The Long Meal

A love letter to the Italian-American family table

Let’s talk about Italian-American families. 

We're loud. We're passionate. 

And we're always right—especially when we're wrong. 

But the greatest misconception about us? That we’re obsessed with food.

Specifically eating said food.

Don't get me wrong, the food is f*cking fantastic. 

There's something primal, almost spiritual, about nonna’s six hour Sunday sauce or the chew of fresh cavatelli—an experience that transcends the plate and buries itself deep in your bones.

Oh, the pasta.

All sorts of pasta. Handmade, homemade, drenched in the sauce we’d make every August. Mom's homemade bread is there too, perfect for scooping up every last drop.

Paired with our homemade wine

It's a culinary lineage stretching back to the Renaissance, when Catherine de' Medici's cooks introduced French nobles to the revelatory concept of not boiling everything into submission. 

But if you think this is about osso buco or arancini, you haven’t been paying attention.

You see, for us, food is a mere backdrop. A warm-up act, if you will, to the main event: the table.

I remember one summer we visited family in Italy, at my father's childhood home.

A house older than the United States itself, located about an hour outside of Napoli somewhere in the mountains of Caserta.

Two halves of the same coin reunited—the family that left the old country for opportunity in America, and those who stayed behind. We squeezed over 40 of us around a few very long tables.

Cousin Vincenzo slinging pizza out the back of his horse-drawn pizza oven. Another generation of kids running around.

Stories being shared.

Soccer balls being kicked around.

American football being taught.

It was chaos, beautiful chaos.

The table is where life happens.

It's where we argue, love, laugh, and occasionally—if we're lucky—listen.

The food?

Sure, it's there, draped in garlic, rich with olive oil, coaxed into perfection over hours, sometimes days. But it's not the star. The star is the cacophony of voices that rise and fall with the passing of plates. The stories, the long-held grudges, the unsolicited advice from relatives who are always right and forever wrong.

Growing up, meals were an event, a time investment.

None of this microwaved, grab-and-go nonsense.

In today's convenience-driven world, it's easy to forget the importance of the table. We've traded it for drive-thrus and delivery apps, thinking we're saving time when really, we're losing something far more valuable.

We never ate just to get through a meal; we ate to savor the experience, to prolong the togetherness. The idea of sitting at a table for hours, long after the plates were empty, was something of a ritual. It wasn't just about nourishing the body—it was about feeding the soul.

Looking back, a memorable (often repeated) “argument” was when Nonno would ask why you decided to go out to eat last weekend with your girlfriend instead of eating in.

“Non spendere i soldi! A casa si mangia meglio.”

“Sì, nonno. Ma volevamo provare un nuovo ristorante.”

Or the stories he’d share.

Like the one about how his parents and brothers and sisters would feed the same group of four American soldiers during WWII.

And when the Nazi’s would come knocking on the door, they’d hide the Americans.

**thump thump thump**

“Mach die Tür auf. Wo sind die Amerikaner?”

And when Nonno finally moved to Hamden, Connecticut many years later, their neighbor was the son of one of the soldiers they used to feed.

I digress.

In my family, the food was spectacular—no argument there. We grew a lot of our own vegetables and fruit. Had our own chickens and eggs.

We even had a freaking peacock!

But the food was never the star of the show. The real magic happened at the table, long after the last bite was taken. It was in the shared stories, the loud laughter, and heated debates that we found connection, history, and love.

Now, with my own daughters and family, the table may have transformed in a physical sense, but its essence remains. We still use it as time to laugh, talk, and uplift.

Every meal time has become a reminder that it's not just about what's on your plate, but who's around the table with you. Take your time, savor every bite, and for God's sake, put down your phone and talk to each other.