My first encounter with anything Italian was when I was about 10 years old.
Banarama claimed Robert De Niro was waiting, talking Italian. I thought De Niro was American? (bear with me, I was 10, I didn’t know about open borders and emigration!).
We didn’t eat Pizza in our house because 1) my mum didn’t like it and 2) they were usually frozen, the size of a stamp and the toppings didnt stretch further than plastic cheese squares. The closest I got to an Italian culinary experience was a friday night Bolognese. Friday night’s were reserved for special dinners, you know, to commemorate the end of the week. Cross & Blackwell kindly did most of the work by putting the sauce in a jar. My mum would then pass it off as her own for having chopped up a red pepper and added it to the sauce. To be fair, I don’t think most people in our street knew what a red pepper was so actually, she was doing well!
He got old today, my husband. He turned 40! As promised, I prepared the breakfast for when he got up (I even put a table-cloth on the table! Well, it wasn’t actually a table-cloth but a large oversized tea towel covered in every shape of pasta imaginable – I thought it was rather thoughtful of me to have used it!).
Unfortunately, he didn’t get chance to enjoy his coffee as he put his back out picking up a toy that our precious one had thrown over board. Thats it now, all down hill from here, the aches and pains have already started.
He spent the rest of the day in agony (questionable), spread-eagled on the floor (comical) dishing out orders for me to pass him things (annoying).
I discovered today that my husband has a lot in common with De Niro – they both talk Italian (figuratively speaking, I don’t know if De Niro speaks Italian, I actually assume he doesn’t?) and like De Niro, my husband is a bloody good actor!!