“THE ITALIAN”

The other night, TLW (The Little Woman) and me were discussing the local parish priest we have at our church. Father Dan is relatively new, taking over a little over a year ago. He is of Italian descent, and is likeable enough, and I can understand his well-prepared sermons! His predecessor, Father Pat, an Irishman off the boat, was pastor for many years at the parish, and started it. He was a saintly, good man, but I could not understand his brogue and well-prepared sermons. TLW even admitted that he went on too long, hammering the same point: over-and-over, again.

TLW: Did you notice the ‘No Parking’ sign for Fr. Dan? He has his own reserved parking space!”

Me: Swallowing hard my broccoli rabe with cannelloni beans and hot sausages and vinegar peppers replied “Yes” (Hear it comes!)

TLW: “Father Pat would never have done that! He was a very humble man, he would let someone else have the spot, he would shy from the attention and perks!”

Me: “OK.” (The D’Italini pasta went well with the dish I thought.)

TLW: “Yes, he is a lot like my family (All Irish), we are very polite. You know, how you always are yelling at me because I’m too polite.” (True, she would have been the last one off the Titanic!) You and your family (all Italian) are very assertive, and demand your place. (Here she makes a fist and almost hits the table with it.) I didn’t start sitting in the middle of the church until you started coming with me. I would sit way in the back and off to the side! It wasn’t until I married the Italian that I started sitting in the middle of the church!"

“THE ITALIAN!”

I wonder if she would mind eating in the back of the house, off to the side?