Mamma Mia!

Fond recollections of a star-crossed adoption

There we were, sitting canal-side at a restaurant in Venice. The eatery had closed to the public in order to accommodate the group of 75: dozens of American college students, as well as professors, chaperones, plus a few civilians who took advantage of a relatively affordable opportunity to explore Italy for a month.

I was the lone wolf from a small upstate New York community college amongst the more urbane crowd of street-savvy students from New York University and Montclair State. Shy by nature, I easily could have remained solo that sweltering month of July 1987, but fate had other ideas. My dining companions that evening were members of the Valentino family…the Clifton, N.J. Valentinos. They promptly took me into the fold upon noticing I belonged to neither college group, and adopted me as their own. Their daughter Rene was a fellow student who, like me, took the study abroad program for college credit. Parents, Philomena and Michael, were second-generation Italian-Americans who jumped at the chance to enjoy an extended visit in the Motherland.

To say the family dynamics differed from my strain of WASP heritage was an understatement, and I was riveted by the contrast. In my eyes, Mrs. Valentino was a one-woman sit-com - brash, ferociously protective, short-tempered, and prone to cursing streaks - she was a complete 180 from the women who molded me. And I couldn’t get enough of this alien custom of shooting from the hip.

Take the dinner in Venice, for instance. We arrived hungry and primed for a feast of gastronomic delights that surely would include no shortage of pasta. Instead, we were informed by the restaurant staff that we were in for a set menu of broiled fish and a few vegetable sides. The look on Mrs. Valentino’s face made it clear that the heat coming from Vesuvius was officially on the rise. “I don’t want anything,” she tersely informed the waitress, staring straight ahead.

Twenty minutes later, when a plate of Branzino was set before Mrs. Valentino anyway, Vesuvius emitted the ominous warning of its first rumble. “Take it,” she hissed to the waitress, who likely didn’t speak English and turned to walk away. “TAAAAAKE IT!”

The entire restaurant froze and everyone looked in our direction. The waitress, amid the awkward silence, needed no further translation and whisked the plate away while Mrs. Valentino cemented Plan B.

“C’mon,” she said, rising to her feet. “Let’s get the hell outta’ here and find some food.” That episode taught me two things:

1. Don’t serve Philomena Valentino fish when in the land of tagliatelle and scialatielli…and…

2. Never disrespect an Italian-American woman from New Jersey (because it won’t end well).

Post-outburst, Mrs. Valentino wafted into comparatively Zen-like serenity, and why not? Cork popped, she reverted naturally to a state of being unruffled, unbothered, and blithely free of suppressed anger. It was a way of navigating life that both fascinated and inspired me.

But it wasn’t just Mrs. Valentino’s temper (which she proudly noted stemmed from her Neapolitan heritage) that enthralled me. She was protective: shouting rebukes at some of the fresh and uninhibited local men who hit on me, and showering concern my way those few days of the expedition I was under the weather, bringing me tea and hot plates of food from the university cafeteria.

Last, but hardly least, Mrs. Valentino was nurturing and generous, as I found out once we returned to the states. By that time, I was attending school in Manhattan and the Valentinos regularly had me over for dinner – a quick bus ride across the Hudson. The first visit was like landing in technicolor Oz as I beheld a table laden with Mrs. Valentino’s handmade cavatelli with marinara, fresh baked bread, salads, antipasti, and other delights. I may even have clapped my hands in joyful excitement.

Halfway through the meal, when Mrs. Valentino offered me a second helping (of everything!), I knew I was definitely no longer in Kansas. Food wasn’t judged and rationed, and the dinner was spent talking, laughing, and sans obsessive scrutiny over table manners. And her offers for seconds weren’t just hollow gestures. For Mrs. V., second go-rounds were a metric of how greatly her food was enjoyed. On one occasion, when an unsuspecting dinner guest politely declined her offer a second helping, she spun on her heel with the vat of pasta while muttering, “aaahh, go ta’ hell.” For Rene it was business as usual, but I never tired of Mrs. Valentino’s salty salvos. Often, they sent me into fits of giggles because they were so contrary to the hide-your-feelings and be a people-pleaser boot camp of my formative years. Seeing this other side of the equation opened my world ten-fold.

Not only did my adopted Mamma flawlessly model freedom of expression, she also provided much-needed healing where food and bonding around the dinner table was concerned.

I owe Mrs. Valentino an unquantifiable debt of gratitude. And even though she passed almost 20 years ago, I think of her often – especially if I’m having a bad day. A framed photo of the two of us aboard a Venetian water taxi sits in my office.

All I have to do is time travel back to 1987 and remember the glorious, raspy bellow of Mrs. V. channeling Ralph Kramden for five hilarious seconds of red-hot rage.

Invariably, I find myself giggling all over again: comforted by the memories, and forever grateful at my good fortune: I got an Italian Mamma dropped in my lap without even asking for one.

Here’s to you, Mrs. Valentino – mi manchi tantissimo - and I promise to have an extra helping at dinner tonight.