So as you guys know, I’ve made friends with an elderly Italian man in my street. When I heard he loved to cook, especially spaghetti, but was super-lonely, I told him I’d love to come and have spaghetti with him one day.
We actually tried to figure out what day worked best on that first visit, but our gigantic gulf of a language barrier made it hard. I asked him when I should come, and he asked me when I wanted to come. We ruled out Sunday, because that was the day his family came. We ruled out nights. We wondered maybe Monday? Perhaps Wednesday? What about Thursday, when I came past after dropping Smalls to kinder? The conversation moved onto other topics, our future date undecided.
The next day my famiglia were walking past and Carlo was at his gate again. He invited us in for coffee, fed us the bloody cake again, and tried to get my husband drunk, among other things. We found out he was 93 years old and allergic to coffee. We heard about his wife, who he dearly misses, and where he was from.
The following Monday rolled around and I was anxious – I had a bunch to do, but I also knew that Carlo and I had discussed the possibility of Monday being spaghetti day. We hadn’t confirmed but I couldn’t bear the idea of him thinking it was that day and getting lunch organised only for me to not show up. Can you imagine? A lonely old man with spaghetti for two being stood up, I would die.
I had a hundred things on the go – Smalls had to be somewhere in the morning, I had bread rising during the day and it was a shitfight trying to co-ordinate a time to check in on him in case Monday really was the day. Early afternoon I chopped off a giant piece of the Italian loaf I’d just made, wrapped it up and trotted over to Carlo’s to chat.
As we neared his fence, I could see he was having a snooze in the lounge chair on his verandah, and I didn’t want to wake him. Smalls and I turned back and I carried on with chores for the next little while. We were getting hungry by this point so we had something to eat and then went back to Carlo’s on our way to collect Biggie from school.
He was standing at his gate, as per usual and I say hello and told him we’d brought him some bread we’d been baking. He looks confused and asks “why?”. I literally have no idea how to answer that – I thought he might like it? I made a gigantic loaf and we couldn’t eat it all? Who knows! I stumble over a reply and he smiles and opens his gate. We walk on through but just before we get to his front door, he grabs my arm.
“I had lunch for you,” he says and I freeze. My gut hits the floor. “You did?” I ask, feeling my face burn and my temperature go up about eight million degrees.
“You know what time I eat lunch?” he asks. “Twelve o’clock. You know what time I eat today? Huppas one”.
I want to cry. I look at his 93-year-old face and imagine him sitting at his table alone, excited to be making his spaghetti specialty because he’s got a lunch date and his lunch date doesn’t show up. “I’m so sorry,” I say, a hundred thoughts running through my head. “That’s terrible – I feel awful, I really am so sorry,” I say and he keeps going. “Twelve o’clock – no Maria. I wait. I walk outside, see if she coming. No Maria. I wait a little more. I check, I go to gate – no Maria. I wait til huppas one and den I eat,” he says and there are no words to describe how wretched I feel at that moment.
I think he takes pity on me because he waves me inside and rubs my back soothingly. It doesn’t help, nothing helps. I can barely speak and just feel so sick with guilt. He tells me “I like the spaghett, not so much the bread,” and I feel like a shell of a person.
“Look,” he says when we go inside. He walks over to the stove and lifts up the lid on an amazing pot of rich tomato sauce, a clean ladle resting neatly on the handle. “It looks amazing,” I say feeling dead inside. He ushers me into another room off the kitchen where he has a gigantic bowl of cooked spaghetti in a bowl with a plastic bag over it. He opens the bag and grabs my hand. “Feel,” he says and puts my hand on the side of the bowl. It’s still warm. I am legit dying at this point and I tell him how sorry I am and that it makes me so sad that I did not show up for lunch.
“You eat now?” he asks and I tell him of course I’ll eat now. I literally just ate and I’ve got less than half an hour before I need to be at the school to pick up Biggie but AS IF I’M NOT GOING TO EAT THE SPAGHETTI. Ugh, I feel like crying as I write this! Worst human ever.
