Hold the Spaghetti and Meatballs

In my last post, I talked about my very ethnic last name. This wasn't planned, but this week's blog also deals with ethnicity. Somehow, I've discovered, I am now the Giada De Laurentiis of my inner circle. Why?

Is it my gnocchi? Ravioli? Biscotti?

Nope. It's my last name. For some reason, anyone I know or come in contact with, assumes I can make a mean meatball or a flavorful fettucine at the drop of a (Gucci) hat.

I'm a pretty good cook, but only because I taught myself through trial and error; I became a cook through simple chemistry and honest feedback.

"That's pretty bland."

"Your turkey is absolutely juicy."

"Awesome peanut butter pie. Heart attack waiting to happen, but worth every bite."

(Plus, it didn't help that I managed to burn spaghetti and switch the salt and sugar measurements for a cookie recipe during my early years. I learned how to cook at the School of Hard Knocks not at the House of Ferrannini.)

I have friends of many races, creeds, and colors. They don't seem to have the same problem.

I often think, would these people who ask me about my spaghetti and meatballs ask a Ms. Jackson how good her fried chicken is? Ask a Mr. Lee for his fried rice recipe?

No, that would be insulting. So, why isn't it insulting to ask someone of Italian heritage the same question?

If you ask anyone who truly knows me, they will tell you my favorite food is not spaghetti or pasta or noodles, it's sushi. That's right, folks, if God welcomes me into his kingdom I hope there's plenty of nigiri, sashimi, and rolls waiting for me.

The truth of the matter is that in some parts of the country, ethnicity shapes how we are defined and viewed by other people. When I was growing up, people would ask, "What are you?" What they meant was, what nationality are you? More pointedly, what is the nationality of your name?

When I moved out West, it was, "Where are you from?" And "from" meant the last city you lived in, not your nationality, as some people back East would assume would be the answer to their question. Where "your people are from" would solicit Sicily, and not Silicon Valley, for example.

Race, creed, and culture are made from such rich recipes of good and bad ingredients; good for the lessons we learn from that which is unfamiliar but bad for the stereotypes we bake into the mix.

For example, I have dark eye and dark eyes. I guess it's because I'm "Italian", right? Well, last time I checked, I was actually born in Troy, NY not Italy. And last time I checked, Italians can have blond hair, too.

While it doesn't bother me like it used to when I was younger, I still get hung-up in the hang-ups of how much a word means (specifically, a name). So, before you dial me to complain about this blog, I admit that I have learned to take the Italian jokes and references in stride. Just don't ask if I'm in the mob.

Oh, and for the record, I've never seen the Godfather in its entirety.