The Reluctant Tuscan by Phil Doran

and some too embarrassing to mention.
    But the first maxim of show business is to give your audience what it wants, so I just made things up. I told them that, contrary to his dynamic screen persona, Sylvester Stallone was a man of towering intellect and profound depth, prone to reading Kierkegaard in the original Danish and spending long hours in his candlelit study ruminating over the duality of human nature.
    As for Cousin Spartaco’s burning interest in the after-market enlargement of Britney Spears’s chest, I told him I had no firsthand knowledge. I could only offer my own personal philosophy toward beautiful women, which is: “Just fool me, I don’t much care how you do it.”
    â€œBuon appetito, tutti, la cena è pronta,” Flavia announced as she came down the stairs leading a parade of women bearing platters of steaming food.
    â€œCan I help?” Nancy asked.
    â€œNo, no, you sit right here by me.” Dino herded us to a table that was now spread, from sea to shining sea, with mammoth mountains of manicotti, cavernous canyons of cannelloni, and roiling rivers of rigatoni.
    â€œSo, where’s your son Rudolfo?” I asked as we sat down.
    â€œHe’s coming. He called to say that he’s going to be late because he got some important Buddhist thing to do.” A wave of misery washed over Dino’s face.
    I wanted to say something consoling, but I was distracted by Uncle Carmuzzi and Dottore Spotto insisting I take bread from the baskets each was holding. Of course, one basket was full of the pane toscano favored by the Florentines and the other, an oregano loaf loved by the people of Ravenna.
    I took a piece from each man and, forking a slice of prosciutto, made myself a sandwich. I took a lusty bite and smiled at both of them, indicating that I was enjoying the top slice every bit as much as the bottom.
    â€œMangia, mangia,” Flavia commanded, plopping a huge serving of what she described as a “rhapsodic” tagliatelle ai porcini on Nancy’s plate.
    â€œPer favore, signora,” Nancy protested. “Non posso mangiare così tanto.”
    Flavia reacted as if Nancy had just desecrated a church, launching into a lecture condemning her, and most American women, for being too skinny. And by denying her body the food it needed, Nancy was all but guaranteeing herself a series of crippling illnesses and most assuredly an early death. Faced with such dire predictions, we put our heads down and ate until our underwear felt tight and it was difficult to breathe.
    Unlike the French, who tend to sink into reverential silence when the food arrives, the act of eating merely increases the Italian need for volume and drama. Somewhere between the primi and the secondi a row broke out between Cousin Aldo and Dino, which Nancy translated for me.
    â€œPorca miseria!” Cousin Aldo slammed his cell phone down on the table hard enough to wake up la bimba Artemisia.
    â€œHey, we are eating,” Dino said with indignant rage. “Stop acting like an animal!”
    â€œDon’t bother me, I’m under a lot of pressure,” Cousin Aldo roared. He was a big, thickset guy with the huge, triangular upper body of a cartoon bully.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Dino said.
    â€œLeave me alone.”
    Dino thrust out his chest. “Tell me or I swear by the Virgin, I’ll take you out back and beat some sense into you.”
    â€œIt’s Mamma,” Cousin Aldo said. “We had a fight. I keep calling to apologize but she won’t pick up the phone!”
    â€œYou must do something.” Dino grabbed Aldo by his large sawhorse shoulders and shook him. “This is your mamma!”
    â€œI know!” A tear waddled down Cousin Aldo’s cheek.
    â€œMy God, what if the old woman is lying dead by the phone, her head split open from the fall?” Dino’s own tears started to well up. “And she died before you had a chance