(A Story of Dunking, Identity, and One Very Patient Father-in-Law)
It’s funny how the smallest things in life become permanent tenants in our memory. Birthdays? Sure. Holidays? Of course. But apparently, my personal Mount Rushmore of formative moments includes… a wine biscuit.
My earliest memory of Grandpa Cioe is the two of us sitting at the dining room table like two old men solving the world’s problems—except one of us was four, and the other only spoke Italian. Grandma spoke only Italian too, which meant the three of us had the communication range of a lighthouse foghorn. But we understood the important stuff.
Coffee. And ciambelles.
(Pronounced “charmellas,” if you grew up in a proper Italian household and not one of these newfangled kitchens where people think biscotti come in plastic clamshells.)
Grandpa had his ritual. He’d stir his steaming coffee with the seriousness of a chemist measuring uranium. Then he’d take one wine biscuit, snap it into three perfect pieces—no more, no less—and drop them into the cup like he was baptizing each one by name.
I watched this ceremony with reverence. This wasn’t breakfast. This was liturgy.
And after the scientifically determined soak time—long enough to soften but not long enough to lose structural integrity—he’d spoon out each piece and eat it with the satisfaction of a man who knew he had figured out life.
And before you ask:
No. He wasn’t missing teeth.
Yes. He could have eaten them dry.
But why would he?
He was an Italian grandfather. Dunking wasn’t a choice. It was a worldview.
Fast forward to my teenage years. I’m at Trish’s house, early in our relationship, trying to pretend I’m normal. Betty brings out a plate of her homemade wine biscuits—warm, fragrant, the kind that make angels weep.
And like the dutiful grandson I had been trained to be, I picked one up… and dunked it in my coffee.
The room froze.
Joey (Trish’s dad) stared at me with an expression usually reserved for Vatican-level heresy.
“DiMeglio’s don’t dunk,” he declared, as if this were one of the Ten Commandments.
I looked right at him and said, without hesitation:
“Well… I’m not a DiMeglio.”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the moment I knew I was definitely going to marry his daughter—because if the man didn’t throw me out of the house for dunking a wine biscuit, he’d tolerate just about anything life could throw at us.
To this day, I still tease Joey about the Great Dunking Incident. And he still rolls his eyes like a man who has accepted defeat with dignity.
Some traditions shouldn’t be questioned.
Some should be admired.
And in Joey’s case… some should be tolerated with love and maybe a little antacid.
❤️ Love you, Joey. Thanks for letting me dunk—and for letting me stay.
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