he Italian-American communities of Kulpmont, Shamokin, and Mount Carmel, where the scent of peppers and onions still drifts through parish halls, offers a cultural richness that practically begs to be celebrated during San Marziale’s festival weekend. Last year, I wrote a playful satire about Pennsylvanian Italians that struck a chord locally, not because it was provocative, but because it was rooted in affection for the people who keep these traditions alive.
At its heart, that earlier piece was a celebration and a humorous look at the quirks, customs, and culinary habits that make Pennsylvanian Italians distinct. The humor worked because it came from familiarity. Having grown up among Italian-Americans in New York, I know the cadence of the community and the difference between gravy that simmers for five hours and a jar of Ragu that should never see the light of day.
