Some people use words to say “I love you.”
Some people use hugs.
Me? I use carbs. A lot of them. Preferably layered, sauced, and served family-style to twelve of my dearest friends… in my living room… of my 1,100 square foot home.
Yes, I hosted an Italian Sunday Supper — and not just any supper. We’re talking multiple courses, days of prep, a table squeezed between my couch and a dream, and enough food to feed a small village (or one very hungry extended Italian family).
This culinary love letter was inspired by two women who shaped my love for food and hosting: Mrs. Isernia, my God Father’s Italian Mother in law who taught me the sacred art of cooking for people, and my own mom — whose heart is as warm as her oven and who has always made everyone feel deeply loved and well-fed (a true double threat).
The Scene:
Picture this — black and white checkered tablecloth, tomato and herb plants nestled between mismatched flower arrangements, and the sweet scent of garlic floating through the air. I had one mission: fit 12 people in my living room and make them feel like they were dining al fresco in Naples… or, at the very least, in the coziest ristorante this side of my bookshelf.
The Menu (Buckle up.):
We kicked things off with a proper antipasti situation — homemade soppressata, cheeses (yes, plural), olives, bread, oil, and prosciutto-wrapped melon. There was mingling, there was laughter, and there was exactly one dramatic moment when someone tried to dip a melon in the oil. (We forgave them.)
Then came the second course: my family’s sacred Caesar salad — a recipe so secret, I might have to disappear into witness protection just for mentioning it. Alongside that, a tomato and burrata salad that could make grown men weep (pretty sure it did).
Third course? Lemon ricotta pasta and golden chicken cutlets that were crisped to perfection. If anyone had buttons pop at this point, they were gracious enough not to mention it, although I would have been proud.
Before course four, the real show began. Our dear friends Tim and Kevin pulled out an accordion and guitar and serenaded us with “That’s Amore” and the Godfather theme song. I’m not saying we all sang along with red wine in hand… but I’m also not not saying that.
Then, the main event: meatballs, red sauce, and spaghetti. At this point, we were in a collective food-induced trance — somewhere between euphoric and mildly concerned for our digestive systems.
And because even I know my limits, dessert came courtesy of Roma Bakery — a heavenly tiramisu that required zero baking on my part. (Baking is not in my spirit. I’m more of a “stir, simmer, taste, repeat” kind of gal.)
Was it over the top?
Absolutely.
Did I spend three days prepping and another two recovering?
Without question.
Would I do it all again in a heartbeat?
Yes — but only if I can wear stretchy pants next time.
Because for me, food has always been my loudest, sauciest, most delicious love language. And filling my home — tiny as it is — with people I adore, feeding them until they’re slightly uncomfortable, and laughing until our sides hurt… that’s the good stuff.
