[Mannaggia l'America]

For me...

You have many relatives named either Joe or Mary, and you have at least one brother named Joe
My name is Joe, my father's name is Joe, two of my uncle's are Joe, my cousin's name is Joe, my aunt's name is Mary, my cousin's name is Mary. Shall I go on?

You grew up in a small house, but you still had two kitchens. (One was in the basement)
My grandmother had a stove, fridge, and freezer in the basement. The stove was for baking pastry only.

When you were growing up, you had five cousins all living on the same street
Close, but not on the same street. Within a few blocks.

If someone in your family grows beyond 6’ 2”, it’s presumed that the mother had an affair
No affairs in my family. No one is even close to 6' tall.

Your grandfather had a fig tree
YES! I helped him cover it up every year.

When you were growing up, you ate Sunday dinner at 2:00 p.m., and on Thanksgiving, your family’s first course was Ravioli
Our Sunday "dinner" was at 12:00 PM, right after mass. The spaghetti and meatballs stayed warm on the stove all day after that for anyone who dropped by or got hungry later.

Your big family gatherings were held in your garage
No garage - they were held in the back yard, or at the Italian-American club across the street. My dad had his wedding reception in the back yard.

Your favorite movie is the “Godfather”
I got the trilogy on DVD for Christmas!

At least one person in your family does a great impression of Don Corleone
ME.

You’ve been hit with a spoon and/or you’ve been hit by a nun
Both.

For a short time while you were growing up, you wanted to be a priest or a nun
Not me, but my cousin (Joe!) did.

You fight over whether it's called "sauce" or "gravy"
It's sauce.

Your mom's meatballs are the best!
My grandmother's were the best. Mom's are OK and mine are pretty good.

[Prov1322]

You fight over whether it's called "sauce" or "gravy"

You fight over whether it's pasta, macaroni or "spagett" (don't know why they dropped the "i" since every word in Italian has more vowels than necessary!)

[GreatOne]

The reason for the many relatives named "Joe" could also stem from the tradition of the men naming their first born sons after their father. In my family, it's "Michael". His grandfather was a Michael, and he was the oldest. The first-born son of his brothers were named Michael. We identified them by saying, "Pat's Michael", "Louie's Michael", or "Richard's Michael". Louie's Michael named his first-born son Michael, so he's referred to as, "Louie's Michael's Michael".

Both my brother and myself have named our first-born sons Michael, and my newly-married younger brother will as well. The tradition continues!

[Alberta's Child]

Italian ping.

[in the Arena]

14.You’ve been hit with a spoon and/or you’ve been hit by a nun

I'm not Italian but this one applies to me...in fact it was a nun that did both...Sister Rosario...about 4'2" and 90 years old when she put me in my place...rest her soul...

[RIGHT IN LAS VEGAS]

Trippa

Gutina

Prociutto with melon

gnocchi

Calamari and Polpo

Clams on the half-shell

Clams Casino

Knowing how to fold a slice of pizza

Trippa is my favorite, I make it better than anyone in my family.

[bondserv]

You make meatballs with chopped meat.

Hamburgers are at MacDonalds.

[txzman]

Your grandfather had a fig tree

I never had (or even saw one that I know of) but now think I am going to buy one. I love the fruit, and even more Jesus' use of this tree in the Bible.

[Stentor]

Where is the Polenta. Never mind. I always hated it.

[Lando Lincoln]

I just love the ethnic Italians - they are so full of life. A friend of mine is married to such a lady and she was telling a story about a "loud Italian woman". I remarked that I thought that was redundant. My friend almost had a heart attack! Great fun. Have a great New Year.

Lando

[Quilla]

What a great list and although I'm only half Italian, I can relate to nearly every item. As a child I can remember gazing up at my now 83 year old mother, Teresa, and thinking she was the most beautiful woman in the world. She still has these eyes:

[Trajan88]

These posts are awesome!

Me = 100% Italian - and I've got a story for ya. At one time (late 60s) we lived with my grandparents in Valhalla, NY prior to my dad being transferred to Texas). My grandmother's sister lived next door. Whenever I got hungry (which was all the time because everything cooked was awesome), I would scamper accross to aunt Phill and uncle Pat's house and seek the blood of the tomato... Aunt Phill would keep a pot of sauce in the diswasher! When I arrived she pulled the pot out and placed it on the counter - then she'd pick me up, hand me a loaf of bread and I would commence to dipping the bread in the sauce... yummy.

Why did Aunt Phill keep the sauce in the dishwasher? She was a diabetic and was not allowed to have pasta/sauce. When my great uncle Pat caught on to her ways - there was a shouting match that would rival any weapon of mass destruction. But you know, they loved each other very much.

Ciao from the "wilds" of North Texas!

