Giorno Felice Padre!

My Dad, Luigi, 1945

My Dad passed on about 12 years ago. I miss him every day. Like my Dad, I'm a father and grandfather too. Every year on this day, Father's Day, my thoughts are with him even more so than they regularly are.  And they regularly are with him, at least for a few moments, almost every day.

My Dad was a first-generation Italian-American. Both his parents emigrated to America from Avellino, Italy, around the turn of the century. He was the youngest of my grandparent's 8 children, having one brother and six sisters. They're all gone now except one of his sisters, my Aunt Nanny -- Nanette -- who is in her 90s. Dad's given name was Luigi but everyone called him Lou, Louie, or Big Lou. (His siblings all called him Louie.) He learned to speak Italian before he learned English.

My Dad was fairly old school in his Italian-ness, but not to the degree his parents or a few of his siblings were. He graduated valedictorian of his high school class. He studied Latin in high school and between his Italian, English, and Latin language skills, he probably had a less difficult time learning French and German, which he did during the war. I wouldn't say he was totally fluent in French or German but I heard him speak it, conversationally, a few times and I'd say he was close to being fluent in both those languages.

My Dad enlisted in the Army before he was 18. (He never had a birth certificate so proving he was 18 when he joined must have been a matter of the recruiters taking his word for it, or someone's word.)  He fought in WW2 from D-Day to the occupation of Germany and later, after the war, joined a USMC reserve unit. His unit was activated in 1950 and, as a result, he also fought in the Korean War as a combat Marine.

Big Lou in his late 60s

My Dad never attended college but he certainly could have and probably should have. He was a very intelligent man. Instead, he raised a family, along with my Mom, always working two jobs in order to give us,  that is, my brother, sister, and I, childhoods that weren't wanting for much.

For most of my Dad's working life, he was a salesman in the commercial food industry employed by the Carnation company for many years.  (At first, selling consumer dairy products and then, later, with their institutional foods division, i.e., selling to large chain restaurants, hospitals, schools, hotels. etc.) Later, he worked for Durkee Foods. During his time with both those companies he became a district sales manager. For second jobs, which he worked most of his life even after my brother, sister, and I were grown, he was a bartender.  For anyone reading this who might be, like I am, from Northeastern New Jersey, my Dad worked as a bartender at the Blue Swan Inn, in Rochelle Park, NJ, for a lot of years.)  Dad always dreamed of owning his own restaurant but that never came to pass, although a few times it very nearly did.

In his later years, after he retired, my Dad still worked part-time jobs. (He was always kind of a workaholic.) If my Dad were still alive, he would love the internet!  He bought a computer, an IBM personal desktop computer, before the internet was anything and loved doing all kinds of things with it.

My Dad was a terrific father and, near the end of his life, I made sure I let him know that numerous times. Happy Father's Day Dad! I miss you every day. Thanks for being such a great Dad! I owe you so much.

And to all you Dads out there, and to those Dads who are no longer with us, Giorno Felice Padre! Happy Father's Day!

Bocce!

 Few things say "old goombas" better than Bocce, commonly referred to as Bocce Ball (pronounced botch-ee). That's not to say, of course, that Bocce is a game reserved only for Italian geezers. It's not. But we often perceive it that way, leastwise in America.

Even Popes play Bocce!

If you happen to see some old guys playing Bocce, I doubt you'll see too many of them who aren't Italian. That's because Bocce is a true Italian game. Bocce means "bowl."  Not a bowl like the one you serve your spaghetti-and-meatballs or other tradtional pasta dish in, but bowl as in bowling.

The history of Bocce goes all the way back to the Roman Empire. Some historians say it goes further back than that: to the ancient Greeks, and that it was those Greeks who taught the Romans to play Bocce. That makes perfect sense, of course. Italian culture owes much to the ancient Greeks and Bocce is likely another example of that.

My kind of Bocce players!

In early times, the Romans used coconuts from Africa as their Bocce balls. Later, they made the balls from olive wood. Due to the reach of the Roman Empire, Bocce (or games like it) spread throughout Europe, even as far away as the barbarians of Britain.  Later, after the Roman Empire had gone the way of all empires, Queen Elizabeth 1 and Sir Francis Drake both became avid Bocce fans and players.

