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# Rome
- URL: https://dianaludwick.com/rome/
- Published: 2026-07-17T13:06:00.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-24T20:06:51.000Z
- Description: “Rome,"an accounting of ordering new world food in one of the world's oldest cities, written Friday, July 17, poem 198 in a series of 365 poems written by Diana Ludwick in 2026. Photo, "Corn, three ways," by Diana Ludwick (c) 2026.
- Author: Diana Ludwick
- Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Generational, Humor, Of Place, Poems, Reminiscing, Unserious, Cacio e Pepe, Cackles, Candles, Corn, Euros, Hot June Night, July, Limestone, Mais, Maize, Marshmallow, Michelin, Michelin Star, Popcorn, Rome, Sandaled foot, Secondo, Summer, Tar, The New World, This is Funny, Top Chef, When In Rome, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03

Our last night in Rome;  
it's the kind of June night   
where beads of sweat   
drip down linen sundresses,  
where the tar in the street   
gives like marshmallow   
under sandaled foot,  
and the sidewalks feel like   
you're already in the brick oven   
that your Michelin star-chasing meal   
will come from,  
once you round the corner   
and take your seat.  
  
Escorted into the limestone cave   
that serves as a dining room,   
candles flicker,   
shadows cast mystery over our   
linen and cotton menu cards.  
  
My mother pokes hers in delight.  
"'Mais en tre modi!'"  
"I will have *that*. To share; for the table!"  
She declares this, in English, to the server.  
  
"Signora, mmm—emmm."   
"Are you sure?"  
The waiter shifts in their loafers.  
"Please be aware, *mmm*?   
"This dish, it is — How to say?   
"It is the essence of corn,   
the American maize,   
prepared three ways."  
  
"Mom." I breathe in her ear.  
"It's going to be like a simple side,   
I don't think it's going to be   
whatever you're expecting."  
  
My mom nods back, hastily,  
with big, fixed eyes and   
severe arched brows to indicate:  
*Yes, yes I know, I am not* dense*.*  
  
When the plates arrive  
the server flashes   
a triple elevator eyes   
over my mother  
as she sets the plate down   
in front of her.  
  
The family stills;  
sounds catch in throats.   
The plate, hitting the table  
promoted us remaining diners   
to judges on *Top Chef*  
as we peered down,   
squinting, sniffing,   
as if an elimination challenge;   
its patrons on the chopping block.  
  
One voice cuts through   
the silent table:  
"Oh my GOD!"   
My daughter cackles,   
her face breaking into angles   
that cast their own light   
in the darkened room.  
  
**"You paid THIRTY-SIX EUROS** 
**for *THAT*?!"**  
  
"Mom!" my sibling cuts in.  
"You ordered — a cob of corn, some mush,   
and what, seven, no, ten kernels of popcorn?  
For your secondo?!  
To *share*?!"  
  
\= = =   
  
When In Rome,   
it's best, perhaps,   
to stick with the cacio e pepe.  
Let's leave maize   
to the new world.