married to the mob

Well, not really.  Just married to a proud Italian.  And — total transparency — his mom’s Irish, but Richie Coldcuts only claims that side on St. Patty’s day.  Every other day of the year, he’s Italian!   And that comes with (ahem) a little baggage.  Like, when we’re watching a cooking show (happens a lot), and the chef is using that Italian cheese, and makes the heinous mistake of saying MOTTS -a-RELLA!  Richie sighs disparagingly, then yells at the TV, “are you kidding me?”.  Because you know — it’s pronounced MOOTSA-RELL.   And remember to roll the ‘R’!   That other cheese — ricotta?  It’s RI-GOAT-a, not RI-KOTTA. And again, roll the ‘R’.

Do you feel my pain yet?   He puffs up with pride if someone comments on a Ferrari, Tumi luggage, Ferragamo shoes, Gucci bag, or Vespa scooter.  And responds back “well of course it’s the best, it’s Italian”.  He brags that his last name ends in a vowel.  I used to think he was just kidding, but now I’m not so sure!  But I guess I’m a little jealous.  He’s so comfortable in his skin, feels such pride and strong identity with his ethnicity.   I know some of my heritage, but not all of it, and it’s spread all over Europe.   Not one (or even two) specific countries.  So I feel more like a mutt.  I don’t have any bragging rights.  Has anyone out there done the ethnicity testing determined through your saliva?   Maybe I should do that, so I’ll definitely know where I came from.   I’m just not sure I want to know.  Via my last name, I sometimes imagine myself Italian — and I know how to correctly pronounce all the Italian cheeses!  So for now I just say “Hey Mambo, Mambo Italiano”.   (I bet you just started singing, didn’t you?)

 

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