(Side Note: Had the Brits also embraced Italian food, eating in England would be far superior. I know about English food because I once lived in the UK for three years. To say that most British food is bland and basically sucks is, I believe, a fairly accurate statement. Leastwise, in my opinion. That opinion is based on first-hand. long-term, eating experiences on that island. But that's another story, not one for this blog, and has nothing to do with Bocce.)

Okay. Here's how Bocce is played... Waitaminute! I don't need to write how Bocce is played. I can simply post a video that explains it. Gotta love the internet! Ciao!

My WASPy Mom

My Mom when she was a teen (in the plaid coat) off to go ice skating with friends

I've always thought of myself as an Italian-American even though, to be honest, I'm only half-Italian. My sister and brother are the same way-- not just in terms of being half-Italian, but also in thinking about themselves as being Italian. My father was full-blooded Italian. My Mom doesn't have a hint of Italian blood running through her veins. Her family is German and English.

I suppose my brother, sister, and I mostly identify with the Italian side of our family because, from a cultural point of view, it would have been impossible to resist: weekly Sunday dinners at my Italian grandparent's house, my Dad's family was larger (my paternal grandparents had 8 children, my maternal grandparents had 3), and they, my Dad's side of the family, all spoke Italian regularly.

I have to hand it to my Mom. When she married my Dad, she was suddenly thrust into (what must have been for her) a rather alien environment and a very different sort of family -- the food, the culture, the language, and more -- yet she managed to navigate those waters quite well.

Most everyone, the adults at least, all spoke Italian at those Sunday dinners at my grandparent's house (and at other events). My Mom wasn't alone in terms of being the only non-Italian at those gatherings. Two of my six aunts married men who weren't Italian. My uncle, my Dad's brother, also married a non-Italian.  My uncle's wife, my Aunt Edna, is a first-generation Polish-American. She speaks English and Polish and, after marrying my Uncle Sandy, she learned to speak Italian as well. Because of that, she seemed to fit in with the Italians much better than my Mom ever did. My Aunt Edna is 96 now and her daughter, my cousin Sandra, is her full-time caretaker.

I can still remember my Mom sitting there at those family gatherings with her expressions and body language plainly indicating she was not often sure what was going on around her or what people were saying. The other women, my grandmother and my aunts, didn't ever invite her to join in on the food preparations. She wasn't Italian after all. She was usually relegated to the clean-up crew. My Mom's name is Aileen. My grandmother, with her thick Italian accent, always called her what sounded like, Aye-lee-na.

As out of place as my Mom often felt -- and I know she often felt that way, like an outsider, because she's told me so -- I never heard her complain about it. She simply went with the flow. Coming from a WASPy background, that couldn't have been too easy for her. Her family was so much less loud. Less animated. Less emotional. Less in-your-face. My Dad's family could be overbearing at times, my Mom's family was not that way at all.  And that might also account for why I barely identify with the WASP side of my family. Sometimes, though, I think it was her family who gave me a better sense of cultural balance. And I appreciate that.

Italian-American Heroes!

My uncle, Santillo, during WW2

During WW2, one-half-million Italian-Americans served in the various branches of the U.S. military.  Some say the number was much higher-- up to 1.5 million. My Dad and my uncle (his brother) were amongst them.  This, in spite of the fact that, along with Germany and Japan, America was at war with Italy.

Most concerns regarding the loyalties of Italian-Americans were quickly dispelled by the incredible response from those who volunteered to join and fight. My guess is the vast majority of Italian-Americans who served in WW2 were first-generation Italian-Americans.  As such, many of them might end up fighting relatives.

In spite of this incredible display of loyalty, hundreds of Italian-Americans were viewed as a potential threats and were interned in detention camps. As many as 600,000 others who had not become citizens were required to carry identity cards identifying them as a "resident alien". Thousands more who resided on the West Coast of the US were required to move inland, often losing their homes and businesses in the process. 

My Dad, Luigi, during WW2

My Dad, Luigi, served in the US Army in Europe from D-Day to the occupation of Germany. (He later became a USMC combat veteran of Korea.) His brother, Santillo, also served in the Army, but he fought in North Africa and through the campaigns in Sicily and Italy. Like my father, my uncle was also an infantryman. He was also utilized as an Italian/English interpreter.

Thankfully, neither my father nor my uncle paid the ultimate price while serving, but they were ready and willing to do so just as so many other Italian-Americans were.  