He shuffles about getting a pan on to heat and I look at Smalls sitting next to me at the table, drawing pictures, oblivious to her distraught mother. I alternate between silence and talking to Smalls about irrelevant things. I take a napkin and a pen and write “MARIA” and my phone number on it and leave it where he’ll see it later. I never want to be late for lunch again. He’s mumbling “I go out, no Maria. I think ‘I wait just little bit more’, but no Maria. I check, I check, but nothing”. I continue dying over and over again nodding and looking miserable. The fact it’s been raining most of the day adds a special layer of guilt as I imagine him getting drenched every time he goes out to check for his Maria, then coming back in all cold and wet.
I can see he’s got the world’s biggest serve of spaghetti reheating and I know I can’t eat any of it. My own lunch and a universe of guilt has taken up residence in my stomach and there’s no room for Carlo’s spaghett. He brings me a gigantic plate, a fork, and some cheese in a plastic container. I offer Smalls some, but he gives her a tiny plate of her own and I now have to contend with Fussy Eater Smalls cracking the shits over unfamiliar pasta. I’m in a glass case of emotion at this point, and just start shovelling the spaghetti in as much as I can. Imagine if we were not only late for the spaghett, but also didn’t like the spaghett? To my relief, Smalls starts eating without any ado and Carlo smiles and tells her she’s a good girl. “Brava, brava!” he says.
He gets up and pours me a GIGANTIC wine. I mean, huge. “Dis vurry special wine,” he says to me. “vurry special, dis one” and I’m thinking ‘WHERE AM I GOING TO PUT THAT IN EIGHT MINUTES ALONGSIDE THIS BUCKET OF SPAGHETTI?”. I start slamming down the wine becuase it’s “vurry special” and I don’t want to waste it and I figure I can take the spaghetti home.
He tells me again that he waited for me for lunch, and I tell him that I’d come earlier but he was asleep. He looks confused and I wonder if he even remembers having a snooze. He has no idea what I’ve just said and tells me firmly “you come anytime. Anytime you like”. I give up and just nod.
I’m chewing as fast as I can, ignoring my stomach’s protests, when Carlo sits next to me and starts up again. “Huppas one,” he says shaking his head. “I have lunch twelve o’clock. I think I wait just little bit. But no-one come. Again and again I walk out to the gate, I look up the street. Maybe Maria not want to come. Maybe she no like spaghett,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “Of course I want to come!” I say and I wonder if this massive guilt trip is maybe an Italian thing or even a Catholic thing – I know they’re basically travel agents for guilt trips so I figure it’s a cultural thing to keep carrying on so people feel bad about stuff even though I’m dead, buried and cremated a hundred times with guilt over my spaghetti sins. I get the feeling he’s just playing with me now.
He carries on: “I go outside to check, no Maria,” and smugly I say “well at least it gave you something to do! You’re always complaining that you’re bored. All those nice walks would be lovely – It’s good for you to get outside, all that fresh air and stuff,” and he smiles at me and goes to give me a light backhand. We’re good now.
I tell him we’ll have to take the rest home for dinner as I’ve got about four minutes to get to the school. He packages it up, and feels as though it’s not enough. He tries to give me more but I won’t hear of it. “Honestly, it’s heaps,” I say, waving him off. “We’ll be fine, it was delicious and I can’t wait to have it for dinner,” but he looks like he’s failed at life if he hasn’t packed me off with eight kilos of spaghetti to take home.
I give him a hug and tell him how amazing it is. I ask him how he gets the spaghetti sauce so smooth and he tells me WHEN I’VE GOT TIME I need to come and he will show me. None of this “half an hour for a catchup” business. I make a mental note to ENSURE I have a day and time locked in for next time. There’s no way I’m going through this emotional rollercoaster ever again. I briefly wonder if I’ll ever be free of the guilt that I let an old man get excited over lunch and then be utterly crushed when NOBODY SHOWS UP. I’m pretty sure I never will.
He points to the bread and says “You take. I like the spaghett, not so much the bread.”
We walk out the door and I tell him again how sorry I am, and if I’m ever late again I’ve left him my phone number so he can call me. “Your phone number?” he asks, confused. “Yes my number,” I say. “I left it on the table.” “Your number?” he asks again and I nod. “And I can call it anytime?” he asks? I say “of course!” and he gives me the biggest grin and an enthusiastic wave. I am forgiven.
