A few weeks ago I wrote
about our upcoming trip to Italy for our daughter’s wedding, and the fact that
I don’t know how to speak Italian. Many readers send me email messages, most of
which focused on my concluding comment that if I constantly keep my mouth
filled with food, it will hide the fact I don’t know a single word in Italian
other than the word Spaghetti-Os. (That is an Italian word, right? I’m pretty
sure it is. It’s certainly not Irish, because in that case it would be
O’Spaghetti.)
The various email notes I
received expressed delight that I will be in Italy, where the food is awesome,
rather than, say, Great Britain, where they actually eat things like blood
pudding and jellied eels. No wonder the British spent centuries sailing around
the globe conquering nation after nation: they were simply trying to find
something, anything, that tasted good. (So why they had their greatest
empire-building success in a place that puts curry on everything, I'll never
understand.)
My email friends offered a
long list of wonderful Italian foods I should shove into my face the entire
time we are in Italy, things such as cannolis, manicotti, calzones, pizza, gelato
— and then wash it all down with massive quantities of wine.
OK, that sounds great.
However, there are two slight problems: first, I am lactose intolerant, and
second, I am a recovering alcoholic. Whenever I eat something that contains
cheese, milk, cream, butter, etc., within 20 minutes I have to sprint to the
bathroom. And regarding booze, it’s been three decades and counting since I
“put the plug in the jug,” but I remember all too well what it was like in the
bad ol’ days. After one drink I was jovial. After two drinks I was hilarious.
After three drinks I was a cross between Don Rickles and Norman Bates. And I
never stopped at two drinks.
In Italy, if I eat any of
those dairy-laden items and wash it down with a bottle of wine, my sprinting
will be more like zig-zag staggering, and I probably won't make it to the
bathroom in time. Without going into a lot of gruesome gastrointestinal details,
let’s just say if this occurs, it surely will spark an international incident,
one which could bring the U.S. and Italy to the brink of war.
My personal “Bucket List”
has a few weird items on it, but “start a war” is definitely not one of them.
So in the interest of global peace and harmony, it is very important that I
refrain from consuming dairy products and/or wine while in Italy. Yes, I know
what you’re thinking: that is absolutely impossible. In Italy, if you order a
slice of white bread, they automatically put a hunk of mozzarella cheese on it.
If you order a glass of water, they ask you, “Red or white?” And if you order
any item in a restaurant and specifically say (in Italian, which I haven’t
learned yet), “No cheese! Please, I’m begging you. No cheese!” They interpret
that to mean, “OK, I’ll only put three different types of cheese on his meal
rather than the usual five.”
I suspect when my future in-laws hear
that I can neither eat cheese nor drink wine, they’ll say, “Oh, I’m so sorry.
When did he die?” When it’s explained that I’m actually alive, they’ll reply,
“Let’s not quibble. There’s death, and then there’s no reason to live.”
The wedding will be great. But if in
mid-October you hear a breaking news report that a U.S. Navy battle group is
steaming up the Adriatic Sea toward the city of Venice, it probably will be my
fault.
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