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Deborah
’
s
an
internationally
respected
psychologist
,
a
writer
and
a
feminist
theorist
,
but
I
still
think
of
her
as
my
favorite
regular
customer
,
back
from
the
days
when
I
was
a
diner
waitress
in
Philly
and
she
would
come
in
for
lunch
and
drink
Diet
Coke
with
no
ice
and
say
clever
things
to
me
over
the
counter
.
She
really
classed
up
that
joint
.
We
’
ve
been
friends
now
for
over
fifteen
years
.
Sofie
will
be
coming
to
Luca
’
s
party
,
too
.
Sofie
and
I
have
been
friends
for
about
fifteen
weeks
.
Everybody
is
always
welcome
on
Thanksgiving
.
Especially
when
it
also
happens
to
be
Luca
Spaghetti
’
s
birthday
.
We
drive
out
of
tired
,
stressed
-
out
Rome
late
in
the
evening
,
up
into
the
mountains
.
Luca
loves
American
music
,
so
we
’
re
blasting
the
Eagles
and
singing
"
Take
it
…
to
the
limit
…
one
more
time
!
!
!
!
!
!
"
which
adds
an
oddly
Californian
sound
track
to
our
drive
through
olive
groves
and
ancient
aqueducts
.
We
arrive
at
the
house
of
Luca
’
s
old
friends
Mario
and
Simona
,
parents
of
the
twin
twelve
-
year
-
old
girls
Giulia
and
Sara
.
Paolo
-
a
friend
of
Luca
’
s
whom
I
’
d
met
before
at
soccer
games
-
is
there
,
too
,
along
with
his
girlfriend
.
Of
course
,
Luca
’
s
own
girlfriend
,
Giuliana
,
is
there
,
as
well
,
having
driven
up
earlier
in
the
evening
.
It
’
s
an
exquisite
house
,
hidden
away
in
a
grove
of
olive
and
clementine
and
lemon
trees
.
The
fireplace
is
lit
.
The
olive
oil
is
homemade
.
No
time
to
roast
a
twenty
-
pound
turkey
,
obviously
,
but
Luca
sautes
up
some
lovely
cuts
of
turkey
breast
and
I
preside
over
a
whirlwind
group
effort
to
make
a
Thanksgiving
stuffing
,
as
best
as
I
can
remember
the
recipe
,
made
from
the
crumbs
of
some
high
-
end
Italian
bread
,
with
necessary
cultural
substitutions
(
dates
instead
of
apricots
;
fennel
instead
of
celery
)
.
Somehow
it
comes
out
great
.
Luca
had
been
worried
about
how
the
conversation
would
proceed
tonight
,
given
that
half
the
guests
can
’
t
speak
English
and
the
other
half
can
’
t
speak
Italian
(
and
only
Sofie
can
speak
Swedish
)
,
but
it
seems
to
be
one
of
those
miracle
evenings
where
everyone
can
understand
each
other
perfectly
,
or
at
least
your
neighbor
can
help
translate
when
the
odd
word
gets
lost
.
I
lose
count
of
how
many
bottles
of
Sardinian
wine
we
drink
before
Deborah
introduces
to
the
table
the
suggestion
that
we
follow
a
nice
American
custom
here
tonight
by
joining
hands
and
-
each
in
turn
-
saying
what
we
are
most
grateful
for
.
In
three
languages
,
then
,
this
montage
of
gratitude
comes
forth
,
one
testimony
at
a
time
.
Deborah
starts
by
saying
she
is
grateful
that
America
will
soon
get
a
chance
to
pick
a
new
president
.
Sofie
says
(
first
in
Swedish
,
then
in
Italian
,
then
in
English
)
that
she
is
grateful
for
the
benevolent
hearts
of
Italy
and
for
these
four
months
she
’
s
been
allowed
to
experience
such
pleasure
in
this
country
.
The
tears
begin
when
Mario
-
our
host
-
weeps
in
open
gratitude
as
he
thanks
God
for
the
work
in
his
life
that
has
enabled
him
to
have
this
beautiful
home
for
his
family
and
friends
to
enjoy
.
Paolo
gets
a
laugh
when
he
says
that
he
,
too
,
is
grateful
that
America
will
soon
have
the
chance
to
elect
a
new
president
.
We
fall
into
a
silence
of
collective
respect
for
little
Sara
,
one
of
the
twelve
-
year
-
old
twins
,
when
she
bravely
shares
that
she
is
grateful
to
be
here
tonight
with
such
nice
people
because
she
’
s
been
having
a
hard
time
at
school
lately
-
some
of
the
other
students
are
being
mean
to
her
-
"
so
thank
you
for
being
sweet
to
me
tonight
and
not
mean
to
me
,
like
they
are
.
"
Luca
’
s
girlfriend
says
she
is
grateful
for
the
years
of
loyalty
Luca
has
shown
to
her
,
and
for
how
warmly
he
has
taken
care
of
her
family
through
difficult
times
.
Simona
-
our
hostess
-
cries
even
more
openly
than
her
husband
had
,
as
she
expresses
her
gratitude
that
a
new
custom
of
celebration
and
thankfulness
has
been
brought
into
her
home
by
these
strangers
from
America
,
who
are
not
really
strangers
at
all
,
but
friends
of
Luca
’
s
and
therefore
friends
of
peace
.
When
it
comes
my
turn
to
speak
,
I
begin
"
Sono
grata
…
"
but
then
find
I
cannot
say
my
real
thoughts
.
Namely
,
that
I
am
so
grateful
to
be
free
tonight
from
the
depression
that
had
been
gnawing
at
me
like
a
rat
over
the
years
,
a
depression
that
had
chewed
such
perforations
in
my
soul
that
I
would
not
,
at
one
time
,
have
been
able
to
enjoy
even
such
a
lovely
night
as
this
.
I
don
’
t
mention
any
of
this
because
I
don
’
t
want
to
alarm
the
children
.
Instead
,
I
say
a
simpler
truth
-
that
I
am
grateful
for
old
and
new
friends
.
That
I
am
grateful
,
most
especially
tonight
,
for
Luca
Spaghetti
That
I
hope
he
has
a
happy
thirty
-
third
birthday
,
and
I
hope
he
lives
a
long
life
,
in
order
to
stand
as
an
example
to
other
men
of
how
to
be
a
generous
,
loyal
and
loving
human
being
.
And
that
I
hope
nobody
minds
that
I
’
m
crying
as
I
say
all
this
,
though
I
don
’
t
think
they
do
mind
,
since
everyone
else
is
crying
,
too
.
Luca
is
so
clutched
by
emotion
that
he
cannot
find
words
except
to
say
to
all
of
us
:
"
Your
tears
are
my
prayers
.
"
The
Sardinian
wine
keeps
on
coming
.
And
while
Paolo
washes
the
dishes
and
Mario
puts
his
tired
daughters
to
bed
and
Luca
plays
the
guitar
and
everyone
sings
drunken
Neil
Young
songs
in
various
accents
,
Deborah
the
American
feminist
psychologist
says
quietly
to
me
,
"
Look
around
at
these
good
Italian
men
.
See
how
open
they
are
to
their
feelings
and
how
lovingly
they
participate
in
their
families
.
See
the
regard
and
the
respect
they
hold
for
the
women
and
children
in
their
lives
.
Don
’
t
believe
what
you
read
in
the
papers
,
Liz
.
This
country
is
doing
very
well
.
"
