The corruption of Italy runs deep. In fact, it has even penetrated our little boy's imagination (and, apparently, my spelling abilities, since I just spelled it "immagination").
While reading Harry, The Dirty Dog for the one hundred-billionth time, I start asking Dominic questions about the pictures, hoping to break up the monotony. I ask him to find the fire hydrant, count the number of shovels, locate the coal car, etc.
He catches onto the game alarmingly quickly and starts asking me his favorite question, "Whaz that?"
After we played it his way for a few pages, I turn the tables, "Dominic, what's that?" as I point to a plate with leafy greens on it in the background of the cafe scene. The expected answer is, of course, "salad" or perhaps "broccoli," which remains his favorite vegetable, although asparagus and green beans are definitely challenging its preeminence.
"Iz basil," he casually tells me.
My windowsill herb garden appears to have left quite an impression upon him. Whenever he sees me pick some for a recipe he asks, without fail, "Mommy, can I have a basil (or rosemary, he correctly identifies them), for me?"
I have also discovered that he likes sandwiches, if they're not boring. I'll give you an example. A few days ago I made him a sandwich. It was asiago cheese and salami on a fresh baguette, not too bad, I thought, but he just picked at it, hardly eating anything.
He sees me eating my sandwich and, in his typical style, asks, "Mommy, what're you eating?"
Since I make it my policy to always answer these inquiries, I "patiently" respond, "it's a sandwich with zucchini, red peppers, cheese, and pesto."
At the mention of pesto, he perks up. "Pesto? I want some pesto."
Seeing no harm from this request, I get some out, slather it on his bread, reassemble the sandwich and give it back to him. He promptly ate the entire sandwich. Ever since then he asks for a pesto sandwich. See, Italy is corrupting him.