My Italian Family is Shocked That I Hate Lasagna

And other people are too

Everyone seems to love lasagna. Layered with noodles, meat, ricotta, and mozzarella cheese, what’s not to like? It’s a favorite around the world. People rave about it.

It’s the reason people like Italian food. When people think of Italy, they think of lasagna.

Everyone loves it. Except for me. I hate it.

“What?” Friends stare at me in surprise. “You don't like lasagna?” They are stunned for a moment.

That’s right — I don’t.

Some people are appalled by this. How can you be of Italian descent and not love lasagna? It’s practically written in the culture. People of Italian descent must love lasagna.

People have asked me to explain why. Why would I rebel against my own cultural heritage? How could I dislike one of my culture’s favorite dishes?

I’ll tell you why. Because it’s disgusting. Because the cheese in it makes me gag. Because when it comes down to it, there’s no food on Earth I despise more than lasagna.

Yet lately I feel like a pariah. And why must I justify my disdain of a particular food? I don’t care that you don’t like green beans. Do I make you feel like a weirdo because you don’t like green food?

Yet my entire life people have been trying to get me to eat lasagna. They were shocked when I first pushed away a bite. My Mama couldn’t believe it. How could this be possible?

My whole extended Italian family was in on Mama’s plan to convert me. Every one of them. From Papa to Grandma to cousin Joey from Brooklyn.

Every single holiday we had lasagna. There was a tray of lasagna for Thanksgiving next to the turkey. There was a tray of it for Easter next to the ham. There was a tray of it for Christmas next to the Christmas cookies. And there was a tray of lasagna for Mother’s Day next to Mama.

You couldn’t escape the lasagna. It was everywhere. My friend Vinnie made it. My Irish friends made it. Why? Because everyone loves lasagna. Even people who aren’t Italian. When I tell them I hate lasagna, they get confused.

“Wait — aren’t you Italian?”

“Yes.”

“But Italians love lasagna.”

“Not me.”

They shake their heads. “But — that’s not normal.”

It all started when I was a child

We should blame it on my childhood — specifically my maternal grandmother. When I was a child, my native-born Italian Grandma tried everything to get me to eat it.

Grandma was an expert at force-feeding children that were too skinny. The family was way concerned that I refused to eat lasagna, so they gave the job to her. After all, she was retired from her job in Manhattan, so she had plenty of time to feed difficult children.

“Mangia, mangia,” she’d say, “I made a dish of lasagna for you.”

“No — anything but that.”

“Open your mouth, I give you a nice bite.”

“No, please no,” I would clench my mouth shut.

“Eat,” she’d say, forcing the forkful into my mouth.

I’d sputter, gag, and race out of the room.

The next day, Grandma would find me again. “I made you a kind you like,” she said. “Less cheese.”

“Please, can’t we have chicken tonight?” I begged, “Or liver. Anything else.”

“No.”

“Kidney pie,” I begged, “Make me kidney pie.”

“Mangia, mangia.” The fork of lasagna headed towards me. I tried to scream, but that was her perfect opportunity to shove it in my mouth. My cheeks bulged. My face turned red. I gagged. She had succeeded again.

Grandma couldn’t give me lasagna for breakfast, so she fed me soft-boiled eggs. Unfortunately for me, all of her favorite foods made me gag. If she had her way, I would eat soft-boiled eggs and lasagna every day.

Thank heavens I grew up and escaped Grandma’s fork.

Finally, I escaped it

Now that I was an adult, I could eat anything I’d like. No more soft-boiled eggs. And most important — no more lasagna.

Life was great. I ate Filet mignon. I delighted in seafood dishes, and plates of garden-grown vegetables. For the first time in my life, I began to like food. And I gained weight — lots of it.

When I dined with my Italian family, I ate the meatballs — lots of them. After all, no one could say I was too skinny and force-feed me anymore. I scowled at the tray of lasagna, and I never forced my children to eat it. I was free at last to be me!

I don’t care what anyone says. If you disapprove of me because I hate lasagna, you’ll just have to deal with it. I promise not to shame you for refusing to eat vegetables.

My birthday celebration

My friends are good to me at the Italian club. We share our love of Italy and take each other out on our birthdays. My friends are there for me. We go out to eat, and I order the gnocchi. Life is good.

Recently, my friend Debra decided to celebrate my birthday. The plan was to have my close friends celebrate it at my house. All week long I was excited.

Debra was a great baker, and I looked forward to a homemade birthday cake from her.

Would my friends bring over Shrimp Scampi? Would it be a Filet mignon?

When they arrived at my house on the big day, Debra walked in with a bright gift bag with a card and gifts inside for me. I was so touched by her thoughtfulness. Then I saw the tray.

“Look what I brought you,” she said with a smile.

She thought I would like it. It was a special dish for my celebration. She made it because she loves me. She thought I’d be thrilled.

“You’ll love this,” she insisted and pulled the foil off the tray. Oh no, anything but that! Not on my birthday!

Where is the kidney pie?