary to the encroachment of McDonald's on its shores.  And in 2010, Eataly took New York by a storm.  So, what could they ever do for an encore?  Ancora! (More!) that's what.

Incredibly, Italians, by their own admission, have reignited yet another passion (for all us food lovers with peasant hearts):  La Scarpetta.  My favorite way to eat food.  I'm not even sure of the etymology here, but, it translates to...ripping off that sumptious corner of delectable bread, and scraping your plate with it until you've soaked up the very last drop.  Let's just say that in finer households, this is say, frowned upon.  But it would seem of late...that people are getting caught - shall we say, red wine-handed??  Food has never tasted more delizioso.

                               You can take the kid out of America... but can't take the American outta the kid, especially if brownie batter is involved

But then, no sooner had you scraped that last bit of walnut cream sauce off your plate than it happened. First one table, then another, at your favorite ristorante.  Not just ugly Americans were actually - ohdiomio - asking to bring home their leftovers.  People in the know say Italians leave behind upwards of 30% of their meal -- and now, and especially with the prices at record levels, and perhaps the lack of time to prepare good food like mamma used to make, a taboo has been wrapped up just like your Penne all'arrabbiata to be reheated next day.  Incredibly, these morsels of goodness go even in 'doggy-bags', in English.  Could eating with your fingers be far behind?

I had a boyfriend break up with me after I ordered a pizza to go - in a pizza box (it was half the pie, hardly just one slice).
Do you think there's anything wrong with bringing home the bacon?

Buon Compleanno!

This weekend, it seemed that everyone I know had a birthday to celebrate. In Italy, this is doubly good news, because, instead of the birthday gal or guy getting fêted, you get treated instead! And while here and elsewhere people always throw parties in which guests arrive, gifts in hand, when it comes to bringing the treats to the people, or going out for drinks, the Italians keep up the routine we all had in elementary school.
After all, how many cupcakes have I baked in my lifetime for birthdays at school? [well, come to think of it, not that many since I was born on Leap Day]. But, you get the drift. In Italy, I love the tradition that the birthday boy carries the goodies. That also makes up for people actually having to remember everyone’s birthday at the office. Go out for drinks after work, they buy! And, at the risk of sounding stingy, it makes me happy to have a birthday every four years!
Of course, in Italy, when there is a Leap Year, stores don’t shower you with free gifts and treats like they do elsewhere, but that’s okay. You can still count on my bringing the brownies.

Italian Traditions: Something to just die over

I’m sorry to report that the old lady upstairs passed away. She was 89. How I found out about this of course, wasn’t from the fact that I no longer heard her drag her daily chair across my forehead each morning at 6:25am sharp. Nor, was it the sudden drop in centimeters of dust and threads that she enjoyed shaking out over my balcony each and every day.

I discovered the event upon coming home to find the front door of our building layered in 29 ft. long grey velvet drapes with gold trim. I naturally figured that either the Pope was coming to visit or that Liberace had just moved into that empty first floor apartment.
Turns out, I was wrong on both accounts.

In Italy, you will not find the traditional funeral parlours as depicted in “Six Feet Under”. The funeral parlour comes to you, so to speak. They decorate the doorways, and for a few days you get to contemplate the sands of time passing; along with the bonus of feeling like you’re going to either meet your maker or the Wizard of Oz each time you bring home your groceries.

Thankfully, people aren’t laid in state in the home anymore. There’s a nice little room right at the hospital for these sorts of activities. Very cold and uninviting, people congregate in the corridors as if waiting to give blood. I almost expected to get some cookies and juice after paying my last respects. Actually, I believe this is either seriously poor marketing, or a strong case for unusual efficiency.
Think about it: “Mamma, look on the bright side! If the operation doesn’t go so well, we’ll all be waiting for you just downstairs near the lobby!”
Funerals themselves are much the same as in the U.S., if they take place in big cities. But in little towns, everyone walks to the cemetery behind the hearse with singing choir people bringing up the tail. It may not be Six Feet Under, but, it sure can feel a lot like the Godfather Part II.

Buon Anno!

