It's the Mammas who rule...

In honor of Mother's Day, I thought I'd post this photo I took about two weeks ago at the First Communion of a friend's daughter. Having arrived late (as usual), we spent the whole time at the rear of the church looking at the back of everyone's heads. We'd never been to this particular church before, and I was starting to doubt we were in the right one since I couldn't spot our friends anywhere. After the mass we milled about until we finally found them. Turns out this is why we hadn't spotted them earlier: They had been seated just beyond the front row of pews in these reserved seats. You'll have to click on the photo in order to read the signs, which both say: RISERVATI AI GENITORI which means: Reserved for parents.

Makes sense.

But look at the fine print. In the lower right hand corner of the sign in the front row it says: (mamme)--mothers. And in the lower right hand corner of the second row sign it says: (papa')--fathers.

So they reserved the first row for moms while the dads were relegated to the second row?

I've blogged about the mamma mia phenomenon before, and this is a prime example.

You may think I'm a day late in wishing everyone a Happy Mother's Day.

Nah.

It doesn't matter when I say it--in Italy, every day is La Festa della Mamma.

Buona Festa del Papa'

As promised, here's a photo of the gift my third grader made at school for Father's Day:

Yup. It's a bottle of wine, with the label designed by my daughter. For those who may remember, my daughter's class took a field trip last fall where they learned how wine is made. They actually took off their shoes and socks and smushed the grapes themselves. That was in September. Six months later...a bottle of wine!

It's not half bad, either (as long as you block out the image of all those toes in your wine...)

Carnevale has arrived!

Carnevale season began this past Thursday, but the costume frenzy began in mid-January. If you're Italian (child or adult), your mother or nonna (grandmother) might make your costume. Or you could buy one at a store like the one we visited last weekend.

You could start with a mask:
Add a hat:

Or go all out from head (note the wigs in the background) to toe:

Here's the line-up of children's costumes:

A fireworks display...

...and kilos of confetti and string--enough to make you thankful you're not an Italian street cleaner.

This will be the 7th Carnevale I've spent in Italy, and I must say that this next item was a new one for me:

If you can't make out the writing, it says: Hill Billy Teeth. Do Italians really know what a Hill Billy is? I asked my Italian husband what he thought Hill Billy meant, and he said: "It's the guy's name, right?" (In Italy, people often introduce themselves and sign their names with their last name first, then first name. As in: "Hi, I'm Hill, Billy. Nice to meet ya.")

Um--no.

I'm guessing the store won't be selling out of this item anytime soon.

I'll post some more Carnevale photos later this week.

P.S. Today is the first blogiversary of Italian Moments!

Aaaaand it's a wrap.

The holiday season finally ended here in Italy with the Epiphany on January 6. On the night of the 5th, a good witch called La Befana visits Italian bambini as they sleep, leaving gifts. In case you've lost count, that's three--count 'em--three gift-getting occasions for Italian kids in the space of one month (including San Nicolo on December 6, and Christmas). Italian parents are now officially out of money.

If you haven't heard the legend of the Befana, you might want to check out Tomie dePaola's picture book here. But basically, it's the story of a cranky old lady who watches the procession of the Three Kings pass by her door. When a boy tells her that they're on their way to visit a baby king, she decides she doesn't want to miss out. She follows the northern star, but by the time she gets there, the holy family is long gone. (Obviously, showing up late has been a recurring theme in Italian culture for thousands of years...).

Italian children don't put out stockings for Babbo Natale (Santa Claus), but they do for the Befana.

According to legend, the Befana is supposed to sweep up before she leaves. I'm not sure what type of broom she's using, but it's the kind that leaves all the big dust bunnies behind. I'd like to see her update to one of those fancy vacuum cleaners that vacuums up the dust and washes the floors at the same time. Maybe even a rider vacuum (do they have those?).

She's only supposed to sweep the rooms where the children sleep, though. That's okay...next January 5, I'll have one kid sleep in the kitchen, one the living room, and the other in the garage.

How about you--are you glad the holidays are over?

Ringing in a Super New Year

Whether your New Year's Eve outfit is a ballgown or a pair of sweats, your underwear should be red, according to Italian tradition. Apparently, it brings luck. It's probably safe to say that quite a few red-underwear-clad Italians did, indeed, get lucky on New Year's Eve.

I'm thinking Superman must have been Italian--perhaps his real name was Clarko Kento?

P.S. Speaking of super men, Happy Birthday to my Dad today!

Tanti Auguri is like saying Best Wishes, and Italians use it for all occasions. They actually say it more often than Buon Compleanno, which means Happy Birthday. In fact, the Italian Happy Birthday song goes like this:

Tanti Auguri a te,

Tanti Auguri a te

Tanti Auguri a Dad (this line doesn't flow as well, does it?)

Tanti Auguri a te!

Happy Birthday, Dad!

Buone Feste!

For those of you who celebrate Christmas, I apologize for the belated greeting, and I hope your Christmas was a happy one!

The Italian word for Christmas, Natale, is only one vowel away from my name, Natalie. I must admit that when I stroll through the city at this time of year, I feel famous. Buon means good, so at first glance, it appears that all the shops are festooned with signs that read: Good Natalie! Love that.

The Italian way to say Happy New Year is Felice Anno Nuovo. I'd just like to point out the critically important second n in the word anno. About 12 years ago, I was writing out holiday cards to family and friends in the States, as Davide, my Italian boyfriend (now husband) looked on. At the bottom of the cards, I had written: Buon Natale e Felice Ano Nuovo. (Note the lack of the second n in anno.) Davide started to laugh--one of those laughs where he can't speak for a good 60 seconds, complete with tears streaming down his face. When he finally pulled himself together, he told me about the missing n.

Apparently, I was wishing my loved ones a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Anus. Oops.

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So with all the n's in tact, allow me to wish you all a Felice AnNo Nuovo and a prosperous , healthy 2008!

P.S. Here's another double-n greeting--this time for my mom. Happy Birthday!

Ye Olde Pig's Foot

Close your eyes. Now picture your holiday table laden with a scrumptious feast. What do you see? Turkey? Ham? Latkes? Your great aunt's marshmallow yam casserole? Okay, now feast your eyes on this:

Look closely. Yes, nestled on a bed of lentils is...a pig's foot. Complete with manicured toenails, it appears. Zampone is typical fare during the holiday season in Italy, and it's most common on New Year's Eve. The lentils are thought to bring luck. Not to the pig, apparently.

I've tasted this, and actually it's quite good. But it's only good if you're not staring at the actual pig's foot while you eat. I know, I'm a hypocritical carnivore--I love eating meat, I just don't want to be reminded what it looked like before it came to my plate. If you'd like to surprise your family this holiday season, click here for cooking instructions. Although you might want to have them taste it first before you reveal what it is.

Buon Appetito!

Holiday Wake-Up Call

Today is la festa di San Nicolo here in Italy--the festival of Saint Nicholas. Saint Nick is considered the patron saint of children, sailors, ships and the needy (proving that saints were multi-tasking as early as the 3rd century).

Last night, San Nicolo came to our home while we slept, and left gifts for our three children. This year, like most years, the holiday snuck up on my husband and me--er--San Nicolo. By the time San Nicolo got his act together and finally went out to buy gifts for my kids (at 7:00 last night), it was slim pickins in the toy shops. My youngest daughter wanted some battery-operated talking parrot. But last night there were none to be had. Of course, San Nicolo brought a talking parrot to two kids in her Kindergarten class, and these kids brought the parrots in today for show-and-tell. When my daughter pointed out the unfairness of this, I said that San Nicolo was obviously not on the ball this year, but he'd certainly pass her request on to his cousin, Santa Claus.

In other European countries, including Germany, children put out their boots, and Sinter Klaus fills them with oranges and candy. Lucky, lucky parents.