Since WW2 (and including that war) 24 brave Italian-American servicemen have been awarded the Medal of Honor.

On this Memorial Day, we honor all those who sacrificed their lives fighting for this country. I don't know how many Italian-Americans are amongst them, i.e., those who paid the ultimate price, but there's no doubt many of them did.

Beer and Soda for Sunday Dinners

Growing up, most Sundays were spent at my grandparent's house for dinner. If you're Italian, you know what those Sunday dinners were like: big family gatherings with salads, bread, and all that great stuff that came out of the Sunday sauce/gravy pot. I'm talking meatballs, sausages, bracioles, big hunks of pork, all that great stuff was always in the pot. The sauce/gravy was served on pasta, of course. For our family, that pasta was usually spaghetti, rigatoni, shells, or sometimes ziti.

To help wash down the incredible food, there was plenty of beer for the adults and soda for the kids. (We called it "soda," not "pop.")  There was wine too. Home made red wine my grandfather made in his cellar. Wine served in those big one-gallon glass jugs like they put cider in.Oh yeah. There was also soda water, the kind that came in spritzer bottles like the ones the Three Stooges would have soda fights with.

The beer was always Ballantine beer. Ballantine was one of the biggest brewers in the US. They were founded in Newark, NJ, in 1840.  And the soda was always White Rock-- Orange White Rock soda. It was always orange soda and, to this day, whenever I'm eating an Italian Sunday-style dinner, I still want orange soda with it.

I live in California. We don't have White Rock here. Leastwise, not that I know of. If we did, that would be the brand I'd buy to go with those Italian meals when I have them. White Rock, by the way, began in the late 1800s  as a bottler of mineral water from the White Rock natural springs in Waukesha, Wisconsin. Sometime later, they began bottling not just soda water from the spring, but flavored sodas like White Rock orange.

Ballantine beer and White Rock soda came in quart-size glass bottles that were worth a nickel each when they were empty. My cousin and I always grabbed the empties and walked down to my grandmother's nephew's roadside stand -- where he sold and served sandwiches, beer, soda, and more to travelers heading up or coming back from Lake Sebago and other places of interest up Seven Lakes Drive in Rockland County, New York -- and we turned them in for the coinage. Course, we then bought candy with our profits so Bats, my grandmother's nephew, almost immediately got the money back he just gave us. My grandmother made the meatballs for Bats' meatball sandwiches so you know they were good!

Those were the days, my friends.

Here's a pic of what was once Bats' roadside stand. I snapped it when I went back home for a visit last November.  It's now a small restaurant and bar called Sterling Station.

Italy's Golden Apples: Pomodoro!

You say toe-mah-toe, I say toe-may-toe, but Italians say pomodoro!

The pomodoro is such an important part of Italian cuisine, you'd think tomatoes were indigenous to Italy. But they're not. They're not even indigenous to Europe. They're from the Americas and it wasn't until Spanish explorers brought back tomato seeds to Europe, Europeans (much less Italians) didn't have a clue what tomatoes were.

Ancient Aztec Tomato Calender. (J/K)

Next time you sit down for a Sunday sauce meal,  you have Mexicans to thank for the sauce. Make that you have the Aztecs to thank. They were, after all, the first Mexicans and they were the first to cultivate tomatoes, which were indigenous to their part of the world.  You might even have Aztecs to thank for your dessert, depending on what it might be. Those Aztec/Mexicans were also the first to cultivate the coco plant. You know, the plant that gives the world chocolate.

The word, "tomato," is derived from the Aztec word, tomatl, which became the Spanish word, tomate. So, how did tomatoes go from tomatl to tomate to pomodoro? More interestingly, how did Italians settle on pomodoro, which means "golden apple," for the Italian word for the juicy, red, fruit? Well, I'm going to tell you. (But you probably already figured that out.)

One theory is that the Spanish brought back tomatoes as well as tomatillos. Many varieties of tomatillos are yellow, not red. So, the theory states that people thought yellow tomatillos looked like golden apples and the name stuck.

Another theory says that, back in the 16th century, calling something "gold" or "golden" added power and value to it and that apples, golden apples, are associated with certain old myths that would make calling tomatoes, "golden apples," something more important in the world of naming fruits and vegetables.

Rigatoni Pomodoro! Yeah! That's what I'm talking about!

