![]() The reigning Miss Italia offered to fill in, because Bongiorno was just standing there, not knowing what to do. She just leaves this 80-year-old guy holding the bag, because she was enraged that it took the producers twenty minutes from the start of the broadcast to bring her on stage (she came on after some comedy bit). She walks on stage, and as she schlepps down this giant staircase she starts beefing and QUITS THE SHOW. Then: Mike Bongiorno, the late and venerated Italian TV presenter, introduced his co-host, one Loretta Goggi. First, because it took RAI literally twelve hours over four nights to pick out the appropriate broad in a bikini. This aired right after C was born so it was perfect. ![]() He could derail the show for ten minutes.Īnother all-time favorite is the 2007 edition of the Miss Italia pageant. They’re not cooking the mushrooms the right way they don’t know the proper provenance of a particular recipe. ![]() On La Prova del Cuoco there was an old dude (Beppe Bigazzi) who sat in a throne off to the side of the stage, commenting on everything the host (Antonella Clerici) and the other cooks got wrong. Le polemiche, as far as I can tell, are as integral to Italian TV as product integration and Ryan Seacrest are to American TV. It’s the actual reason I watch Italian TV. One episode of Ballando is four hours! Partly because they have to do a lot of vamping while they “tabulate” the audience votes so they can deliver the results the same night, and partly because of the fighting. I also had to watch these shows with the babies because, like many Italian television shows, they are so long they would fill up my DVR if I didn’t keep up, and my husband would go crazy ( che ‘merican!). ![]() Please? I have no one else to discuss them with. Indulge me for a moment and let me tell you a little about them. We would watch this insane cooking/talk show, La Prova del Cuoco, or my favorite, the Italian version of Dancing with the Stars, Ballando con le Stelle. When C and T were babies, I would often watch RAI International, the Italian-language TV channel, while I was nursing, hoping that some Italian would passively enter their bloodstreams. Then there is the childhood favorite uffa! (one of T’s first words), and many more. My children don’t take naps, they go ninnano’. And when my son doesn’t like what he gets, it’s chistu o cazzu – this or…let’s say “nothing.” He doesn’t have to know cazzu is a bad word he just has to know he ain’t getting an alternative. How am I doing? Well, I’m typing on the computer instead of cleaning my house, so not so good. You’re on the ball, you’re quick, you know what’s what without being told. On the flip side, being sperta, if you’re a girl, or spiertu, if you’re a boy, is the highest compliment. And there’s scustumato, malavita, and hopefully you’ll never get called ‘numbala, or good-for-nothing. Or lagnusu – it’s a slob, but someone who is a slob to the core of their being. Like calling someone “ caccata” – you just know it when you see it, and English suffers for not having an equivalent term. There are some things you just can’t translate. But I learned it in school, and am well-versed enough in the dialect that I often use Calabrese terms. I am not a native Italian speaker, so it’s not natural for me just to speak it to them all the time. To start, I am trying to make sure they at least hear the Italian language. So at least there’s that, Nonna, can you hear me? I can sense her glowering at me from on high. And now that my grandparents have passed away, and our family moves away from the culture we grew up with, how do I pass on this part of myself to my children? How do I keep their Italian heritage alive for them, now that they live in a mac-and-cheese world? Actually, C hates the stuff, he prefers meatballs. Growing up in a bilingual, first-generation-American household has helped shape how I look at the world, how I look at America, how I look at a box of macaroni and cheese (never ate it until college, LOVED IT, never told my grandmother about it). And her farewell (forgive the approximated spelling of Calabrese dialect): “Stat’attiendu, ca ti chiappa ‘ngunu!” Be careful, someone might kidnap you. Her response to the question, “How are you?” was “ Staiu moriendu!” – I’m dying. My Nonna had very fine, silky black hair. I only wish I had a talent for puppetry and thought of it myself. Feel free to skip it, if you’re a ‘merican, but if you have such a grandmother, mi raccomando – WATCH IT So my childhood sounded pretty much like this video below. I grew up in a two-family house with my Italian grandparents.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |