I don't enjoy cooking but I do like homemade Italian food and interesting dinner companions.
After all we've done for you, you ungrateful son-of-a-me.
Despite my best efforts to avoid a fight on the first day of school, I have to flee a brawl.
My husband has many talents (e.g. making risotto, doing mental math, assembling IKEA furniture), but teaching me his native tongue is not one of them.
“What I did today and yesterday is not arrogant, it’s just proactive,” Renzo explains.
I’m looking forward to the day when I don’t feel like a 10-year-old only daughter whose adoption papers were just finalized.
“Why did you let me come in then but not out?! Are you going to keep me here as a prisoner?” my father-in-law demands.
Remember the signora with the URGENTISSIMO sarcasm stamp? I was completely wrong about her.
“You and your husband have the exact same birth date?” the Milan city hall employee asks me. "No, no, we don't," I say, showing her my passport while a nice cup of anxiety brews in my belly.
We head to Agenzia delle Entrate to get my codice fiscale (more or less an Italian social security number) and tessera sanitaria, a card that will allow me to enroll in the public health system in Italy (suck it, Paul Ryan).