I felt your pain as I read that xxxx (you are so cute you guilt ridden little Catholic.)
Haha I’m not the Catholic one! Nana never could quite convince me.
Awwww, you poor thing! It feels shitty to let someone down but I reckon you made up for it xx
haah I doubt it, something makes me feel like I’m never gonna hear the end of that one time Maria never showed up for spaghett.
Awww lovely. I would have felt guilty too. I remember my grandma doing similar and she would often repeat that no one came to visit her in her nursing home, yet the family had and she had forgotten because she had early dementia. I’m not saying Carlo has this, but the mind is not as quick when we’re older. You still visited and will continue to visit him when you can. I think it’s beautiful and love your heart for it. xx
I think he’s just Italian and feisty and likes being dramatic haha.
oh Stacey, you poor thing! Growing up Italian, we love making you feel guilty to your face. And there’s no point being polite just for the sake of it – take the bread back haha! But there’s quick forgiveness and you will definitely need a whole day for your next visit. Can’t wait to read the next installment xx
I totally took the bread! I DO NOT UNDERSTAND these cultural subtleties, haha. Every visit is a minefield. I come from a long line of staunch repressers, you could have pissed them off in 1983 and they’re still bitter about it but they won’t tell you! They’ll just get annoyed you haven’t figured it out yet. Can’t win either way!
THIS IS HANDS DOWN MY FAVOURITE POST SERIES EVER.
Just had to get that out of the way.
And it’s definitely an elderly wog thing; my yiayia (Greek grandmama) does exactly the same thing! Makes you feel oh so guilty, then half an hour later, all is forgiven (or forgotten, it’s hard to tell at that age!).
I so love these stories – if you ever need a wing-spagett-eater, I’m your girl!
Oh god you can totally come, I could never have gotten through that plate of food! although thinking about it now that it’s lunchtime and I’m hungry…..
I am loving this series! And I must tell you about my partner’s lovely and completely crazy Italian grandmother. The last time he went over there for lunch, he had told her beforehand several times that unfortunately I couldn’t make it because I had other plans. When he got there, he found there was a place laid at the table for me and all through the meal she would gaze at the empty seat and sigh very loudly and sadly… I have learned that the guilt certainly gets easier to deal with, simply because the guilt-tripping is so extreme and ridiculous!
Oh man I would NOT know how to deal with that haha. I’m so no-nonsense that I couldn’t bear it. All the drama! At least i know next time he’s just playing me haha. I should roll my eyes and move on.
I felt your pain! Poor you! But I think the number more than made up for it. Can’t wait for the next instalment of “Adventures with Carlo”.
I don’t think I can handle the emotional rollercoaster!
Nobody stands up an Italian like Maria.
How do you catch a Maria and pin it down for spaghetti?
Oh nooo! Poor Carlo waiting for you! But I am loving these Carlo posts – he sounds like the greatest neighbour!
He’s pretty awesome, and that spaghetti is next level!
Oh my god, I laughed & felt terrible for you all at once! Is live to know if he’s told his family about the young, hot Maria who’s been visiting??
There better be a ” spaghetti making with Carlo” post coming up?!
On a completely different t note, just wanted to let you know I’m still loving all the podcasts ( listened to the 90210 one today on the treadmill) but I’m totally bummed I’m not on Facebook to watch ( cause I’m guessing there’s a thing like FB to or something now? I keep reading about bloggers using it & feel right left out!)you or chat about it!
If you want to see a video I can email you one? It’s just us getting drunk and making faces…
OMG you had my heart in my mouth. I have felt like that too! It seems Carlo is happy to move on, which means you should forgive yourself and do the same. I do so love this series! Xx
I won’t make that mistake again!
lol oh noes. My family is Maltese (which is basically the same as Italian) so I totally understand this endless story telling over and over again and the guilt. As Christina said above, there’s no point in being polite about it!
Honestly, if my Nuna hasn’t complained to me about how put out she is by something I’ve done in the first five minutes of me visiting something’s not right. I just tell her to get over it (or make a joke about how she has nothing better to do) and they laugh and move on. 😉
Ha my nana is like that, the last time I saw her the first thing she said to me is that my face is narrow and my feet are big… don’t even have cultural backgrounds to blame for that one! She’s just a complainer, haha. Now that I know what I’m in for I think I can handle it… maybe…
Oh god, I bet you wanted to laugh and cry all at once your poor thing! Carlos cracks me up. I think you may have to start a Carlos fan club.
