Hi there,

My first naughties style blogpost is here. I kind of wish I was typing this into a myspace page in an incompatible-with-mac font, but I want to be just like Stanley, so I’ve copied his book font choice. as well as possible.

My first of many meals to come. Prepared with helping hands, but truly requiring no more than two hands, if that.

The first chapter is sweet and all-american. The remains of 60’s anti-Italian anti-immigrant sentiment in the US are still lingering generations after in the form of a slightly (and sweetly) defensive undertone. I, raised in the era of “all Italians are hot, Italo-americans are all famous, Lady Gaga is ITALIAN”, find this attitude slightly confusing, but understandable. And truly, the protective streak makes his recounting of the childhood dinner all the more endearing.

As claimed by most Italians, theirs was the envied lunchbox. Everyone was jealous of Tucci’s dinner table. (I must say, now in 2023, I am sure that we are all in fact jealous of Tucci’s dinner table, which comes with a bonus Emily Blunt and John Krasinski.) Who knows whether this is just a cute exaggeration of the truth or just how Stanley sees his parents. From his descriptions I imagine his mother as a tired but effortlessly well-dressed master home-cook. I’m sure that kind of lunchtime envy made Stanley quite the popular boy. I was definitely not in the same position growing up. My mother is a great cook, but few English girls in my class were craving Tunisian Banataj, let alone knew how to spell it. Also, the revered cooks in my family were perhaps not yet the mothers, but the grandmothers and great aunts, and their old measurementless recipes.

But the way my Italian friends talk about food definitely does bear some resemblance to my Jewish, Tunisian experience, where food is a very familial form of love and care. More protective and less romantic in its display of love and affection than French or other cuisines. To be happy is to be well-fed.

Stanley introduced this simple recipe first: his mother’s night off from the stove, time for the father to step up and receive applause for a two-ingredient dish. SPAGHETTI AGLIO E OLIO. Pasta with garlic and oil. Much like the Jews (once again) the Friday night dinner is the night off, the day of rest. That’s how it’s presented at least: really it’s just a culmination of a mother’s tedious preparative work from Monday to Thursday. But for the kids and the father, a night of simplicity.

I decided to immortalise this first culinary test on film, so I don’t need to describe my process quite as much this time.

It was a sunny day, with a little breeze from my overworked AC. I had gotten into a little tiff with a friend as to where we might find a good tripod for my phone. One of those tiffs borne out of frustration and heat. But I had woken up on the right side of the bed, so we were both quietly determined to create a tasty meal and a fun video. I know it may seem like I would be great on camera (I’m chatty and I send weekly snapchat vlogs to whoever’s willing to listen), but I had a very… quiet counterpart. It is actually very easy to feel watched in complete silence. I got into a rhythm and I just reaaaally wanted pasta. I was careful, my mum tells me it’s easy to make mistakes in easy tasks. I get a little, careless. So I – carefully – got to boiling.

It was surprisingly tasty, and who can resist eating on a Milanese balcony?