The Godmothers 1, 2, and 3

When you think of Sicily, do you hear the theme from The Godfather playing in your head? Thanks to Hollywood, this island has a reputation for being more dangerous than a porcupine in a balloon factory. But fear not, the days of Dons and Mafiosos are as outdated as dial-up internet!

Back when Sicilians first made their grand entrance to the USA in the late 1800s, only about 56% could actually read the menu. As they set up camp in Boston and New York City, they decided to pass down some good ol' Italian slang to their kids. Fast forward to today, and every Italian-American I've ever met seems to know Italian about as well as I know quantum physics—just a few spicy curse words! These new Americans figured they were in the land of the free and the home of the English language, so they ditched Italian quicker than a hot pizza slice. Yet, somehow, those slang words are still hanging around like an uninvited guest at a family reunion!

Picture this: the Italian word for mistress is comare, which sounds like someone who's got your back (or maybe just your back pocket). Now, if you're speaking Sicilian slang, like in The Sopranos, you say gomah—because why not add a little throat-clearing action to spice things up?

Still on my bucket list, I dream of visiting my father's homeland, Pachino, Sicily, perched on the southeast tip of the island, where cherry tomatoes reign supreme. From my reading about this Mediterranean giant, I've discovered that the locals are so hospitable, they'd probably invite you over for dinner before you even say "Ciao!" But here's the twist: unlike most European hotspots, English isn't the lingua franca here, so I'll need to polish up my Sicilian skills unless I want to accidentally order a shoe instead of spaghetti!

Side note: There are over 300 dialects spoken in Italy today.

What about Sicilian pizza?

I remember my dad dragging me to the Sicilian neighborhood on Common Street in Lawrence, MA. It was like a culinary treasure hunt with salumerias and bakeries serving up pizza that had buffalo mozzarella so creamy it could moonlight as a moisturizer. And let's not forget the pastries—pastaciotti and sfogliatelle—with crusts so flaky they could give dandruff a run for its money, filled with real ricotta, custards, or cream that made your taste buds do the cha-cha. Fast forward to today, and the neighborhood has been re-gentrified with Latinos and Asians, but the legendary Tripoli's Bakery is still holding its ground, though they've given their recipes a little local flavor twist. If you're craving a taste of the old world, head over to Hanover Street in Boston's North End, where Mike's Pastry and Modern Pastry are still keeping the traditional food flag flying high.

My dad was the kind of storyteller who could make a snail race sound like a thrilling adventure. I vividly recall his tales about his godmother, Adelina, who was a culinary wizard, leaving his own mom, my nonna, in the dust. Nonna's cooking skills were about as sharp as a spaghetti noodle, and she was greener than a basil leaf with envy over her sister's kitchen magic. After school, when Nonna was on babysitting duty, she'd whip up her signature marinara sauce over spaghetti. I can still picture her laser-focused stare as I dedicated a solid 10 minutes to extracting every onion bit she had lovingly added. Her battle cry? "Mangia! Mangia!"

I suspect my culinary skills came from Adelina because my mom's kitchen adventures were more about keeping us alive than any heartfelt passion—think survival mode, not MasterChef.

As a kid, I was the ultimate food critic, turning my nose up at nearly everything my mom whipped up. She'd sprint around the table, spoon in hand, shouting, "Just one bite! Just one bite!" She was convinced I might blow away in a strong breeze. Where did that little picky eater disappear to?

After tying the knot, every time I swung by the family homestead, mom would rope me into whipping up some of my gourmet masterpieces. She never said a peep about them, but her plate? Always cleaner than a whistle. As for dad, let's just say his feelings about my culinary skills were as obvious as a clown at a funeral. Mom's poker face was legendary, but dad's eyes would go wide as saucers as he reached for a third helping. We'd sit there in a silence so thick you could cut it with a butter knife. Mom, finally fed up with the quiet, would break the ice with, "Well, do you like it?" Dad, nose-deep in his plate, would just lift his eyes and quip, "I'm eatin', ain't I? If I didn't like it, I'd tell ya."

For authentic Italian recipes, visit my website at www.theitaliandiva.com. You will learn how to cook without using premature aging chemicals or preservatives.

Side note: There's a myth floating around that tomato sauce needs to simmer for eons—like it's training for a marathon. Some folks even cover it up like it's a secret recipe, resulting in a sauce that tastes like it got a little too cozy in a hot tub. But from my culinary escapades, I've discovered that a 45-90 minute simmer keeps your sauce tasting fresher than a morning breeze. Letting it cook longer just unleashes the tomato's inner diva—its acidity—prompting some to toss in sugar for sweetness. Instead, why not throw in a teaspoon of instant coffee? (For more on this java twist, check out the blog: You Put Coffee in Marinara Sauce?)

Feast your eyes on this ancient snapshot of my Sicilian clan and the three Godmothers—like a trilogy, but with more pasta. My mom's the one sitting third from the left, giving her sister-in-law a side hug like they're plotting something. My dad's the tall guy right behind her, probably trying to photobomb. I really miss those characters. They were a hoot!