"You order like a true paisano!" It was a compliment like none other, especially coming from Adriana herself, owner and operator of St. Louis' beloved Adriana's on The Hill.

I got the sandwich special, Franke got the Sicilian meatloaf, and we both got an order of Adriana's cucumber, tomato, onion salad. If ever I can replicate that meatloaf I'm pretty sure every meat-loving man worldwide would be knocking on my door. Even more so than they already are, that is (wink, wink).

Adriana's was our first stop on The Hill, and it was there that I rekindled my love affair with all things Italian. This fabulous little Italian-American neighborhood made me wish Nashville had such a place. It made me wish I had known my nonna and that my grandfather, Andrew Spelta, had passed on his knowledge of his native tongue. It reminded me of the amazing sense of life that I felt when I spent that wonderful summer in Italy, and it made me want to return even more.

I always like to say that the Italians really know how to live. By that, it just seems that they appreciate the small things in life and take the time to take them in. They put family, friends and food in their rightful spots in their lives, and they are passionate about all three. It could be that I'm just romanticizing the whole thing since I have Italian roots and I spent that one fabulous summer traipsing all over the country. Nah. Too many others see it the same way. It's just fact.

Isn't it odd, then, that my own Italian family here in Nashville, Tennessee is so foreign to me.

When my mother was growing up, the whole Spelta crew was here in Nashville, and the way my mother tells it, her uncle Peter (my grandfather's twin) was the patriarch of the family. He apparently kept things together and made sure there were gatherings and food and reunions. I even remember a few of them from my childhood days.

After "Uncle Pete" passed, cousin Tony kept the tradition alive. I don't really know what happened as the years ticked by, only that either they stopped having Spelta family reunions or we stopped going. And that's really when it all breaks down. When we stop gathering, stop participating, stop telling stories about our family and about our past. If I'm gonna be a "true paisano" I guess I better stop longing for my Italian past and start reaching out to my here and now.

Perhaps I should work on my Sicilian meatloaf recipe and work up a little family reunion of my own.

A Taste of the Goad Life

Here's the deal. I like to eat, and I can put away a lot of food. So much so, that is solicits comment from men and women alike. In fact, the only time in my life I ever remember not having an appetitite twice my size was during my divorce. Those were dark days. I withered away to 117 pounds (which, for me, is anorexic), surviving on a diet of coffee, alcohol, cigarettes, a bite of food here and there and the teeniest amount of sleep. I do not recommend this.

Since then, I've come back into my own. I quit smoking, kept drinking (in greater moderation, of course), started sleeping, returned to eating and regained my sanity.

And so, this blog is my little corner of the world where I plan to post musings about the various things that feed me, Kriste Goad, as a person. Let's start with the past weekend, 'cause it was a good one.

First, I finally saw Frost/Nixon. Loved it for many reasons, mostly because the acting was fabulous by all involved, but Frank Langella, in particular, lived up to the billing he's received. I haven't seen The Wrestler yet, but if Mickey Rourke beats Frank Langella for best actor this year, I will be very upset. Then there was Kevin Bacon and Oliver Platt. I love them both. In any role. Wrap them up, and put a bow on them.

After the movie, there was tapas at ChaCha, a new hipster spot on Belmont, right beside the renovated hookah bar we've known for years as Tabouli's. Tasty treats at this little nook, but my very favorite was the goat cheese and tomato tortilla. Delicious! Franke's favorite was the spicy gambas (spicy shrimp). Worth a visit, and I shall definitely return.

Saturday night, though, brought Miel, which I've been dying to try since before Christmas. It was spectacularly delicious from start to finish. From the wine (Domaine des Toures, Rhone Valley) to the cheese plate, to my delectable entre of Eggplant Roulade to my cookie plate dessert with French press coffee. Cannot wait to try their Saturday and Sunday brunch.

Sunday brought sunshine and a trip to Warner Park. First, though, we cooked up a breakfast of salmon and scrambled eggs, sourdough bread toasted and drizzled with avocado oil and several cups of bold, dark coffee. That was plenty of fuel for the 3-miler on the blue trail at Warner Park. Perfect day for a run in the woods. The hills kicked my ass, but it was a good ass-kicking. Train there, and you can tackle any road race around.

From there, it was back to my place for fruit smoothies and a sopressetto-provolone-pesto sandwich that I would challenge any restaurant to beat. Seriously, it was that good.

Later, it was Super Bowl fare washed down with several tasty Sam Adams Winter Lagers. Fun crowd at the Solinsky's abode and then, sleep, glorious sleep.

Oh, and of course, Franke. He fed the Goad, as always, with laughter and kindness and companionship. It was the kind of weekend that makes you say to yourself: "Life is goad..."