Back in college, I started a long-term relationship with a guy. At some point, the subject of someday having children came up, and we began keeping a list of names for our potential future babies. I viewed the list more as a form of lighthearted romantic entertainment than anything else. We both knew I wanted to go to graduate school after finishing undergrad, and any kids we would have were in the far distant future at least five to ten years away.

My boyfriend was of Italian ancestry, so many of the names he suggested were Italian — Silvio, Antonio, Dino, etc. The names were uncommon for our city in the western US where most people were of Anglo-Saxon, Latino, or Germanic heritage, but they were hardly outlandish.

He was also very fond of Italian cuisine, and pretty decent at cooking it.

Boyfriend: “I’ve come up with the perfect names for two kids, regardless of their genders.”

Me: “Oh? What are they?”

Boyfriend: “Aglio and Olio.” *Proudly* “They’re Italian for ‘garlic’ and ‘oil’, as in olive oil. I’m completely serious.”

We later broke up for much less entertaining reasons, but the experience led me to decide I would not name any of my future children after foodstuffs.