We DO NOT wear white to this dinner!
Every year, my family has an Italian dinner night. And when I say Italian, I don’t mean making quick pasta and canned sauce and calling it good. I mean hours chopping in the kitchen, sauce simmering since sunrise, music humming in the background, and an unspoken rule: we do not wear white.
It's not a hard rule, just a precaution, because you just know you'll be getting red sauce splattered on your shirt.
This tradition started because my dad lived in Italy for two years as a missionary, and it changed him. He fell in love with the people, the history, the slowness of life, and of course, the food. Every winter season, he brings all of that back into our home by cooking a full Italian meal completely from scratch.
The smell always hits first. Garlic and olive oil warming in the pan, mixing with tomatoes and slowly becoming sauce. It’s the kind of smell that fills every corner of the house. Then there’s the sound of my dad in the kitchen, spoon stirring the pot patiently, completely in his element.
There’s always more food than we need. Massive bowls of pasta passed around the table, second (and third) helpings encouraged, no one keeping track. Bucatini all’Amatriciana — my favorite dish we order every single night when we’re in Rome — and vodka sauce that somehow tastes better every year gets passed around. Saucey splashes are inevitable. You’ve been warned!
We make a big deal out of the details. We make sure to use classic red and white checkered tablecloths to really make us feel like we are in an Italian piazza. The table crowded not just with food, but with people — extended family squeezed in wherever there’s room. Conversations overlap. Plates clink. Sparkling water bubbles. Someone laughs loudly. Time stretches in the best way.
Nothing about the night is rushed.
These slow, gilded moments are what I appreciate most — a table where people linger, where the meal is the main event, where being together matters more than anything else on the calendar. Looking back, it’s one of the clearest examples of what Italy has always represented to me: being present, beauty in simplicity, and the luxury of slowing down.
That’s why Gilded Italia feels so personal.
My dad’s love for Italy — and the way he brought it into our home year after year — was a huge inspiration behind the book. Not just the places or the architecture, but the feeling of Italy. The warmth. The intention. The idea that beauty isn’t loud or flashy — it’s layered, lived-in, and meaningful.
Gilded Italia isn’t meant to be set on a table and forgotten. It’s meant to live on a coffee table as something that invites people to pause, notice, gather, and stay a little longer. It’s an ode to long meals, stained tablecloths, and the kind of moments you don’t realize are shaping you until years later.
It is my hope that those who view the pages of Gilded Italia will go on a visual journey, one meant to inspire them to slow down and enjoy.
