Italiana al Cuore

Growing up, most people didn't believe me when I said I was half Italian. My dark brown eyes were the only feature that betrayed my fair, freckled skin and medium-brown hair. My brother, meanwhile, emerged from our mother's Italian gene pool, and his olive skin and coarse hair compelled strangers to ask him to what race he belonged.

Despite the Irish features I inherited from my father, I've always best identified with my Italian lineage. This is probably because my father's adoptive family is Cuban, and we have no sense of Irish heritage besides our predilection for beer. When my father married my mother, he was then fostered into her Italian family, and, nearly three decades later, he wields bastardized Italian-American dialect with the best of 'em.

So our entire household maintained an Italian-American mentality, despite the clover branded on the patriarch's forearm. Our traditions—especially surrounding mealtime—were all Italian, which I took for American until I had exposure to the way other families interacted and served their meals. When I went to college, I longed for real Italian food, not that glorified fast food that comes with endless salad and breadsticks. (Sorry, I do not feel like "family" in a restaurant chain.) And when I began cooking for myself, I scrutinized my mother's Sunday gravy ritual so I could replicate it in my own kitchen. And eventually, I got good at it.

As my confidence grew in my cooking ability ("Of course I can cook. I'm Italian!" I'd proclaim), I would host parties at which I'd serve Italian favorites and new discoveries. I baked often and even earned a reputation for being the Cookie Lady.

Even if my appearance wasn't Italian, my heart and my stomach were; I was convinced.

But today, I'm less certain. For all my love of Italian culture—which, let's face it, revolves around the dinner table—it doesn't love me. About two years ago, I was diagnosed with celiac disease. To treat it, I've been on a strict gluten-free diet, which has rendered pasta, pizza, pastries, and all other Italian emblems inedible. (Ironically, the Irish gene that gave me such a fate also denies me beer.)

And so I've begun altering my sense of Italian cuisine: It looks just as it always had, but it's modified to be gluten-free. I've made it a personal goal to serve "normies" gluten-free treats so good, they don't know the difference. Just as I had always felt Italian but looked Irish, my cooking tastes Italian but caters to my weak Irish tummy.