The first thing people usually say to me when they find out I have four kids is that they could never tell from my body. I thank them, thinking this is a compliment, only to be quickly proven wrong. Follow-up questions immediately include: “What diet plan are you on?,” “Do you live in the gym?,” and my favorite, “What’s the name of your plastic surgeon?”

If you watched the first season of
The Real Housewives of New Jersey
, you know I was brave (or maybe crazy) enough to allow Bravo to film me going through the process of getting my “bubbies” done. If you saw me in the leopard-print bikini, you are totally on my side on this one. I worried, I cried, I kvetched, I kept changing my mind . . . because this was the first surgery I’d ever had in my life.

I swear on
Us
magazine, I have never had lipo, a tummy tuck, a “mommy makeover,” or even a C-section. All of my children were born the old-fashioned way: with lots of pushing, screaming, cursing, and, thank God, pain medication. I am a big fan of the epidural. Big knives near my body? Not so much.

I must exercise religiously then, right? Our lady of the heavens, no! I have four little ones to chase after; I barely have time for a manicure. We don’t have a workout room in our house (unless you count the bedroom, which I do . . . ). I don’t have a personal trainer or yoga master or whatever. I have no strict exercise regimen, although I’ll admit, I like how I feel after I work out. But it’s not my thing. I’d rather enjoy life with my kids than live in a gym.

And, let me assure you, I eat. I freakin’ love food. Always have. Always will. Food is an integral part of my life and the lives of my family and friends. It’s how we communicate, how we love, how we laugh. Food is our second language. It’s lovingly prepared, shared, toasted, savored, slathered (you read that right), and occasionally, if you push my buttons, thrown. Food is such a sensual pleasure. The thought of shoving your fingers into freshly made dough, of licking the dripping tomato sauce off the spoon . . . I’m making it sound like a giant aphrodisiac, and as I sit here, looking at the four beautiful kids Joe and I created, I’m thinking maybe it is.

Eating is definitely one of the greatest joys on earth, and I wouldn’t give it up for anything. My mother, who never dieted a day in her life, used to shake her head and say, “Think of those poor women on the
Titanic
who refused dessert!”

In other words: life is short; pass the cannoli.

I’ll admit, before I was on TV, I never thought so much about my own body and the way I eat. You think you’ve spent your entire adolescence in front of the mirror, but until you’re cornered at Costco with curious fans literally picking through your cart to see what you’re buying, you have no idea. It’s bizarre. Suddenly, everyone wants the skinny on my ass.

And honestly, I don’t blame them (although, if you see me, please keep your hands off my fresh vegetables—that kind of skieves me out). I like to know what my friends eat. I’m interested in Oprah’s favorite foods. Actually, I like Gayle’s picks better; girlfriend knows how to enjoy her food!

And everything about food and nutrition in this country has become a big confusing mess. Is Splenda safe? Nutrasweet? Olestra? Which one gives you the runs? Seriously, somebody tell me because I am
not
having that.

What’s in one day is out the next. Remember when eggs were the enemy? Now, they’re fine. For a while, you were supposed to eat lots of meat—was that the Atkins, Pritikin, or caveman diet?—then suddenly, meat wasn’t okay. Now, half the “experts” say you need protein at every meal, and half say you don’t need it ever. Milk was bad, then it was good, then it was even better because it was supposed to help you lose weight. Now I’ve heard it’s going back on the bad list. Too bad, because my girls drink milk, milk, milk all day long, and there’s no chance I’m stopping them. They love it! Me too.

Even the government and all those nutritional experts don’t know what’s what, since they had to change their little nutrition pyramid guide into some weird triangle thing that nobody understands.

Like you, I have more than one friend who’s been on so many different food plans, she’s completely forgotten how to eat. Jill pours salt over her food to make herself stop eating. I’ve actually found Leah picking brownie crust out of her trash can. And Heidi went to a no-carbs boot camp and went so crazy, I had to block her number from my cell phone until she promised to eat a piece of bread.

