Personal Narrative: Growing Up In A Big Italian Family

For the past seventeen years of my life minus a few months, I have lived in the United States. I grew up skiing and bicycling in Grand Rapids, Michigan, until my family decided to move all the way out west to Flagstaff, Arizona. Many eleven-year-olds might become stubborn and defensive in response to such a massive, life-changing move, but I remember embracing it because I was with my family, and I was ready to face any obstacle that unveiled itself to me because I knew that my late comedic father, my worrisome mother, and my troublesome brother would be right by my side. As we made the two-day drive from Michigan to Arizona in our SUV together, we watched the numbers on the odometer crawl up more and more until there were 2,000 more miles on the car than there were when we started, and we

My family’s traditional Sunday sauce is when my mother’s side of the family gathers for an early dinner to enjoy pasta, meatballs, sausages, and pork cooked in freshly produced tomato sauce. Regardless, the gathering occurs individually every Sunday in all of my family members’ households, however, when my grandparents were alive whoever was available to attend would sit at their long wooden table and enjoy their favorite meal. The setting was not clearly pleasant due to my family’s sarcasm, although deep down, we felt blessed to have each other’s company. Being a large Italian family, we had no choice but to be cramped in my grandparent’s tiny kitchen, where everyone previous to eating seemed irritated and anxious to eat the delicious meal

For me personally, I love Italian food because of how much Italian’s appreciate the dinner table. What I mean by “appreciating

Growing up in a small town has the advantage of being a close-knit community, unfortunately this also meant that exposure to foreign delicacies is not a common occurrence. As a child, I developed a strong dislike for any foods that I viewed as abnormal, and became quite a finicky eater. Thus, my familiarity with Italian food is somewhat limited to restaurant dishes, and recipes that friends exuberantly claim to be a crime if not made. While being a student in Victoria, I have had the opportunity to live in various different areas, some of which were next door to outdoor markets. Much like the markets described by Braimbridge et al.,(2005) in The Food of Italy, the bread was baked fresh daily, the produce fresh and locally

A Lot of people may love shopping or going on long walks on the beach or even go on amazing adventures, but one of the most enjoyable things I love to do with my family is eating. I could eat for days or even months. Every holiday I never miss my mother’s homemade tamales, especially Thanksgiving. Just when I take a bite, the tamale breaks apart in my mouth. When my mother makes home made burritos,the rice and the beans just taste super delicious and the cheese melts right in my mouth. Sometimes my mother would make some menudo with lots of love in it. I would put some lemon juice to make it sour and onions to give it that flavor.

The documentary “The Italian Americans: La Famiglia” explains the circumstances that led to early Italians migrating to America. In the mid-1800s, the people who lived in the southern part of what would become Italy were living in abject poverty. The citizens there could not prosper because they did not own their own land and they were mistreated by the rich (Maggio, 2014). However, there appeared to be hope for the southern Italians, in the 1860s, when Garibaldi fought for Italy to become a nation. Sadly, once that happened the peasants were then forced to pay taxes that they already could not afford.

Ever since I can remember food has been one of the strongest links that brought my family together. My cousins and

The year of 2003 my family had lost six people. My grandma, uncle, great grandpa, and one of my cousins, everyone seemed a little empty. As the day went on my parents, along with a few other family members started warming up. I could hear my grandpa’s obnoxious laugh from the other room and my demented teenage cousins wrestling upstairs. The timer for the turkey finally dinged letting us know the meat was ready to eat. My cousin Jessica and I set up all the food as well as drinks; everyone filled their plates as high as they could sat down to feast. I of course made a heaping plate of hot food but I was not able eat much; I felt so sleepy and nauseous. Instead of enjoying quality time with my family I retreated to the couch and slept until it time to leave.

James was always a mediocre kid. His family was descended from nobles in Italy who built up a small tailoring business in what is now the USA. They and their ancestors before them were responsible for keeping the place up and running for 100 years. James’s family was involved in many historic moments. They made the first flag for the USA, kept slaves and fought for the right to, and were part of the women’s suffrage movement. It seemed as though they had always been on the generic side of anything. Even the uniqueness of being Italian was lost when his great-great-great grandfather married a British girl. When James was little, his parents taught him what their parents and all the parents before them aught their kids- money was everything. Money was, of course, not literally everything, but it was important enough to be treated as such, and everyone

This title gotchya huh? So before I convince you to commit five or so minutes reading this blog, let me just keep it honest right here: there's no blood, no broken bones, not even a fever involved, but I still ended up in an ambulance in rural Italy.

My family and I drive from Brownstown to Rochester, to eat at my aunt’s house. We are supposed to arrive at three o’clock, but due to my mom’s inability to be on time, we are usually forty-five minutes late. When I step into the front door to my aunt’s house, my mouth begins to water. I can smell the strong aromas coming from the kitchen. I am then greeted at the door by the two small dogs yapping hello to me. I take off my shoes and proceed to the living room to say hello to the rest of the family. We then talk for awhile while my uncle finishes up the turkey. When the turkey is done we all rush to the counter to get the first plate. Turkey, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, stuffing, green beans, sausage, rolls, it is all there, waiting for us to devour it. Once the rush is over and everyone is seated at the table, we bow our heads and thank God for the wonderful food we have been blessed with. After we have all eaten and the family is done pounding me with questions regarding my future, my cousins, siblings, and I all clean off the table and wash the dishes. Once the dishes are done and our stomachs are stuffed, we pack up some of the left overs and head back

Few things identify Italians as well as food, “the cross-cultural consumption of Italian cuisine is a significant marker of the way in which others see and imagine Italy and the Italians.” Food is cultural artifact. The Italian culture lives to eat. Where as, the American culture eats to live. Food is a way of life in Italy, not just a way to survive.

To relate the topic of nostalgia with food to my life, I recall a cherished memory I have about making enchiladas with my grandma when I was nine. My mom’s father is hispanic, but her mother is not, so she learned how to make hispanic food just for him. I have always admired this, because she learned how to do this just to make my grandpa happy. She made us many hispanic dishes, but my favorite is still her enchiladas. I still remember the smell of the chicken and beef that my grandma had prepared

Food is a central part of our culture as humans. It has a way of delivering an intimate experience through which people are connected and can share memories. Reflecting upon some of the most celebrated holidays in my life, there has been a central element that all of these occasions have in common, and that is the meal that is shared by my family, Lasagna.