Trajan88

p.s. Always looking for a bowl of grandma's escarole soup and my great grandma's stroufla cookies.

p.p.s. Mom always threatened my "bad" ways with the wooden spoon. I was never hit, but the thought of a direct hit on the my back side scared (and still scares me) more than the plot of the movie "The Exorcist."

[ffusco]

1) My middle name is Joseph, My aunt/Godmother is named Maria
2)Grandparents owned a delicatessen in Asoria, Queens
3)Same neighborhood in Astoria.
4)6-2? Uncle Jack is 6-0
5)Grandpa had fig trees. grew vegatables, prepared his own olives and made his own wine.
6)Fisrt cours was manicotte.
7)Backyard parties
8)Favorite"family" movie might also be Rocky
9)Who doesn't!
10)Hit by Mom's wooden spoon till about 14 y.o. (when I broke it over my knee)
11)Never
12)The real Italian side calls it sauce, which it is. The Matriculated side (3rd Generation) calls it gravy.
13)Grandma's were best, Mom's just as good (same recipe) However the family secret was that Grandpa's sauce was better than Grandma's!

[StoneColdGOP]

Bump.

You’re wife or husband wears a tee shirt that says “Pray for me, I married an Italian.”

By the way, can I get one of these shirts?

[time4good]

- I used to help my grandma put the wax lids on the jars of grapes from the vine.
- I used to help my mom lay out the lasanga noodles, grate the mozzarella(ate half)
- anyone else swipe three or four mouthfuls of sausage/meatballs from the pot running from the kitchen when grandma/mom yelling?
- explained to kid in school Caf' "we're having mahnahgot. 'Huh?' Manicotti... 'Oh.'"

[PJ-Comix]

24. Wouldn't be caught dead at the Olive Garden restaurant.

[MadelineZapeezda]

Like other European- American kids, you couldn't sit on the couch because it was wrapped in plastic and you stuck to it!

[Radioactive]

You get upset with flat tires because they go WOP WOP WOP WOP WOP.

[aquila48]

I don't know where to start - all the memories you're bringing back... i'm sitting here with a big grin on my face!!

Fava beans, castagne

Never, never call them noodles. And gravy? Are you crazy?

And the sauce is always red not white.

Freshly grated cheese - none of that pregrated stuff

2 marys no joes, but we do have a bruno and a graziano

Was an altar boy, the priest wanted to send me to the seminary to become a priest. Turned him down when I found out you had to wear a gown and couldn't have sex.

Had to kick my wine drinking habit when I came here at thirteen and my parents were worried the teachers might smell wine on my breath.

Mangia, mangia

Two fig trees (carracini), and several grape vines, lot's of fruit trees and tomatoes - and canned tomatoes.

I helped my uncle Graziano make wine in the cellar by stomping on the grape barefoot

Big meals lasted 3 hours. Neophyte american friends couldn't pace themselves, made it to the cannoli and espresso through sheer will power and gluttony - and of course lots of mangia, mangia along the way...

...and loud. Three passionate conversations going on at the same time. At the end of the meal you were stuffed and hoarse.

Turkey ravioli for thanksgiving.

Ma va a fanculo!

Bocce ball

My daughter is vegetarian (almost like being a protestant). My parents' idea of vegetarian soup is chicken soup with the big chunks of meat taken out.

Lots more rattling in my brain...

[Clintons Are White Trash]

Sounds very familiar by proxy - I was married to an Italian. Grandma Tedoni had a thicker mustache than any of her grandsons, our wedding looked like a mob meeting, full of Tedonis, Garegnanis, Rapisardos, etc. The number of the wedding party was 23 so we were a few short.

[RexFamilia]

I was well into adulthood before I realized that I was an American. Of course, I had been born in America and had lived here all my life but, somehow it never occurred to me that just being a citizen of the United States meant I was an American. Americans were people who ate peanut butter and jelly on mushy white bread that came out of plastic packages. Me: I was Italian.

For me... as I am sure for most second generation Italian American children who grew up in the 40's and 50's, there was a definite distinction drawn between US and THEM. We were Italians,. Everybody else - the Irish, German, Polish, Jewish - they were "MED-E-GANS" ( Slang pronunciation of Americans). There was no animosity involved in that distinction, no prejudice, no hard feelings, just - well- we were sure ours was the better way. For instance, we had a bread man, a coal and ice man, a fruit and vegetable man, a watermelon man, a fish man. We even had a man who sharpened knives and scissors who came right to our homes or at least right out side our homes. They were the many peddlers who plied the Italian neighborhoods. We would wait for their call, their yell, their individual distinctive sound. We knew them all and they knew us. Americans went to the stores for most of their foods - what a waste.

