Chicago. My home. 

 

Well, actually Elmhurst, a Western suburb, is my home. But, Chicago sounds way cooler, right? 

 

So, Chicago. My home. 

 

This city is also the land of Portillo's hot dogs, Italian beef, deep dish pizza, and pretty much any other Italian meal you can imagine. Pasta? Sub sandwiches? Cannolis? We've got it. And there sure as hell will be a competition for who has the very best (for the record, though,  a true Italian beef can only be found at Johnnie's). 

 

Elmhurst, admittedly my "real" hometown, also embodies this love of Italian food. It was THE Little Italy of the burbs. If you wanted to go out to eat, Zanzi's, Amelio's, Francesca's, Pazzi di Pizza, and Roberto's were among the many options you had. Every single restaurant in our downtown area was Italian. For years, it seemed as though this was the only cuisine that Elmhurst knew. 

 

Elmhurst embodied this culture outside of the kitchen, too. A majority of my classmates were Italian. My high school, unlike most, offered courses to help us speak Italian. Italian cars seemed to be the car of choice for many families. The influence that this culture had in our town was over the top. 

 

I, however, am not Italian. 

Trust me; I took an ancestry test. I am 0.00% Italian. I don't know why this result surprised me, but it did. I think it surprised my family, too. For my whole life, the influence of Italian cooking and culture seemed to play a large part in my family's lifestyle. 

 

*** 

 

My dad's fascination with Italy started long before moving to Chicago. While attending the University of Michigan, he learned how to cook from his Italian trumpet professor. Instead of focusing on trumpet, my dad seemed to be spending more time in the kitchen with him than in the practice rooms. Their relationship truly seems as though it was centered around food. In fact, this professor taught my dad how to cook the very meal that made my mom fall in love with my dad. 

 

His makeshift classes weren’t just on the basics of Italian food, however. The two of them literally traveled to Italy to explore the architecture, the culture, and, of course, to perfect their cooking skills. Thirty years later and my dad is still talking about the meals they ate. Every time he tries to recreate the fresh basil pesto he tasted in Italy, he tells us about eating with his professor. I think this trip truly defined his love for the culture and perhaps influenced him to move to Chicago. 

 

***

 

With no nearby family members within a hundred-mile radius of our house, we grew very close to another Elmhurst family.

 

The Zurlos, our self-proclaimed relatives, are undeniably Italian. Their Nona taught all of us how to make homemade gnocchi and we were frequently invited to their family dinner parties. They embodied the very culture that we all wished to be a part of. However, I don’t think I was able to understand this fascination until my dad was asked to cook for one of their Sunday dinners. 

 

Leading up to this night, my dad spent weeks perfecting his famous marinara sauce. He experimented with different amounts of carrots, onions, — even sugar — until, eventually, it was perfected. He knew it was impeccable, too. He cradled the pot of sauce in his lap as we drove to the Zurlo’s house, protecting it with his life.  

“I bet Dan has never tasted a sauce like this” he’d say, taking pride in his creation.

 

The thing is, I don’t think his excitement came from the fact that he mastered a meal. He rarely bragged about his prized roasted chicken or French onion soup. I think that this sauce is what made him feel Italian. It was as if the sauce was going to get him approval from the family. He would be accepted.

 

***

 

While I didn't develop the same infatuation with Italy that my dad did, I feel as though my understanding of this culture is what makes me a true Chicago girl. The food speaks to me. It feels embedded within me. It tastes like home.

 

The memories that my dad shares about his time in Italy mimic the type of family stories that would be told about my grandparents or even my great grandparents. While my dad's cooking adventures don't involve anyone that I am genuinely related to, these experiences have forever shaped my life and, in this way, they feel a part of me.

 

When I introduced my Michigan friends to the wonders of Chicago food for the first time, I was ecstatic. I wanted them to like the food, but I did not doubt that that would happen. Who wouldn’t like it? I felt that with a bite into Johnnie's famous Italian beef, or a taste of my dad's pasta, they would understand me. They would taste my culture, my family, and my hometown one bite at a time. 

 

That's the beauty of food. There are no rules. You can let your culture, your hometown, your friends, and your interests drive your decisions in the kitchen. You can determine what foods feel like home and you can share this with your friends and with your family.