To my knowledge, there isn't a drop of Italian blood in my veins. But I was born there, and my parents raised me under the influence of the Italian culture they enjoyed for several years while my dad, an Air Force veteran, was stationed there for a the better part of the eighties. They cooked Italian food, decorated with Italian art, taught me Italian words, and talked about life there. I've always felt very Italian, and not one bit Oklahoman. Of the many places we lived, and we lived in some fascinating places, I've always had the feeling they loved Italy the best. I only wish I could remember it. I've grown up feeling Italian and thinking Italian, and I guess you could say I consider myself a first-generation Italian.
(And there go my fiance's eyes, rolling in embarrassment.)
But if he thought about it for a second, one could make the argument that, like me, he is displaced too. Andy has confessed many times that despite being born in Oklahoma, he doesn't feel at all Oklahoman either. He was raised under the influence of the wild Colorado mountains. His parents took him and his younger brother camping and backpacking their entire childhoods, and the gravity of that influence became obvious to me not long after we began dating. Among Andy's belongings are books about Colorado and backpacking, camping paraphernalia, stacks of t-shirts emblazoned with the names of mountains and their elevations, photos and posters of the breathtaking Rockies. It's my opinion that it's not the soil on which your feet stand, but the landscape in which your heart finds peace, comfort, and passion that makes you belong somewhere. I'm hugely grateful that Oklahoma became our limbo or middle-ground between our hearts' homes, so that we were able to find each other.
Naturally, I've feathered my nest with Italian touches. I will say it's very difficult to find decent Italian-looking items in Oklahoma. You can find "Tuscan-inspired" merchandise all over the place, but it's often just short of tacky, if not totally tacky. Seeing print after print of watery Venetian canals and rolling cyprus-dotted fields with hazy piazzas in the background, gaudy mass-produced dishes with a "Tuscan design" is almost akin to being Latino, wanting to reflect your culture in your home, and, frustratingly, finding little more than sombrero-topped figurines. I have to be careful with my choices so as not to smack my guests in the face with the overwhelming presence of Italian influences. Admittedly, I have a handful of items that actually say "Italia" or "Venezia," and I honestly adore the sign in my kitchen that announces in bold red, "Bella Cucina, Buon Appetito". Many modern homes are built with Tuscan roofs and Tuscan kitchens, full of glossy golden brown granite counter tops and arched doorways. Fine. But my kitchen is closer to the actual size of an Italian kitchen - tiny. (Though my parents would quickly and loudly tell me that their Italian kitchen was at least half as big as mine and much less equipped. I hear you, Mom and Dad. But you get my point. The Tuscan-style kitchen built in a Midwestern American suburb two years ago is FAR from the true Tuscan kitchen that has cooked a few hundred years' worth of meals and is probably overrun with scorpions from time to time.)
When I own a house, my kitchen will be small and full of food where you can see it. It will be decorated by the colors and textures of earthenware and copper, with the smells of formaggio, pomodori, and pane (cheese, tomatoes, and bread). Banged up copper molds will hang on the walls, and my kitchen tools will hang over my stove. My pots and pans will hang over a counter top somewhere in the middle. It will look less like this nonsense:
You probably think I'm crazy for wanting an old kitchen. And for the most part, I agree. It is the 21st century after all, so a dishwasher and refrigerator are acceptable appliances. (Though I lived most of my life without a dishwasher, so I won't feel impoverished without one.) But I want it to wear with pride the meals that have been cooked there - the scratches of the knives from slicing through bread and vegetables, the lingering scent of bruschetta toasting in the oven, the starchy water stain on the metal pots from boiling pasta noodles. I look forward to being in my kitchen at least three times a day, accumulating precious hours cooking for my family, filling their bellies with good wholesome food and their heads with memories of crazy old Mom, who always thought she was really Italian.
(And there go my fiance's eyes, rolling in embarrassment.)
But if he thought about it for a second, one could make the argument that, like me, he is displaced too. Andy has confessed many times that despite being born in Oklahoma, he doesn't feel at all Oklahoman either. He was raised under the influence of the wild Colorado mountains. His parents took him and his younger brother camping and backpacking their entire childhoods, and the gravity of that influence became obvious to me not long after we began dating. Among Andy's belongings are books about Colorado and backpacking, camping paraphernalia, stacks of t-shirts emblazoned with the names of mountains and their elevations, photos and posters of the breathtaking Rockies. It's my opinion that it's not the soil on which your feet stand, but the landscape in which your heart finds peace, comfort, and passion that makes you belong somewhere. I'm hugely grateful that Oklahoma became our limbo or middle-ground between our hearts' homes, so that we were able to find each other.
Naturally, I've feathered my nest with Italian touches. I will say it's very difficult to find decent Italian-looking items in Oklahoma. You can find "Tuscan-inspired" merchandise all over the place, but it's often just short of tacky, if not totally tacky. Seeing print after print of watery Venetian canals and rolling cyprus-dotted fields with hazy piazzas in the background, gaudy mass-produced dishes with a "Tuscan design" is almost akin to being Latino, wanting to reflect your culture in your home, and, frustratingly, finding little more than sombrero-topped figurines. I have to be careful with my choices so as not to smack my guests in the face with the overwhelming presence of Italian influences. Admittedly, I have a handful of items that actually say "Italia" or "Venezia," and I honestly adore the sign in my kitchen that announces in bold red, "Bella Cucina, Buon Appetito". Many modern homes are built with Tuscan roofs and Tuscan kitchens, full of glossy golden brown granite counter tops and arched doorways. Fine. But my kitchen is closer to the actual size of an Italian kitchen - tiny. (Though my parents would quickly and loudly tell me that their Italian kitchen was at least half as big as mine and much less equipped. I hear you, Mom and Dad. But you get my point. The Tuscan-style kitchen built in a Midwestern American suburb two years ago is FAR from the true Tuscan kitchen that has cooked a few hundred years' worth of meals and is probably overrun with scorpions from time to time.)
When I own a house, my kitchen will be small and full of food where you can see it. It will be decorated by the colors and textures of earthenware and copper, with the smells of formaggio, pomodori, and pane (cheese, tomatoes, and bread). Banged up copper molds will hang on the walls, and my kitchen tools will hang over my stove. My pots and pans will hang over a counter top somewhere in the middle. It will look less like this nonsense:
and more like this:
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