On January 3rd, Ronzoni announced the following on Twitter:
“We hear you and greatly appreciate your love for Ronzoni Pasta. After extensive efforts, we regretfully announce that Ronzoni Pastina is being discontinued. This wasn’t a decision that we wanted to make. Unfortunately, our long-term supplier informed us that they would no longer be making Ronzoni Pastina as of January 2023. We searched extensively for an alternative solution but were unable to identify a viable option to make Pastina in the same beloved small shape, size, and standards you have come to expect from Ronzoni. As a result, we had to make the difficult decision to discontinue this product….”
The tweet continued with a brief apology and a plea for continued support. Where do I begin?
Let me preface this with saying two things: first, I have nothing against Ronzoni products—though they are not my first choice (I am partial to DeCecco and rate Barilla ahead of Ronzoni); second, and most importantly, I have never claimed to be the ultimate expert on Italian American culture, though I have always imbued my pieces for La Voce with my personal experiences as one.
Having said that, I was left gob smacked by some of the reporting on this matter. Some news sources described Italian-Americans as being “devastated” at the news. Others were described as being in mourning with lines like “We are not OK.” I must have missed the memo.
I love everything about being Italian American. But I must be honest, I’m getting more and more aggravated by this ostensible minstrelsy that is promulgated by a certain segment of our tribe. Probably ascribed to the North Jersey area; the ones who pronounce capicola as “gabagool,” which makes me want to tear my ears off when I hear that.
Let me spell it out: There is no one definitive way to be an Italian American. I’m insulted by the idea that I have to be upset at a business decision made by a pasta manufacturer.
The word “pastina” in this case is as problematic as anything else in this story. Pastina, by definition, is any miniature pasta shape prepared in either a simple soup like chicken broth or boiled and then mixed with butter and grated cheese. It’s a simple dish for stubborn children or a comfort food when you’re under the weather.
I don’t care what Ronzoni says; it is NOT the name of a pasta shape.
What they labelled “Pastina” was shaped like little stars and should correctly be called “stelline.” This is part of the problem.
I’m fully aware that language evolves over time and that things obtain alternative names over time based on what people call them (see bandages become Band-Aids or tissues become Kleenex). But when people take an authoritative stance that “my Nonna called it pastina, so it’s pastina and I don’t care what you say,” I must draw the line.
I see a lot of this on social media in varied Italian American forums; childhood memories become the rule, and nothing will change minds. I guess these forums are America in microcosm; people would much rather dig their heels in than actually learn a little bit about their culture and what is correct and what is colloquial.
For the record, my mother has made me pastina using stelline, ditalini, and acini di pepe. She could have made it with pappardelle or lasagna noodles for all I care. The pasta isn’t important; the most important ingredient in pastina is love. So, let’s move on with our lives, please.
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