However, I choose to look at the failed talking parrot incident as a wake-up call. I vow to get my Christmas shopping done before December 24th this year. For once. Mark my words. And if I can get ahold of the coveted talking parrot, I will post a photo on my blog.

Until then, here's wishing you small crowds and ample parking near the front of the store. And if those things elude you...lots of online shopping with a high speed internet connection.

It's alive!

My blog, that is. After almost a month of neglect, I found it gasping for breath, eyes closed, pulse weak, begging for a glass of water.

I wanted to post about Halloween, and the fact that no one goes trick-or-treating, even though the shops are all festooned with Halloween decorations in October. And then I wanted to explain that we always have a Halloween party for our children and their friends, and take them trick-or-treating in our building, but we have to distribute bags of candy ahead of time to the neighbors so they'll have something to give when the kids come by. And how some of the neighbors had to be taught trick-or-treating basics 101, because the first year, some of them would dump the all the candy in one kid's bag, wave to the rest of the candyless kids, smile, then shut the door.

But no one wants to read a Halloween post on the eve of Thanksgiving, so I'm moving on to Turkey Day--a brief post today, then more tomorrow.

Every year I make Thanksgiving dinner for my husband's family, who are all Thanksgiving experts, of course, because they've seen American Thanksgiving dinners in movies.

A few years ago on Thanksgiving, my father-in-law gathered my daughters up onto his lap, and said in his let-me-tell-you-a-story voice:

"Girls, today is a very special day for Americans."

My girls looked at him expectantly.

He continued: "Today is the anniversary of the day the Americans won their independence from England."


In the end, it's all about food and family.

Happy 4th of--er, Thanksgiving, to all!

Happy Communism (I mean, Labor) Day!

Yesterday, May 1, was Labor Day here in Italy. Labor Day in the U.S. has always meant the end of summer, new school supplies, and the last day to wear white shoes without being ticketed by the fashion police.

Here in Italy, however, it's become a mini-celebration of communism. That's right--Italy has a communist party, and they literally paint the town red on May 1. Here's a photo of the nearby village adorned with red flags:
This is also the start of the sagra season. A sagra is an outdoor cook-out open to the public, with music and dancing. Sagras are held as fundraisers by many types of organizations, like local soccer teams, youth groups...and, yes, the communist party.

I took this photo of the knick-knack booth (sorry it's so blurry...). This cracked me up, because at the other sagras, there's often a booth with toys and balloons for sale. New toys and balloons. And the communist booth? The items were all second-hand with no fixed prices...you just gave whatever you wanted to donate.
This may not seem strange to Americans, where garage sales and thrift shops are common. But Italians never have garage sales, and I've never seen a thrift shop anywhere. If Italians have old clothes to donate, they give them to the church. So I guess it's fitting that the communists wouldn't sell anything new, just in case it might be seen as too (gasp!) capitalist.

Here's a shot of the band warming up. I'm not sure what the giant laminated pigs are supposed to represent. Frankly, with my American accent, I was afraid to ask.

Note the tuba on the right...one guy traded off between an electric guitar and a tuba. Another guy manned the accordian, and the drummer brought up the rear. I suppose we now know why communists aren't particularly known for their musical excellence.

Perhaps the communists felt better when they saw someone actually dancing to their music...my son. He loved it.

Although I did tell my husband that if our son started marching around with straight arms and legs, we'd probably have to leave. If not, someone would have surely come to revoke my American passport.

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Most Italians scoff at the communists, and don't really take them seriously. An often heard sentiment is: "Sure, it's easy to be a communist in Italy, with their nice cars, fine wine and la bella vita. Why don't they go live in Russia? THEN we'll see how much they like being communist!" Lots of gesticulation is required when saying this. If you want to give it a try, here's what to do:

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1. Hold out your hand, palm up.

2. Now bring your fingertips up and touch them to the tip of your thumb.

3. Wag your hand back and forth.

4. The speed of the wagging must increase with the volume of your voice.

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Now you're talking!

