Lynettte D’Amico, whose regular column, A SCHEME OF SPACES, features a pattern rule from Christopher Alexander’s A Pattern Language, is off topic.

During the course of the holidays Mrs. Bridge would drive the children around to see how other houses were decorated, and on one of these trips they came to a stucco bungalow with a life-size cutout of Santa Claus on the roof, six reindeer in the front yard, candles in every window, and by the front door an enormous cardboard birthday cake with one candle. On the cake was this message: Happy Birthday, Dear Jesus.

“My word, how extreme,” said Mrs. Bridge thoughtfully. “Italians must live there.”

—From Mrs. Bridge by Evan Connell

What do you think of when you think of Italian? Red wine? Red sauce? A commercial on TV for some flavorless, faux tomato sauce? A group of short round women with prominent noses, wearing aprons, holding wooden spoons, gold crucifixes around their necks, are tasting the sauce.  Frederico Fellini. Frank Sinatra. Annette Funicello. Jesus is flying overhead. Marcello waves to the pretty girls. The wild-haired Seraghina dances on the beach. Sweat glistens between her breasts. Leave the gun. Take the cannoli. Spaghetti. Macaroni. Manicotti. Ravioli.

There is some truth to every cliché. I am my own stereotype. In Minnesota, I was the roasted red pepper stuck between perfect Scandinavian Lutheran white teeth. I was the olive pit island among ten thousand lakes, the dark haired goatherd’s daughter in the pasture of ten thousand blonde dairy cows. The big-haired, big-mouthed—well, you get the idea. I am my own essentialized cliché. I grow basil. I have a garden Madonna. I threaten to cut my enemies. I have too much hair. My brothers are men with mustaches. My mother was a short, round saint who talked to the dead. I bleach my cleaning rags. I kiss people in greeting. I have an Uncle Vinny, a Cousin Carmella. It’s not only true on television, in the movies.

On a recent visit to my hometown of Buffalo, New York, I was sitting on the stamped concrete patio in Uncle Vinny’s backyard. It was a beautiful late spring day, I was sipping a glass of white wine, and Vinny had just turned on the backyard fountains: the bare breasted nymph pouring water from an urn at her waist, the three-tiered Tuscan fountain, the lion’s head wall hanging spouting a stream from his pursed lips, the angel pouring water into the pitcher held by a cherub, the Blessed Virgin Mary grotto and pond. The sound of water splashing and bubbling almost drowned out the sound of Vinny with his gas-powered blower blowing grass clippings into the street. This is the Italian-American version of garden art. Vinny’s yard is impeccable and pristine within its garish manifestation. The hydrangeas, hostas, and calla lilies are planted in tidy borders. There are herbs and box hedges in pots on the patio, a grill as big as the 1991 Cadillac Vinny keeps parked in his impeccable and pristine garage. Excess is one of the hallmarks of the Italian-American design tradition.

This design tradition is evident in my godmother Mary Gnozzo’s white and gold living room, also in Buffalo, which has maintained the same look since the fall of Rome. The marble top hallway table, the white wrought iron stair railing, the gold and crystal chandelier, the white carpet, the gold couch, the antique gold Roman column plant stand, the artificial trailing ivy, the renaissance tapestry wall hanging. Walking into Mildred’s living room, I feel at home at once. Not at home like I feel in my Chicago bungalow with the dusty baseboards and cat hair clumps, not so at home that I don’t take off my shoes at the door, but home as I remember home growing up, where I come from, and where I return to.

In our current neighborhood of West Rogers Park, there’s a house we pass every morning on our dog walking route. The old guy who lives there is very trim and tan, with an Old World mustache. Every morning, spring, summer, and fall, we see him working in his yard, which is as impeccable and pristine as a Chicago yard can be. Pink begonias planted beneath yellow gladiolas, all in a row, a climbing rose tamed and tied to the fence. When we pass, he’s edging, or watering, or pulling a few weeds, picking up trash, cutting back his irises, all to the swelling sound of a foreign language opera coming from a backyard CD player. Sometimes if we take an afternoon walk sans dogs on the weekend, he is sitting in a lawnchair in the shade of his pristine and impeccable garage listening to opera. I’ve never seen him with an open bottle of beer in his hand, but a few times there have been an espresso cup and a moka pot on a small table next to him. The guy probably hates dogs and Polly’s tattoos; he would likely despise the lush, messy peonies I adore, with their extravagance of pink petals and heavy fragrance. I love him. When you look at him, you know he has been a handsome man all his life. “Buon giorno,” he says when we walk past in the morning.

I collect Italian delis and markets. When I feel homesick, nostalgic, or just hungry—which constitutes nearly the full range of the Italian-American’s emotional landscape that doesn’t involve bloodshed—I visit one of my favorite delis. In Minneapolis and St. Paul, there are only two Italian markets to serve the handful of Italian-Americans who live in the Twin Cities and I took what I could get. It was never enough. Chicago offers a few more options. One of my latest deli finds is in Edison Park. Next door is a bakery. I’ve seen folks lined up at the door of the bakery but the cookies look a little tired. When I tried them they tasted as though they had all been made from the same dough—a shortcut cheat. “Why do people line up next door?” I asked the short round cashier at the deli. I love her. She picked up my modest package of hot Italian sausage on the checkout counter and weighed it in her hand. “You gonna charge jus dis? When youse paya wit de credit, I no make no money lessen you spend more. Buya some more, bigga shot.”

In my Italian-American constellation of family and friends, the greatest sin is to be thought of as cheap. I had been shamed by an elder of my people. What could I do? I added bread crumbs, a wedge of sharp provolone, canned San Marzano tomatoes, and a bag of anise candies to my order. The cashier accepted my card. She considered me suspiciously. “You Italian?”

You betcha. Then she told me that every Saturday from 11 to 2 the bakery next door sold prepared food. “Whadevah youse want. Lasagna, nice-a pork chop, chicken–homemade. For de Italians only.”

In Chicago I am a member of the club in a way that I never was in Minnesota, where I thought I could only be in Buffalo. I can drink espresso standing up out of a tiny cup and sit in the sun and listen to opera while I remember the gold-flocked wallpaper and the ceramic urn on the wall under the picture of the Sacred Heart in my parents’ house. I can stand in line and eat chicken cacciatore or sausage and peppers. At Christmas I might pull out the aluminum tree, the gilt angels, the plastic plug-in candles, wonder if our Indian and Pakistani and Hispanic, Jewish and Italian neighbors will notice, will think, “Italians must live there.”

Photo by s_knipmeyer