Anybody for a little Italian tonight?

For all my talk, I certainly can be an a-hole about ethnicity. I don't *think* that Italian cooking has been proven a genetic trait. Still...

Whenever I hear Dad mulling around the kitchen, clicking his tongue overly loudly and saying "nice nice"--all with the accompanying hand gestures--I just KNOW whatever he's making will be horrible and tasteless. He'll oversalt everything, drink too much cheap (or not cheap!) wine, and overcook the pasta until its the consistency of Tuna Helper. In my head I get all uppity like, "You're not one of US--know your place, DAMN." How screwed up is that??

In my undeserved defense, he does tend to "doctor up" things that come in jars, doesn't take any sort of pride in the process, and doesn't cringe at the mere thought of what the elders (or my sister, a culinary elder to most people on the planet) would think.

Still, he did marry into this whole spaghetti-eater gig, and he's stuck around. He has put up with all of the negative cultural stereotypes that happen to be true in our case, and even though the family circle is often closed to him, he always plays nice and keeps bouncing back with a smile.

This begs the questions: Does he (or me, with all my relationships with ppl outside of my little Italian-American enclave) get points for being there? For trying? Does effort really get you an A, make your junk more edible, or earn you the respect of your children? Does any of this have anything to do with cooking, or the fact that I cling on to my Italian heritage just to have something to call my own?

With a jerk of a daughter like me, the answers are all MAYBE.