Memoirs of a Fat Girl

I don’t know anyone who’s not a fan of Italian food. Pasta, cheeses, fresh vegetables, red meats, herbs, rich tomato sauces and decadent, creamy desserts. Even if you’re a vegetarian (and I’ve never seen an Italian vegetarian), you can find something mind-blowingly superb for yourself in their plentiful array of delicacies.

I’m not a vegetarian, and I love Italian food. Dating an Italian is one thing for your palate, but going to his parent’s house is another thing altogether. There you’ll find excellent everything, a cantina filled with his father’s homemade wine and bevy of cured meats, right beside his mother’s endless jars of sauces, preserves and picklings.

A couple of nights ago we stopped by for just a few minutes. Two hours, some homemade prosciutto, parmesan cheese, olive stuffed loaf, white wine and spiced sausages later, Sandy's mom is still insisting, “Mangia, mangia!” while his dad refills my glass.

Everything is so good, but I’m beyond capacity. “Please, I can’t,” I tell her, “It’s all delicious, but I’m too full!”

She looks at me quizzically. “But you can eat,” she says. “You skeeny.”

God Bless that woman.