I’m not a nutritionist or food scientist or a fancy chef. I’m just like you: a regular girl with two eyes and a brain and enough common sense not to buy any of this crap. I’ve always loved my body, and I’ve been eating the exact same way since the day I was born. I can tell you in two words why I can eat, eat, eat and still look fabulous: Italian food.

Both of my parents were born and raised in Italy. I was actually conceived there right before my parents moved to America in 1971. (My ma didn’t even know she was pregnant. She just wondered why her clothes kept getting tighter.) My brother and I grew up in Paterson, New Jersey, but inside our house, it might as well have been Salerno. We ate real Italian food—not the bastardized fast-food version of it—every single day. My ma shopped at the farmer’s market and the local Italian grocery to make sure she could get the same little envelopes of spices and secret ingredients from home. Real Italian food uses olive oil, not heavy cream. We grill and sauté; we don’t bread, dunk, and deep-fry. And we use fresh ingredients, not stuff floating in formaldehyde (I know canned foods don’t really have formaldehyde in them, but all those preservatives and artificial flavorings are still like poison to your body).

You and I both know gorgeous Italian women who are skinny not because they eat healthy Italian food, but because they starve themselves. But that’s the exception, not the rule. You can find neurotic people who obsess about food from any ethnicity. (Bethenny, honey, you really want me to order a steak and only eat three bites of it? Are you freakin’ kidding me?) Need proof that Italian women who cook and eat up a storm of true Italian food can still have fabulous figures? Google Giada De Laurentiis, drool for a minute, and then come back to me.

I'm eighteen months old here with my daddy and mommy. How cute are they?

I want everyone to be able to enjoy
la dolce vita
. I’m going to teach you how to throw painful portion control (and even your measuring cups) out the window, to enjoy, entertain, and eat the most luscious foods on the planet, and to love-love-love your life and the body that comes with it.

Welcome to the Italian way of life.
Salute!

What exactly do the Italians know about food and health? In a word: everything. We’ve had more than two thousand years of practice. The oldest surviving cookbook in the world,
De Re Conquinaria
, is from Italy. Apicius is believed to have written it in the first century
a
.
d
., and you can bet your ass it doesn’t include wheatgrass or tofu.

Italian food was named the favorite cuisine of 72 percent of the 500,000 Americans polled by
Food & Wine
magazine (and you know why). It’s easy to forget, however, that it’s some of the healthiest food in the world. Our national toast,
salute
, means “to your health.” And we mean it. According to the CIA’s World Factbook 2009, for all our fancy technology and advanced medicine and world-class hospitals, the average life expectancy in America for a woman is eighty years. In Italy, it’s eighty-three. Imagine adding three entire years to your life! And for eating bread and pasta? Gimme some of that!

Say My Name

All right, I’m sick of everyone mispronouncing my last name. I’ve noticed that people from other cultures will talk with perfect American accents until they say their name, and then they sound like they just got off the boat. But not us Italians. We’ll let you butcher our names to bits. No more!

To be honest, I didn’t actually realize I could do this, just reclaim the correct way to say my name, until my friend’s family did. Her maiden name was Zavagno, and everyone said it like this: “Zah-VAG-no.” For twenty years, they were the ZaVAGnos, until one day, the youngest son couldn’t take it anymore and started making everyone say “Zuh-VON-yo” instead. Within a year, it stuck. It’s not a snooty thing; it’s a you-want-people-to-say-your-own-damn-name-correctly thing.

So, here we go. My last name is
Giudice
. You’ve probably heard it pronounced “jew-dice” since I’ve been on TV, but that’s wrong (Andy Cohen at Bravo, I’m looking at you!).

Say “Judy Chay” really fast. Now put the emphasis on the first syllable and slow each syllable down a bit: “JU-dee-Chay.” Now add your best Italian accent, and we’re good!

Giudice actually means “judge” in Italian, so I believe I have the power to make this change permanent. Court dismissed!

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