Last night I baked banana bread for The Boy. He is home for a few days, finishing up some papers which he will email to professors, and then heading off for Spring Break with some friends. I was really tired last night, but The Boy was driving hundreds of miles in a nasty rain storm, and I wanted him to have one of his favorite foods, all warm and savory, when he got here.
That's nice, but I recently read an article in the Wall Street Journal about Italian moms that put me to shame. There is actually a guy who is in the business of trucking Sunday dinners, cooked by Mama, to their off spring in other regions of the country. He hauls the lasagnas, raviolis, baked fish and other goodies in his refrigerated truck, so that the children - wait, did I say "children? Some of the offspring in the article are in their 30s! - can have a nice meal, prepared by Mom. And it's not just Mama's boys either; daughters are also getting the deliveries.
Of course by our cultural standards, it's completely over the top, but as I read about the almond paste cookies, the lightly breaded artichokes, the stuffed eggplants, the home-grown vegetables and more, I had to wish that I had an Italian mama.