Move Over, Easter Bunny

Since I'm American and my husband is Italian, we've always tried to give our children the best of both worlds--two languages, two home countries, two cultures...and two kinds of Easter eggs.

In Italy, there is no Easter Bunny, not like there is in America. That's right, the Easter Bunny DOES exist. Yup. For sure. Definitely. (Can you tell my 7-year-old daughter is reading over my shoulder?) And the Easter Bunny does visit our house...he hops right over the Atlantic, carrying baskets for my children. Nice of him to make the effort, don't you think?

Italian kids don't dye eggs, they don't do the baskets with fake grass, and there are no Easter egg hunts. What they do have are these gigantic chocolate eggs wrapped in foil. This photo was taken at my in-law's house 3 years ago when my daughters were 4 and almost 2. As you can see, the package is almost as tall as my then 2-year-old. Each egg has a surprise inside--a stuffed animal, a game, etc.

They even have eggs for adults. Last Easter, my 23-year-old niece got an egg from her grandparents with a necklace inside. Some have scarves, some even have lingerie.

Three years ago, my girls were too young to be influenced by brand names. Ah, the innocence. Now that they're older, they don't just want any old egg--nay. It has to have their favorite cartoon characters or just the right prize inside. Ah, it warms the heart to think the real Easter message is coming through loud and clear, doesn't it? (??)

If you look closely, you'll notice more foil on the table behind my girls. Since there isn't an Easter Bunny to dole out the goodies, kids receive eggs from all the adults in their families--parents, grandparents, uncles, and aunts. And in Italy, most families aren't usually scattered across the country, as they often are in the U.S.

Let me tell you, this makes for a lot of eggs. Which makes for a lot of chocolate. Which makes for a lot of weight put on by loving parents like myself who are simply trying to save their children from becoming victims of chocolate overdose.

Oh, the sacrifices we parents make for our kids. (As I reach for another piece of chocolate... )

Buona Festa del Papà!

Happy Father's Day!

My girls made these boxes for my husband today...the smaller one was painted by my 4-year-old, who was more into the process than the product...and ended up with more paint on her body than the box. The larger box was painted by my 7-year-old, who found it difficult to focus on the fact that Easter doesn't factor into Father's Day (that's a fluffy yellow chick glued to the top).

You may be wondering why I'm posting about Father's Day in March...it's rainy, windy and cold here (a bad laundry day)--definitely not time to break out the grills for a summer barbeque. It's also Monday, when all (or most) of the Italian papàs go to work.

So why is today Father's Day in Italy? Being a Catholic country, Italy recognizes a different saint for almost every day of the year. And March 19 is the day they honor San Guiseppe, a.k.a. Saint Joseph--Jesus' legal father-here-on-earth.

It makes sense to have Father's Day on Saint Joseph's day--I get the connection. But why they picked March 19 to honor St. Joseph, I'm not sure...obviously no one thought about making Father's Day convenient, did they? Spain and Portugal also celebrate Father's Day on March 19, but the vast majority of the world's nations celebrate it in the summer. Some exceptions are Australia and New Zealand (September), and a few freezing cold countries who celebrate it in winter (including Russia who celebrates in February...not many barbeques going on there, I'd bet.)

I like having Father's Day on a Sunday--it's more relaxed, most people don't work, and you have time to really celebrate. And I especially love celebrating it in summer--grilling out, shorts and t-shirts, etc.

Maybe I'll write to the Pope and ask if he couldn't officially trade St. Joseph's day with some other saint's day in summer. For example, Saint Bernard of Clairvaux's day is August 20. Ever heard of him? Neither have I. Apparently, he's the patron saint of bees, beekeepers, candlemakers and wax-melters. I doubt he'd mind trading places with St. Joseph. And I don't think the bees could care less.

Or maybe there's a patron saint of barbeques? I'll have to look into that...

But in the meantime, Buona Festa del Papà!

Buona Festa della Donna!

