I love to cook.
And on the occasion when I sort
through the torn-out recipes that I've saved over the years for exotic and
ethnic dishes and fancy party food, I always come across a very plain, precious
item that I will never discard.
It's a record of sorts, a glimpse
into my past - a faded piece of plain paper containing a bread recipe, crudely
written in the frantic pencil scribblings of a child, the words running in
a jagged, uphill slant.
The child who wrote it was me, of
course - probably when I was 8 or 9 years old.
And I remember as if it happened
only yesterday, that I wrote it as I sat on the cold linoleum floor of my
grandmother's kitchen in New Jersey.
Pencil stub in hand, I was
feverishly recording ingredients for Italian Easter bread, as my grandmother
made the dough.
"What's next Nana?" I'd ask.
And since she was a Nana, she
baked as Nanas do - by eye, by feel, by instinct.
"But Nana, how big is "a shot
glass full of oil?" I'd implore?
And, "How do you measure "a
handful" of flour?" I'd whine.
And so our discussion would go.
She, providing me with a vague
idea of quantities and I, struggling to make sense of it all.
Of course like so many projects
that the average, restless child begins, I eventually abandoned my seat on
Nana's kitchen floor, pursuing instead those things that interest
adolescents, most specifically, the misery of my hormonal changes and rebellion
against all things practical.
But something curious happened,
many years later.
When I was in my thirties, that
old recipe fever took hold of me again and with it, a need to record Nana's
culinary legacy.
There were many reasons for my
inspiration, not the least of which was the sudden popularity of Italian
American, pseudo-family cookbooks, written mostly by celebrities and
restaurateurs.
To say that those books were my
true inspiration would be untrue however, because it was Nana who really
inspired my love of cooking.
And I had to face a sad fact with
this new experience - she wasn't getting any younger.
The implications of what this
meant broke my heart and tightened my throat.
The child in me desperately wanted
to hold onto her - all of her - the stories she told me, the breads and
cookies I watched her deftly bake, the comforting smell of her house.
I couldn't bear to think that any
of it, especially Nana, would ever be gone.
I had to save it all somehow and I
felt a sad desperation to do so.
So I started writing a cookbook
comprised of Nana's recipes.
And once again, as I had as a
child, I took my seat in Nana's kitchen to write down her recipes as she cooked.
Like most Italian-American
families, we weren't a mirror image of the unflattering stereotypes that are
shown on TV. And we weren't gangsters either, despite the Sicilian
heritage on my grandfather's side of the family. Working hard to pursue
The American Dream would more accurately describe us. For example, Nana
left school at 15 to work in the factories of Newark.
She continued to work for the
better part of her young life - first to care for her ill mother, later to
ensure an education for my mother and my aunt. And, since cooking was a
natural a part of a woman's education, we took for granted that the kitchen was
an integral part of our lives.
Whether it was cooking or eating,
food was always the centerpiece of our social settings and the focal point of
our lives together as a family. No one ever had it so good either, as far
as comfort food was concerned; a bowl of Stracciatella (egg ribbon soup) when
you had a bad cold or a plate of hot Pasta E Fagiole (macaroni and beans)
smothered with parmesan cheese and black pepper.
But I digress. This is
fodder that every Italian American family can wax poetic about.
I'm talking about holding onto all
of it ... forever!
I started to compile a book - a
combination family biography, family tree and cookbook.
I alternated between cooking at
Nana's elbow as I had as a child and experimenting with her recipes in my own
kitchen. I often brought the finished product to her house to share with
her and to get her opinion on the end result. Authenticity and accuracy
was important here - the family members and the stories that lurked behind the
history of each dish were just as important to me as the ingredients. And
I tortured poor Nana in my attempt to gather these details, although for her, it
was hardly a chore to tell me a story. When we made her recipes together,
I could almost sense my great grandmother watching over Nana's shoulder, making
sure she made each one properly.
And, as Nana told her tales, I
envisioned her mother - the petite matriarch that I never knew.
In an ironic twist of fate, Nana's
cooking ultimately became a wordless form of communication between us toward the
end of her life. As her mind slipped away, so did her desire to cook.
Eventually, she didn't speak
anymore, which broke my heart. But I'd like to believe that when I
delivered goodies to her, at the nursing home where she eventually lived, that
she knew who I was.
I saw recognition in her eyes as
she bit into the cookies that I brought on my visits, made from the very recipes
that she had imparted to me. I'd see a glint in her eye as she nibbled one
of her Knot Cookies, a smile when she crunched on a Biscotti. And for
Christmas, her eyes would grow wide and she'd break into a grin when I'd bring
her the soft and chocolaty Mostacciolli cookies that our whole family loved,
filled with figs and scented with clove.
I baked her creations on every
holiday, not solely for her enjoyment, but so that no one would forget her.
On Easter, there was sweet bread, baked with whole eggs pushed into the top.
For Christmas, my mother and I
fried Struffoli dough and baked Mostaccioli cookies, regardless of the back
breaking work they entailed.
So, as I said, I wrote a cookbook
filled with Nana's recipes and interlaced with her stories and her love. A
REAL Italian American legacy. Then, I tried to publish it. And no
one was interested.
I was told that ' You aren't
famous ... no one has ever heard of you ... no one will buy your book ... '
Just as I began to feel more
defeated than I ever had in my life, I remembered the true reason behind
the writing of my book - it wasn't for money or for fame, it was for Nana.
And my mood softened.
This was a precious gift that she
had given to me. It was something to share with my family!
Nana, my grandfather, our family
and friends, most of whom are gone, will live forever in the pages of this book.
I'm grateful for all that she gave
to me to remember them by.
As I bake, I know that she's
there, watching over my shoulder, and I whisper,
" Nana, how do you measure "a
handful" of flour? "
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