Truly, I pitied their loss. They never knew the pleasure of walking up to find a hot, crisp loaf of Italian bread waiting behind the screen door. And instead of being able to climb up on the back of the peddler's or huckster's truck a couple of times a week just to hitch a ride, most of my "MED-E-GANS" friends had to be satisfied going to the A&P. When it came to food, it always amazed me that my American friends or classmates only ate turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce on Thanksgiving or Christmas. Or rather that they ONLY ate turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce. Now we Italians - we also had turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce but - only after we had finished the antipasto, soup, lasagna, meatballs, salad, and whatever else mama thought might be appropriate for that particular holiday. This turkey was usually accompanied by a roast of some kind ( just in case somebody walked in who didn't like the turkey) and was followed by an assortment of fruits, nuts, pastries, cakes and of course homemade cookies. No Holiday was complete without some home baking, none of that store bought stuff for us. This is where you learned to eat a seven course meal between noon and 4 PM, how to handle hot chestnuts and put tangerine wedges in red wine. I truly believe Italians live a romance with food. Speaking of food - Sunday was truly the big day of the food week. This was the day you'd wake up to the smell of garlic and onions frying in olive oil. AS you laid in bed, you could hear the his as tomatoes were dropped into a pan. Sunday we always had gravy ( the "MED-E-GANS" called it sauce) and macaroni ( they called it PASTA). Sunday would not be Sunday without going to mass. Of course, you couldn't eat before mass because you had to fast before receiving communion. But the best part was knowing when we got home we'd find hot meatballs frying, and nothing tastes better than newly fried meatballs and bread dipped into a pot of gravy.

There is another difference between US and THEM. We had gardens, not just flower gardens, but huge gardens where we grew tomatoes, tomatoes and more tomatoes. We ate them cooked them, jarred them. Of course we grew peppers, basil, lettuce and squash. Everybody had a grapevine and a fig tree and in the fall everybody made homemade wine, lots of it. Of course, those gardens thrived so because we also had something else it seemed our American friends didn't have. We had a grandfather! It's not that they didn't have grandfathers, it's just that they didn't live in the same house or the same block.

They visited their grand fathers. We ate with ours, and God forbid we didn't see them at least once a day. I can still remember my grandfather telling me about how he came to America as a young-a man, "on the boat". How the family lived in a rented tenement and took in borders to help make ends meet, how he decided he didn't want his children, five sons, and two daughters, to grow up in that environment. All of this, of course, in his own version of Italian/English which I soon learned to understand quite well.

So , when he saved enough, and he could never figure out how, he bought a house. That served as the family headquarters for the next forty years. I remember how he hated to leave, would rather sit on the back porch and watch his garden grow and when he did leave for some special occasion, he had to return as quickly as possible. After all, "nobody's watching the house". I also remember the holidays when all the relatives would gather at my grandfather's house and there would be tables full of food and homemade wine and music. Women in the kitchen, men in the living room, and kids, kids everywhere. I must have a half million cousins, first, and second, and some who aren't even related, and his fine mustache trimmed, would sit in the middle of it all grinning his mischievous smile, his dark eyes twinkling surveying his domain, proud of his family and how well his children had done. One was a cop, one a fireman, one had his trade and of course there was a rouge. And the girls. they had all married well and had fine healthy children and everyone knew respect.

He had achieved his goal in coming to America and to New Jersey and now his children and thief children were achieving the same goals that were available to them in his great country because they were Americans. When my grandfather died years ago at the age of 76, things began to change, slowly at first, but then uncles and aunts began to cut down on their visits. Family gatherings were fewer and something seemed to be missing, although when we did get together, usually at my mothers house now, I always had the feeling he was there somehow. It was understandable of course. Everyone now had families of thief own and grandchildren of thief own. Today they visit once or twice a year. Today we meet a =weddings and wakes.

Lots of other things have changed too. The old house my grandfather bought is now covered with aluminum siding, although my uncle still lives there and of course my grandfather's garden is gone. The last of the homemade wine has long since been drunk and nobody covers the fig tree in the fall anymore. For a while we would make the rounds on the holidays, visiting family. Now we occasionally visit the cemetery. A lot of them are there, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and even my own father.

The holidays have changed too. The great quantity of food we once consumed without any ill effects is no good for us anymore. Too much starch too much cholesterol, too many calories. And nobody bothers to bake anymore too - busy - and it's easier to buy it now and too much is no good for you. We meet at my house now, at least my family does, but it's not the same.

The differences between US and THEM aren't so easily defined any more and I guess that's good. My grandparents were Italian Italians, my parents were Italian Americans, and I'm and American Italian and my children are American American. Oh I'm an American alright and proud of it, Just as my grandfather would want me to be. We are all Americans now - the Irish, the Germans, Poles, Jews. U.S. citizens all but somehow I still feel a little bit Italian. Call it culture, call it tradition, call it roots, I'm really not sure what it is. All I do know is that my children have been cheated out of a wonderful piece of heritage. They never know my grandfather