Today is La Festa della Donna, or Woman's Day here in Italy. It always falls on March 8, and it's basically a day in which women get together and go to happy hour and hang out with their girlfriends. All except for those women who are ready to crawl into bed by 8:30 because they have a teething 14-month-old whose molars keep waking him up in the middle of the night. Nope--those women are at home. As usual. But I digress...

Women are given these yellow, puffy flowers called mimosas--men give them to the women in their lives, and women give them to each other. They were even handing some out to all the women at the supermarket today, and here are mine:
I know--they look a bit like weeds, don't they? I mean, the thought is nice, and everything, but who thought these flowers would make a good Woman's Day symbol? What about tulips? Or roses? Or jewelry? Or...I know...shoes! A nice pair of Italian leather shoes. Now that's my idea of celebrating Woman's Day.

Although my preschooler did come home today and present me with this:

Cute, huh? I guess a finger-painting of a pair of shoes wouldn't have the same effect, would it?

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For all you females out there, if you don't get flowers (or colorful, puffy weeds) today, go ahead and treat yourself to a pair of Italian shoes. Or whatever floats your boat. Especially if your name is Donna (which means "woman" in Italian). Or Regina (which means "queen.") The Donnas and Reginas of the world definitely qualify for two pairs of shoes.

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Happy Woman's Day!

Martedì Grasso

Martedì Grasso is the Italian version of Marti Gras, or "Fat Tuesday," the last day of Carnevale before Lent begins on Ash Wednesday. It's the last chance for Italians to eat, drink and be merry before giving up whatever they give up for Lent.

Most Italian children have 2 sets of costumes, one for outdoors and one for inside. On the left is a shot of my kids--my daughters are dressed as a cow and giraffe that they wore to the parade in Opicinia (see last post). My son is dressed as Prince Charming...he doesn't have an outside costume, which is the beauty of being 14 months old--he has no clue he's missing out on anything. We just bundled him up in his regular clothes since it was freezing outside, and he was none the wiser.

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The last two photos were taken at an indoor party for kids. As you can see, my giraffe and cow have both turned into Snow White, accompanied by Prince Charming (although in the last photo, we had to drop the "Charming" part and just call him "Prince").

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At indoor Carnevale parties, there's usually a magician, really loud music so no one can hear what the magician is saying, and about 10 pounds of confetti per child. Kids run around wild, fueled by a sugar high from traditional treats like crostoli and frittole (fried pastries), working themselves into a confetti-throwing frenzy while the adults stand around chatting...except for me. It's hard to chat while using your body as a shield so your toddler won't be mowed over by a pack of sugar-crazed 5th grade boys play-fighting each other with balloon swords.

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I didn't mind, though--at least it kept me away from the food table...

Carnevale Parade in Opicina

We're back from the long weekend, so here's a recap of Saturday's Carnevale festivities...

These are some photos of the parade we saw on Saturday in Opicina, the village where my girls go to school. The village was packed with people. The weather would have been perfect if not for the blistering cold wind, but we still had a good time. Basically, parents and small children lined the streets watching the parade, while teenagers chased each other with shaving cream and spray cans of this sticky, colored stuff that doesn't wash off easily if you're caught in the crossfire (I know this for a fact).

It was funny to watch the teens...some things don't change from culture to culture. Like American teens at Halloween, their Italian counterparts were dressed in "cool" costumes (no Minnie Mouse or Donald Duck), and most of them weren't wearing jackets--a big sign advertising: "My parents are home in their warm houses, and have no idea I'm jacketless." In trying to be cool, they must have been freezing. And then watching them chase each other was interesting...it was usually initiated by the boys. If a boy had his eye on a member of the opposite sex, the ritual went something like this:

1. Grin and wave the spray can of shaving cream/silly string/colorful hard-to-wash-off goo at the girl you like.

2. Announce that you're about to spray her.

3. Your object of desire will then communicate her degree of receptivity by either a.) rolling her eyes (this is not good), or b.) shrieking and running away (this is a blantant invitation to start spraying).



Since I can't figure out how to post new photos here, I'll create a new post for yesterday's Carnevale party...