Tonno e cipolla

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Disclaimer: these pizza toppings are NOT fruit of a pregnant woman’s cravings.

I love pizza. I make it (yes, the dough, too) once a week. I have to, so I can keep happy a picky Italian husband who from one day to the next decided he doesn’t like American pizza.

This combination of pizza toppings – tuna and onion – is one of A’s favorites, and found everywhere in northern Italy where he’s from. When we moved to Rome, it was a different story: he didn’t see it on the menu once, asked the waiter if he’d make one for him anyway, the waiter looked like him like he was a martian, then he came back with a pizza with tuna on it and three tiny pieces of onion. Oh no: the thing has to be LOADED with onion (note: the picture was taken before the pizza went into the oven).

Anyway, try it at home! Tell people it’s the Italian version of tuna melt. That line always seems to work.

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A Rose by any Other Name

So, what’s in a name? Apparently, a lot. It turns out that the thing most people are curious about after they find you’re pregnant (OK, the second thing after the sex of the child) is what you’re going to name him/her. Well, in our case her. Following my friend S’s method, we have decided to keep it a secret until she’s born. As I mentioned in my first post, A. and I came up with names in about an hour after we found out I was pregnant, and have stuck with the names throughout.

It’s not like we’re afraid someone will take the name…it’s that no name is good enough for people, it seems. I have been asking for suggestions about Iranian names from my mom, and she’s come up with some good ones…too bad none of them can be pronounced by the girl’s Italian father. And we’re afraid that the name will be ruined by someone, as in “you’re naming her Joni? I know a Joni and she’s horrible! Don’t name her that!”

There are many considerations to take into account: the name will have to work in English, Farsi, AND Italian. That’s asking a lot of a name. And A. and I both wanted something simple enough that the poor thing wouldn’t have to spell it out for the rest of her life (that, I can assure you, is no fun at all). A name easy enough to tell the maitre d’ in a restaurant, and one that can be understood at loud frat parties when she’s in college. Not that she’ll go to any of those, of course.