If you think Italians took to tomatoes like ducks to water you'd be wrong. Dead wrong. In fact, many Italians originally believed that eating tomatoes would kill them. That's because tomatoes are part of the nightshade family of poisonous plants. Belladonna, which means beautiful woman in Italian, is a famous poison that is part of the same family of plants tomatoes belong to.

Somewhere along the line, some Italian must have figured out that tomatoes weren't poisonous. Maybe he or she sliced one, drizzled some olive oil on it, sprinkled on a few spices like basil and oregano, and added a slice of mozzarella cheese?  (I only use that example because I eat tomatoes that way quite often.)

Regardless of how it happened, Italians soon embraced the pomodoro in big ways.  It became Italy's national vegetable-like fruit and found it's way into so many of the Italian dishes we all love. You know, like our  Sunday (non-Mexican) sauce or gravy. So next time you're eating some rigatoni or some other pasta with your Sunday-best sauce or gravy on it, you might not only want to say, "grazie,"  you might also want to say, "gracious" to those Spanish-speaking peoples who are responsible for bringing the tomato to our kitchens and tables.

If you'd like to watch Chef Pasquale Sciarappa make'a d'sauce from'a d'scratch, old school style, kick back and enjoy this video.  Chef Pasquale says, "If you wanna make'a d'sauce, you gotta sweat. No sweat, no sauce."

Pane!

Pane Rustico

Only two groups of people make bread worth eating: the French and the Italians. I know that sounds overly opinionated but that's how I am: overly opinionated. I should mention that the word "bread" covers a lot of territory. For instance, bagels are (technically) bread, and bagels are definitely worth eating and they don't need to be made by French or Italian bakers. In fact, they probably shouldn't be made by those bakers. But I'm not writing about every kind of bread. I'm writing about table breads. Sandwich breads. Dipping and mopping up your plates bread.  And for those kinds of breads,  Italian and French breads are supreme.

A Vietnamese street vendor selling French bread baguettes.

It's not often I give a nod of approval to foods of the French variety -- I'll take Italian food over French food  any day -- but with bread, I have to give credit where credit is due. The French, in spite of them eating frogs and snails and dipping their French Fries in mayo, make a damn good loaf of bread.

By the way, want to know where to get some pretty good loaves or baguettes of French bread?  In Vietnamese restaurants, believe it or not.  You see, the French occupied Viet Nam for quite a few years and, while they did, some clever Vietnamese bakers learned the ways of French bread making.  Many Vietnamese immigrated to America after the Viet Nam War and they brought their French bread making skills with them.

Back to pane.

There are numerous kinds of Italian bread or pane. Personally, for me, the more rustic the better. My Uncle Tony used to work for an Italian bakery and grocery store back in the day. He would deliver Italian food stuffs and bread to Italian families.  My grandmother was someone who was on his route. That's how Uncle Tony met my Aunt Rosie. When I was growing up, participating in all those Sunday dinners at my grandparent's house, the bread was always fantastic! And it was always delivered by my Uncle Tony and then kept in my grandmother's washing machine. Hey! Where else would you keep the bread but in a washing machine? With that rubber seal around the lid of the washer, it kept the bread fresh for days.

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Italian breads have many uses: from mopping the sauce off your plate, to making meatball, sausage-and-peppers, cold cuts, and other kinds of delicious sangwiches, to dipping in olive oil and red wine vinegar or scooping out bruschetta from a big bowl, Italian pane is the best!

My cyber goomba back home, Johnny Meatballs -- back home being the great state of New Jersey for me -- is a meatball impresario. He sells his mouth-watering meatballs on a big (and genuine) Italian roll to thousands of lucky Jersey peeps. Yeah. When it comes to meatball sangwiches, size does matter!

Bread making goes way back in Italy. Back as far as the Romans and that's a ways back. Because of that, Italians have had thousands of years to perfect their bread making skills and perfect it they have. Generally, Italian bread is simple as breads go. Certainly the table breads. But don't let that simplicity fool you. It's delicious in the extreme. Besides, anyone can make things complicated. Genius is making them simple. And Italian breads are pure genius in their simplicity.

Can you even imagine sitting down to a Sunday sauce Italian dinner without bread? I can't. Nor would I want to. The bread on the table is the cornerstone of a great Italian meal and should never be absent from those dinners. Capiche?