BY: Freda Moon
This was supposed to be a food story. It was supposed to be a story about eating baby anchovies in a stew of Calabrian chilies and spooning spicy, fatty ’nduja sausage onto crunchy bread. I pictured myself sampling this fiery, peculiar food while sitting beside the Tyrrhenian Sea, watching a horizon specked with Old World swordfishing boats.
I saw myself tipsy on wines I’d never heard of and imagined myself drunk on a fresh love of Italian food, the food of “my people,” whatever that means for a second-generation Italian American raised in rural Northern California, far from the East Coast epicenters of Italian immigrant culture and farther still from Italy itself. But by my second night in Calabria, I already had a hunch this wasn’t going to be such a tidy story.
SOURCE: https://www.afar.com/
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