Read Online Wish You Were Italian by Kristin Rae - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kristin Rae
Ads: Link
family’s apartment.
The space is small, but clean and organized. The scent of garlic makes my mouth water. The cramped, lemon-yellowkitchen along the far wall is teeming with women, each with a utensil hovering over a different bowl or pot. First impression tells me this is Chiara’s grandmother, mother, and sister.
The three women look up when the door closes behind us, utensils are abandoned and hands rise in the air. Excitedly chatting in singsong phrases, they swarm me. The shortest of the women takes my hands in hers and leads me to a chair at the dining table.
“You are Philippa?”
“Pippa, Mamma.” Chiara rolls her eyes and leans toward me. “Stuck in her ways. She might not call you Pippa.”
I giggle, completely overwhelmed with the warm welcome into a real Italian home. And touched that she already talked to her family about me.
My first impression was correct. My hostesses are Chiara’s grandmother Anna Maria, who speaks no English; her mom, Cristina, who looks only slightly older than Chiara; her sister who might as well be her twin, Liana, already twenty but still living at home.
The front door swings open and two young boys bounce in and run to Chiara’s mother, shouting, “Nonna! Nonna!” A tired-eyed woman saunters in behind them, and Chiara introduces her as Maria, her oldest sister. I’m starting to wonder if all Italian girl names end in the letter A .
Dizzying Italian words fly around me, and Chiara leans in to tell me that normally dinner would wait for her sister’s husband—her family always tries to eat together—but he’s stuck at work. I can’t even remember the last time my family shared a meal.
Even with Chiara’s father away in New York, the tiny apartment is bursting at the seams. It’s a little overwhelming for this only child, but there’s something comforting about witnessing it. Chairs of various sizes are brought in from other rooms, and somehow we all fit at a single round dining table. I tuck my elbows to my sides as I tear at a hunk of bread and guzzle a glass of water.
“Philippa,” Cristina says as she sets out the first course, or il primo piatto . “You are young to travel Italia alone.” Her tone is more curious than reprimanding, and I’m grateful. I’d hate to have to return to the Vatican and strap all my anxiety back on.
The fettuccine wraps around my fork, taking a basil leaf with it. “I’m used to being independent. I was brought up that way.”
“Good. Va bene .” She reaches across Chiara and pats the top of my hand. “You will be strong.”
I can only smile in thanks and wonder what it is about this family. I already love them.
The boys fling noodles at each other and one of them lands on my arm. Maria removes it and tosses it back at them, clucking until they sit still and eat with their forks instead of their hands. I turn my head to hide my laughter and catch eyes with Chiara.
“I so needed this,” I say with as much sincerity as I can muster. “You have no idea.”
She beams at me, because she does know. She’s got me figured out more than I do.
Our second course, il secondo , is sliced beef, asparagusdrizzled with olive oil, more bread, and cheeses. I’m already feeling satisfied from the pasta, but it all looks so good, I can’t help but take a little bit of everything. And I hadn’t even considered dessert, but Liana waltzes in with a chocolate torte. I don’t ask for fear of being rude, but I’m curious if this is a special meal for company or if they eat like this every night.
After il dolce is finished and the plates are stowed in the kitchen for later, Maria and her boys file out with hugs and kisses to all, even me. Liana emerges from a room down the hall shortly after, dressed in a tight red skirt and matching flowy top with a glitzy, beaded strap around the neck. Her black heels rap the floor with every step, raven hair rhythmically caressing her shoulders.
“Not even dead would you see me dressed
The space is small, but clean and organized. The scent of garlic makes my mouth water. The cramped, lemon-yellowkitchen along the far wall is teeming with women, each with a utensil hovering over a different bowl or pot. First impression tells me this is Chiara’s grandmother, mother, and sister.
The three women look up when the door closes behind us, utensils are abandoned and hands rise in the air. Excitedly chatting in singsong phrases, they swarm me. The shortest of the women takes my hands in hers and leads me to a chair at the dining table.
“You are Philippa?”
“Pippa, Mamma.” Chiara rolls her eyes and leans toward me. “Stuck in her ways. She might not call you Pippa.”
I giggle, completely overwhelmed with the warm welcome into a real Italian home. And touched that she already talked to her family about me.
My first impression was correct. My hostesses are Chiara’s grandmother Anna Maria, who speaks no English; her mom, Cristina, who looks only slightly older than Chiara; her sister who might as well be her twin, Liana, already twenty but still living at home.
The front door swings open and two young boys bounce in and run to Chiara’s mother, shouting, “Nonna! Nonna!” A tired-eyed woman saunters in behind them, and Chiara introduces her as Maria, her oldest sister. I’m starting to wonder if all Italian girl names end in the letter A .
Dizzying Italian words fly around me, and Chiara leans in to tell me that normally dinner would wait for her sister’s husband—her family always tries to eat together—but he’s stuck at work. I can’t even remember the last time my family shared a meal.
Even with Chiara’s father away in New York, the tiny apartment is bursting at the seams. It’s a little overwhelming for this only child, but there’s something comforting about witnessing it. Chairs of various sizes are brought in from other rooms, and somehow we all fit at a single round dining table. I tuck my elbows to my sides as I tear at a hunk of bread and guzzle a glass of water.
“Philippa,” Cristina says as she sets out the first course, or il primo piatto . “You are young to travel Italia alone.” Her tone is more curious than reprimanding, and I’m grateful. I’d hate to have to return to the Vatican and strap all my anxiety back on.
The fettuccine wraps around my fork, taking a basil leaf with it. “I’m used to being independent. I was brought up that way.”
“Good. Va bene .” She reaches across Chiara and pats the top of my hand. “You will be strong.”
I can only smile in thanks and wonder what it is about this family. I already love them.
The boys fling noodles at each other and one of them lands on my arm. Maria removes it and tosses it back at them, clucking until they sit still and eat with their forks instead of their hands. I turn my head to hide my laughter and catch eyes with Chiara.
“I so needed this,” I say with as much sincerity as I can muster. “You have no idea.”
She beams at me, because she does know. She’s got me figured out more than I do.
Our second course, il secondo , is sliced beef, asparagusdrizzled with olive oil, more bread, and cheeses. I’m already feeling satisfied from the pasta, but it all looks so good, I can’t help but take a little bit of everything. And I hadn’t even considered dessert, but Liana waltzes in with a chocolate torte. I don’t ask for fear of being rude, but I’m curious if this is a special meal for company or if they eat like this every night.
After il dolce is finished and the plates are stowed in the kitchen for later, Maria and her boys file out with hugs and kisses to all, even me. Liana emerges from a room down the hall shortly after, dressed in a tight red skirt and matching flowy top with a glitzy, beaded strap around the neck. Her black heels rap the floor with every step, raven hair rhythmically caressing her shoulders.
“Not even dead would you see me dressed
Similar Books