“What Carlo Did Next”
hahahahaha this was fantastic. Can’t wait for the post about when he actually calls you.
Huppas One. You’re wonderful. I’m so now going to call it Spaghett. (double ‘t’)
It’s EXACTLY how he pronounces spaghetti, haha. Like it’s 99% of the word.
Such a real post. I loved it. I was cringing with guilt along with you. Ninety-three eh? I hope I’m still cooking spaghetti when I’m 93. V.M., you are a gorgeous person. Don’t feel bad. I’m sure Carlos has honed manipulating the ladies over the last nine decades 🙂
I think you’re so right. I totally want to be a crotchetty pain in the ass with amazing spaghetti at 93!
Mumma Mia – cry!
well, then laugh! I’m all over the shop.
Oh man, I know this feeling. My husband took me around to an elderly Italian couple once for dinner – my husband has the worse sense of time. We were so late and they served me up the biggest bowl of spaghetti and I could hardly eat it as I’m pretty sure I am a celiac {having tests completed now that my sister has been confirmed a celiac}, but I ate the whole thing because I felt so guilty and was in the worst stomach cramps all night.
I think I was more drunk after all that wine! It was about two glassesful. But you can’t say no, right?! You don’t want to be rude and they don’t take it well anyway!
When I met my husband’s parents for the first time, they invited me for dinner. Being old school wogs {I wouldn’t use that term – but after 12 years, that’s just what they refer to themselves as} , they cooked a really spicy fish dish that I had never tried before and served it with copious amounts of homemade wine {read super alcoholic wine}. The meal was so hot that I ended up sinking almost three glasses. When the meal was over, I could hardly walk straight! Awesome first impression.
Yessssss remind me to tell you about the time I did shots of Absinthe on Christmas morning before I met my entire extended family for the first time? It was…. memorable. For everyone, I barely remember a thing! poor thing, it’s not pleasant is it. Can you handle the spice nowadays? I lost the ability when I had kids and stopped eating it. Bummer!
Oh I can definitely handle the spice factor now {over 13 years on}. I’ll be looking forward to your absinthe story. When I was at Uni, I was a Senior Resident and one night I got up to all these people in the SR office making a ruckus. They were drinking absinthe, and wouldn’t go to bed until I did a shot. I slammed down two shots and then hopped into bed – the room was spinning.
That’s so funny.
My family once ruined a boyfriend on Christmas Day morning with Aguadiente, just for shits and giggles. I had to walk him round the block until lunch.
The best books I have found that describe the great Mediterranean vs non Mediterranean food divide are the ones by Annie Hawes. I highly recommend them as research.
Oh Stacey
I can feel your pain. Next time you know set a time and day!! Crafty elderly gent he’s just trying to get you drunk lol xoxo
A lovely story but don’t beat yourself up. Life as a mother is a continuel guilt trip…look on it as better late than never!☺
I’ve spent the last 18 odd years trying to explain to non Mediterraneans how we view mealtimes and eating in general.I was totally cringing reading this because I could see where you were going, and I could see what Carlo was thinking, and it was never going to end well.
You ate the pasta, and drank the wine, and you joined in the banter. You did good.
But he’ll probably enjoy teasing you about this for the rest of your friendship, because we think shit like that is funny.
Oh god I am so not cut out for this haha. I’m excellent at eating, drinking, and banter, but navigating the unclear-to-me cultural politics of unfamiliar nationalities is stressful and confusing! The food though… at least there’s that!
Oh my gosh… my stomach has been in knots reading this. You just described my teenage years and most of my adult life. My family is from Malta so it’s kind of the same. Never, ever disappoint an elderly European, they just can’t comprehend. And just for the record, my Nannu would eat lunch at 11.30am on the dot. Be there or be square.
But it’s so lovely of you to visit Carlos and care so much about him.
I wish I’d known how to behave going into this relationship! It’s been a minefield of emotion haha. Although I can get used to this 11.30am lunch business.