The Italian Family Reunion: A Masterclass in Pretending to Like Each Other

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What people don’t get is that Italian-Americans like myself legitimately prep before family dinners like we’re going into battle. I’m not kidding. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve gotten a full checklist from my mother on what I can and can’t say at dinner. Picture this: it’s Sunday afternoon, and Mom’s sitting there like a mafia boss, listing out all the conversational landmines. “Don’t mention to your aunt that I was with your uncle last week, or she’ll have a fit,” she warns, as if this is life-or-death stuff. And, God forbid, you slip up once—you’re dead. But instead of a hitman showing up at your door, you get the death glares, the passive-aggressive comments, and the weeks-long silent treatment that only a true Italian matriarch can deliver.

And here’s the kicker: the rest of the family is doing the exact same thing. Uncle Sal is probably telling his son, “Don’t you dare ask Cousin Maria about her divorce.’” Nonna’s reminding everyone not to bring up the time she accidentally backed the car into the garage door (which she insists wasn't her fault). It’s like every single person at that dinner table has their own personal CIA handler making sure nobody accidentally sets off World War III.

But when everyone finally shows up to dinner, they act like it’s one big, happy family reunion. Smiles all around, hugs that last a second too long, and the constant “how are yous?” that are really just disguised attempts to see who’s got the upper hand this year. Meanwhile, the true art of an Italian family dinner is the side conversations happening in hushed voices when people think no one’s listening. Aunt Teresa whispering, “Did you see Gina’s lasagna? She didn't even make it herself, she bought it at the pizza place down the street, that lazy bitch!” Or Cousin Giovanni, fresh from his semester abroad, rolling his eyes dramatically because someone didn’t pronounce “prosciutto” correctly.

And yet, despite all the drama, we show up—every single week. Why? Because skipping a Sunday dinner would start a nuclear war. And besides, it’s tradition! The performance of pretending to be a big, happy family, pretending to be thrilled to see each other, is just as much a part of the Italian family DNA as sauce-stained shirts and exaggerated hand gestures.

So yes, we prepare. We rehearse. We walk on eggshells. But at the end of the day, it’s not really about liking each other—it’s about keeping up appearances. Because in an Italian family, if you’re not at least pretending to be a big, happy famiglia… well, Nonna might just write you out of the will faster than you can say, “Pass the cheese.”