An Italian-American living la dolce vita in the Deep South

An Italian-American living la dolce vita in the Deep South

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

Fisticuffs: a mano-a-mano brawl (sometimes about ice cream)



Let’s face it, boys don’t gush. If they don’t like something, they’ll tell you. If they do like something, they’ll tell you. But exaggerated enthusiasm or effusiveness? That’s just not their style.
 

Case in point, this past weekend I made homemade (read: made from scratch) ice cream and served it after Sunday’s lunch with i Nonni.  

“So, what do you think? Isn’t it good?” I inquired, shamelessly reaching for compliments.

Nonna jumped right in.

“Oh this is so good!” she gushed. “Really, it’s delicious. What ingredients did you use? Truly, one of the best homemade ice creams I have ever tasted. In fact, let me have a little more.”

Then I turned to the boys and repeated the question.

“It’s good.” they replied.

Note. There wasn’t even an exclamation mark.

So how do I know they really liked the ice cream? Later that evening one son announced he was going to have some ice cream, to which the other son responded there better be some left for him, to which Joe piped in from the family room that he didn’t care what the other two did just as long as there was a scoop left for him … just a scoop, but it better be a decent sized one.

The argument/discussion went back and forth, stopping just short of fisticuffs.

See? Fisticuffs. Over my homemade ice cream. That’s how I know.

They liked it! (Note the exclamation mark.)
The ice cream is mine, mine I tell you!

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