There is one question I get asked all the time.
“What do you miss the most about Italy?”
And every single time, I never really know how to answer it.
Of course I miss my family. I miss my friends. That goes without saying. But I think when people ask me this question, they’re really asking something else.
What do you miss about Italy itself?
And that’s much harder to explain. You would probably expect me to say food.
And obviously… sono Italiana. Of course I miss the food.
But the truth is, working in the food industry, I’ve been very lucky. Today it’s so much easier to find good Italian ingredients in the United States than it was when I first moved here almost fifteen years ago.
And living in New Jersey definitely helps. We have beautiful tomatoes here. Amazing corn. Wonderful seasonal vegetables. There’s a reason they call it the Garden State.
So no, I can’t really sit here dramatically saying, “Mi mancano i pomodori!” I have good tomatoes.
Vino? Okay.
That one hurts a little more.
What I really miss are those tiny Italian producers that you discover almost by accident. The small wineries making incredible wines that you will probably never see in the United States simply because they don’t have the production or the resources to export here.
Those little labels you find at an enoteca somewhere and think, “Ma questo da dove arriva?”
And suddenly someone is telling you about a family, a vineyard, a tiny piece of land somewhere in Italy and you’re completely fascinated.
But even there, today, if you know the right importers and distributors, you can find incredible Italian wines from smaller, highly respected producers.
So diciamo che… ce la caviamo.
When I really think about what I miss, I think it’s something else.
I miss the rituals. For example, I miss waking up in the morning and having places to go.
Not errands exactly: posti.
Il macellaio, il fornaio, il fruttivendolo. il giornalaio.
Each one has its purpose. Each one has its person.
You go to the giornalaio to pick up the newspapers and magazines for the day. For me, always La Cucina Italiana. La Settimana Enigmistica for Papà, who is completely addicted. La Gazzetta dello Sport because my husband obviously needs to know absolutely everything that happened in sports approximately five minutes ago. And La Stampa.
You stop, you talk for a few minutes.
“Come va?”
“Fa caldo oggi.”
“Come stanno tutti?”
Nothing particularly important. And yet… important.
Then maybe you stop for a caffè in piazzetta.
Just one, al volo.
Except somehow “al volo” becomes twenty minutes because you see someone you know.
And that’s how the day starts.
Then you go get the bread, maybe some fresh vegetables. You stop at the butcher. You pick up whatever you need for lunch or dinner.
And everything has this little rhythm to it. Un ritmo that I think I miss more than I realized.
Of course Italy has huge supermarkets. And don’t get me wrong… I LOVE them.
Esselunga? I can spend an embarrassing amount of time there. Conad, Italmark… I love a good supermarket.
But I’ve always had a soft spot for small producers. Because there’s always a story behind what they’re selling.
And if you stop long enough, you get to hear it.
There’s a cheese I love from Colmetto made with carbone vegetale. You can look at it and think, “Oh, interesting. Black cheese.”
But then you talk to Signora Daniela and suddenly it’s not just cheese anymore.
She tells you about the affinatura, why the rind looks that way, what happens underneath that dark exterior, how the flavor develops.
You taste it differently because now you know something.
That’s what I love.
You discover things you would probably never discover walking through the aisles of a supermarket.
Not because the supermarket isn’t good.
Simply because there isn’t always a Signora Daniela standing next to the cheese telling you its entire life story.
And I miss that.
I also miss the spontaneity.
This one is difficult to explain. It’s that phone call at five in the afternoon.
“Che fate stasera?”
“Mah, niente.”
“Spaghettino da noi?”
“Volentieri!”
Done. Ecco fatto. No calendar invitation. No checking availability three weeks in advance. No major plan.
Someone brings a bottle of wine. Someone else arrives with something they had in the fridge. You make spaghetti, put everything on the table and suddenly it’s midnight.
Or you’re out running errands and realize you’re close to a friend’s house.
“Sei a casa?”
“Sì.”
“Passo per un caffè?”
And ten minutes later you’re sitting in her kitchen.
I miss that terribly.
I miss being able to go to the sea and knowing that somewhere along the beach there will be a little ristorantino where I can sit down, still with salty hair and probably sand somewhere it shouldn’t be, and order spaghetti alle vongole.
Nothing fancy. Just spaghetti alle vongole, vino bianco, the sea in front of you. Perfetto.
And I miss the opposite too. Going up into the mountains and knowing that somewhere along the way there will be a malga.
You stop, you buy some speck, maybe local cheese. A jar of miele.
And once again, there’s a person behind it who can tell you where it came from and how it was made.
Maybe that’s what I’m trying to say when people ask me what I miss about Italy.
It’s not really the food or the wine.
I miss the life that happens around them.
The little conversations, the people you know, the places you return to.
The possibility of turning a normal Tuesday into dinner with friends simply because qualcuno ha detto, “Facciamo uno spaghettino?”
Those are the things I miss. Except they’re not really things at all.
And maybe living away from Italy has taught me something important too.
You can recreate some of those rituals wherever you are.
Not exactly. It will never be exactly the same.
But you can find your people.
You can build that little circle around you that slowly becomes la tua famiglia qui.
And luckily for me, with la mitica Eleonora, uno spaghettino dell’ultimo minuto is always possible.
You can find your local farmers market. Get to know the person growing your tomatoes.
Find the little bakery you love like Farinolio. Buy from someone because you like their story, not just their product.
Invite people over without making it an event.
“Passate per un bicchiere?”
Maybe that’s the real secret.
You don’t recreate Italy. You take the parts of it that taught you how you want to live…and you bring them with you.
Alla fine, sono sempre le piccole cose che fanno la differenza.
Ciao,
Laura