After dinner tonight I noticed a voice mail on my phone. I listened to it eight times before I passed the phone to my husband.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with your dad,” I said. “I think he’s been drinking. I can’t make out a word he’s saying.”

My husband took the phone and listened. After hearing the message one time he shut the phone and handed it back to me.

“Well?” I asked.

“He’s not drunk, honey. He’s just Italian.”

*****

After eleven years of living exactly 3.3 miles from my father-in-law, seeing him every second Sunday for awkward conversation and coffee, and celebrating every wedding, baptism, Fourth of July Christmas and Palm Sunday together, I still can only understand every third world. If he drinks more than two glasses of wine, my success rate falls to every fifth word. (Conversely, my comprehension jumps significantly if I’m the one drinking. On one particularly festive evening I not only understood Italian but I’m pretty sure I had a deeply intellectual conversation with the cat.)

John knows that I have this problem, but he has politely ignored it for the past decade. I politely ignore the fact that he is politely ignoring it. And thus we have fallen into a pattern. It goes something like this:

“Anna nouchi summa chagouzi suuwahna da cel-lar.”

“Pardon me?”

“Da CEL-lar. Anna nouchi summa chagouzi suuwahna da cel-lar.”

“Oh? …. you, um … the cellar.

“Right.”

Pause

“What was that about the cellar again?”

“NOUchi! NOUchi! Anna nouchi summa chagouzi suuwahna cel-lar.”

“Oh, of course! …  Sorry. No, our cellar’s good.” I smile now — my cheeks stiff, my eyes darting around the room. “Yeah, it’s a … uh, it’s a great cellar.”

John sighs, then puts both hands on the arms of his favorite leather La-Z-Boy, and slowly pushes himself up.

“Okay then. I’ll go make the coffee.”