I am standing in Nonna’s kitchen, desperately trying to avoid looking at either the spot where she died or at my mother, who is currently raging in Italian. Despite my heritage, I have never managed to master much beyond the odd holiday phrase, so I really don’t have a clue about what she is saying to me.
My dad popped out for a pint of milk, and it was at that point she started grilling me about what I was going to do about Bread. I am a terrible liar, so I came clean and told her my situation, minus the stuff like sleeping with my boss, his psycho brother and the all-round f****d-up-ness that is my life currently. Needless to say, it was like waving a rag at a bull, and I am now standing here waiting for her to calm down. Which doesn’t seem like it is going to happen anytime soon.
“Gin