It’s a New Year, and, although the Italians ring it in with usual great civility – huge buffets with the traditional dishes filled with lentils to herald in lots of money, a sort of hamhock set in the middle of them, lots of spumante, pandoro & panettone, and the proverbial Midnight Kiss -- the headlines still screamed about the number of injured from setting off those “fireworks” (and I use the term quite loosely).



This year we were regaled by three incredible light displays seen (and heard – the shells were dropping right on top of us) off a gorgeous terrace overlooking Piazza Navona, but in years past it sounded like we were outside the green zone in Baghdad. Two guys I am quite positive were firing surface to air missiles and were engaging in combat. Judging from the amount of smoke filling the air, I think the guy in our building was winning. Car alarms were set off, windows were actually breaking, and our building was shaking violently. I went inside.

But it was the Italians who either invented fireworks, or, in the very least, borrowed them from the Chinese and then set off to make the most dazzling visual displays that money had to offer. One of the greatest experiences of my life was the Festa del Redentore, in celebration of the ending of the plague, held each July in Venice (and maybe these annual celebrations, hundreds of years on, serve a sort of preventive purpose…as we know how fearful the Italians still are about air).
And even the magnificent Trevi Fountain was designed by noneother than a fireworks designer, if you can believe it. Now that’s thinking out of the box to obvious great satisfaction for all!

But the Italians really know how to celebrate. In fact, while all the rest of the world has only one day to recover, we get an entire week. Come January 6th, we celebrate the epiphany, and the arrival of the gift-bearing kitchen witch (as I like to refer to her), who leaves coal or gifts in children’s stockings.
So, who in their right mind would or could return to work if there’s another holiday on the horizon? Work begins promptly on January 7th where I’m sure we’ll all spend the time exchanging photos, swapping stories, and basically carrying on our other happy traditions…

R.I.P.

We just had a long weekend because Nov 1st marked ‘I Morti’, or Day of the Dead…or, more pleasantly, the day after, All Saints Day. It’s a wonderful holiday observed by many in the traditional fashion: visiting cemeteries, eating large meals, or others, less so inclined, taking 4 days off to the mountains.
And, actually, I love the traditions of Old Europe, like enjoying those family gatherings (best with distant cousins..both in lineage and geographically speaking), having a less consumer-oriented Christmas, taking walks after the evening meal. In fact, when we onlookers see things ‘changing’ over here, we find Italians generally picking up some of the worst habits of America and making them their own -- and none of us are all the happier about it.


But one thing that could change for the better are the card companies. You know, cards for any occasion. While you can find some imported cards nowadays with great graphics but blank inside, what happens when you want to send something for a more – errr- traditional event?


It happened to a friend of mine who discovered that an American colleague’s father had passed away. He wanted to send a heartfelt card, expressing appropriately the sentiment, perhaps adding his own message on the inside. On a mission, he tried various cartolerias, where one does, in fact, by carta (or cards).


Knowing that he was barking up the wrong tree from the get go, he decided to hedge his bets: “Do you have something – say, a nice CARD – for someone who is in mourning?”


- Well, Signore, usually one sends a telegram.


Getting a bit provocative since he knew he already was fighting a losing battle: 
“Yes, but, don’t you think that, for someone who may not understand the Italian tradition, say, a foreigner, receiving a telegram under these conditions might actually be somewhat, ahhh, frightening?”


Blank stare, so he continues:


“You know, telegrams are sometimes used to bring important – even very urgent – messages to people and…given the circumstances, I just don’t think it would have the same impact in America as in Italy.”


- Well, okay, why don’t you send the traditional blank white or ivory card with a matching envelope?


“Do you have anything else?”


Yes, the blank white card with a black line going through it.
(He looks at it and decides it does, well, provide the appropriate imagery of the finality of the situation…kind of like looking at the EKG line in an episode of ER). Audaciously, he presses on: “Could you help me write a message in there? I mean, what should one write?”


- That’s a very personal thing, Signore, and no, I cannot help you.


At which point I received a call and sent him to a U.S. website where they actually offer a number of somber messages just for the occasion. When I ventured, ‘why did you even bother?’ He simply stated that he wanted to "At least get her to think out of the box…I don’t know…I was a man possessed.”