Italians Love Walmart.

I love Thanksgiving.

During this weekend in late November, my Thanksgiving is spent surrounded by Italians who are forever nursing the "When in Doubt, Make Pasta" philosophy. Surprisingly enough, I am comforted by the casual yelling, the chaotic 8:5 kid to adult ratio, the endless questions of "Are you hungry? Would you like twelve more meatballs?" Maybe this is only born of the fact that I've been around it my whole life. Otherwise, how could one explain my tolerance of my huge Italian family, which unsurprisingly enough, pure-blood Irish Dad can't handle?

My greatest regret is that after seventeen years of being submersed in this language, I still have not picked it up. My immigrant grandparents sport a mix of English and Italian when they speak, the production of four decades in the states. I can understand the general concepts but everything else is a big Italian blur. Instead I focus on the braccioli, italian stuffing, cannolis, granita, and home made espresso. So good.

"Dobbiamo andare a Walmart per ottenere tomato sauce piu, perche abbiamo persone troppi per alimentare."

What's worse is my grandfather's incessant need to yell at me in a language I do not understand in the least. I doubt he could keep himself from such disapproval if I was Gandhi. 

Despite the circumstances I derive comfort in high-stress holidays. I even enjoy the airport.

^^ sample from yesterday.