How do you follow up a quintessentially American experience like the Fourth of July here in Italy? Invite a bunch of your Italian friends over for American breakfast.

That’s how we started our day on the morning after the Fourth of July. The previous evening, la Festa dell’Indipendenza, had seen us manufacture an American-style fireworks show, complete with Whitney Houston belting out our national anthem. So the following morning our plans called for serving an American breakfast to an assortment of our friends and neighbors. What we hadn’t planned for was the pounding headache that resulted from the previous evening’s celebration. Nonetheless, when the alarm rang at 7:30 there was no delaying the inevitable. An hour and a half later our guests would be arriving and there was much to prepare.

The first order of business was to whip up a batch of batter for waffles. Waffles, pancakes and the like are pretty much unheard of in Italy but fortunately for us, Marco and Chiara happen to own a waffle iron, perhaps the only one in Umbria. Marco had dropped it off the previous day and when I took a look at it it was a bit of a shock. I am used to a large Proctor Silex model with a large griddle that makes four waffles. This round waffle maker made six or so triangular or heart shaped waffles, each about the size of the thin wafers you serve with ice cream. Nonetheless, I mixed up a quadruple portion of batter, starting with Italian flour that we buy in industrial sized portions for pizza night and the like. And fortunately we had planned ahead for cooking American recipes and had on hand U.S. measuring cups and spoons. Converting ounces to grams and teaspoons to kilometers on the fly is a recipe. For disaster.

The batter was well under way when Lodovico and Anna arrived, a basket of eggs and some fresh pancetta in tow. The eggs were from Lodovico’s chickens and he proudly told us how fresh they were, “straight from the chicken’s . . .” Lodovico broke the ten eggs (maybe it was eight eggs I et?) and watched as I scrambled them, moving confidently around the kitchen and explaining to the awed Lodovico that it is a birthright of American men, particularly fathers, to be able to make breakfast. We may not be able to do many things right, but breakfast is something most of us have mastered.

A few minutes later Jennifer, an American expat who lives in Cannara arrived with her two children, the lure of American breakfast and the villa’s swimming pool being an irresistible draw. Colin and Yoko, our first two villa guests of the week were already lounging in the backyard with their two children. Outside, the sun was brightly shining and a cool breeze made the day postcard perfect. I fried up dozens of strips of pancetta, the uncured cousin to American bacon, and broader strips of guanciale or barbozza that give bacon a run for its money. In typical Italian fashion Lodovico asked if I put olive oil in the pan before cooking the bacon. Only in Italy.

So, even though I was moving slowly as a result of the previous evening, breakfast was coming together smoothly. After a few minutes it was done and moved to one of the outdoor tables by the pool. Our guests gathered around and started passing the platters, the Italians not quite sure what to eat or how, glancing around at the Americans to get a cue and a clue. Maple syrup was the most exotic and, it turned out, most appreciated new experience, with Lodovico at first dispensing it on his waffle drop by drop. I convinced him to drown his waffle in syrup (bagnato) and he quickly adapted to American ways.

It’s nice to extend a hand of friendship between people of different cultures. When that hand is sticky with maple syrup it’s even nicer.

Ci vediamo!
Bill and Suzy