The Hideout

The Sloatsburg hideout as it appears today.

As I've mentioned a bunch of times on this blog, my grandparents lived in Sloatsburg, NY.  Sloatsburg is a small town not far from the Jersey border in Rockland County, NY.

If you know the area and you're coming from New Jersey (like we did almost every Sunday growing up) you drive North on Rt. 17, past the Leaning Tower of Pizza, past the Ford plant in Mahwah, past Suffern, and through beautiful, scenic down-town Sloatsburg.

Course, the Leaning Tower of Pizza is no longer there (leastwise, I don't think it is) and neither is the Ford Plant. Suffern is still there, of course. It's a pretty large town, almost city-like. And so is downtown Sloatsburg, such as it is. The key syllable in Sloatsburg is "burg."  Because that's what it was and still is. A burg. A small burg. A place people mostly go through on their way upstate or when going to the Seven Lakes, Bear Mountain, or other picturesque destinations.  Even if you take the thruway, you're going to go through parts of the burg known as Sloatsburg.

When I was growing up, every so often my grandparents had "guests" or boarders staying at their house. The guests would live in one of the bedrooms upstairs for a time-- sometimes for a few weeks, sometimes longer. The guests were always  Italian guys. Usually Italian guys who either did not know how to speak English or chose not to.

 The guests always took part in the big Sunday meals we enjoyed. They were like part of the family, distant relatives or something like that. In fact, I think the guests were sometimes introduced as distant relatives.  And they were always treated with respect! Lots of respect. An inordinate amount of respect. As kids, we thought the way the guests were treated was a bit strange but we were told to always treat the guests with lots of respect. Yep. Everyone seemed to treat the guests with lots of special respect. Kind of phony respect but respect nonetheless. And in return, the guests were always very nice, respectful, and polite guys to everyone in the family. They seemed like really good guys. You know, really good fellas.

My Dad told me that, when he was a kid, there were periodic guests who used to stay at his parent's home back then too. In fact, his parents sometimes had guests as far back as he can remember. He loved it, he said, whenever a guest was staying. Why? Because whenever a guest stayed, there was always plenty of food. Almost like magic after the guests arrived, cars or small trucks would stop by regularly and deliver meats, fruits and vegetables, breads, and more. They ate like royalty, he said, whenever one of those guests or boarders were staying at the house.

Fictional guys of the sort who sometimes stayed at the hideout.

Sometimes, the guests were sick, at least that's what we were told, and that they were there to recuperate. Recuperate from what? Not exactly sure but one thing we did know, us kids that is, the guests weren't recuperating from illnesses because there were always bandages involved, or slings, or crutches or canes. Not all guests were there recuperating. Some of them were perfectly fine. They were just there. Staying as guests. No explanation was given as to why.

When I got older, I figured out why the guests were there. I asked my Dad a bit later in life and he confirmed my suspicions. The guests were guys who were hiding out at my grandparent's home in that little burg called Sloatsburg.  And when they were recuperating guests, my Dad also confirmed, what they were recuperating from was, for the most part, gunshot wounds.

I'm pretty sure you've already figured out what was going on: The guests were members of certain groups or families out of New York City or Jersey. They were at my grandparent's house because they were hiding out, either from others like themselves or the law. Yep. My grandparent's house was a hideout! At least temporarily and occasionally. My guess is that some money was also dropped off at my grandparent's house, in a addition to the food deliveries, whenever a guest was staying.

The "Yuck!" Side of Italian Food

Sufrite: Looks good but, "Yuck!"

For the most part, Italian food is the most deliciously prepared food on the planet. Nothing else compares, leastwise in my opinion. But there are a few dishes I'll pass on. Actually, there's a few dishes that are decidedly on the "Yuck!" side.

It pains me to write about Italian dishes that are on the "Yuck!" side of Italian food. Worse yet, my beloved grandmother made some of them. She not only made them, she made them rather regularly. So today, I'll write about a few of her "Yuck!" dishes that stand out in my memory.

Sufrite is pronounced "soo-freet."  You kind of roll the "r" when you say it. Sufrite is something my grandmother made often for my Dad and my Dad just loved it. To me, sufrite rates high on the "Yuck!" list. By the way, there's another Italian dish called sofrito and sufrite is not sofrito. I'm not confusing the two if you thought I might be doing that.

Sufrite is made with intestinal organs like an animal's heart and spleen, but the main ingredient was lungs. Lungs! Lungs, by the way, are no longer available for human consumption. The USDA banned them some years ago. (Which is okay by me!)  They banned them because of air pollution. You worry about pollution in the air you breathe? If so, and you should, you probably don't want to eat lungs because they're filled with the crap that's the pollution in air pollution.

The way sufrite is made is fairly simple: You sauté the lungs and other internal organs with garlic and peppers, add Italian spices and some tomato sauce, simmer for a while, quite a while, and serve.

Yuck!

My Dad gobbled it down like there was no tomorrow. He loved it! I'd watch him eat sufrite and feel nauseous. Sufrite might look good and, who knows, it might even taste okay (I wouldn't know, I never had the stones to try it) but if you know what it's made from, you might also have it on your personal "Yuck!" list like I always have. Sufrite probably belongs on that TV show -- I forget what it's called -- with the cook who goes around the world and eats disgusting stuff like bugs and worse.

The other "Yuck!" food I'll mention today is goat brains or sheep brains. Nuh uh! Not for me! No thank you. I'll pass. You start eating a goat's brains and the next thing you know, you have an urge to start running at and butting things with your head.

When I was a kid, I used to stay at my grandparent's home for a few weeks or so each summer. My grandmother would prepare goat or sheep brains for my grandfather's breakfast. Breakfast! She scrambled eggs in with the goat or sheep brains and then, when it was all cooked up in the pan, she'd put it back in a goat's or sheep's half-skull. That's right, scrambled eggs and goat brains on the half-skull!  First thing in the morning! Again, it might taste okay, I have no clue, but I seriously felt sick while watching my grandfather fork it out of the skull and wolf it down with his morning coffee.

In the awesome Viet Nam War movie, "Apocalypse Now!" directed by the awesome Italian-American film-maker, Francis Ford Copolla, Robert Duvall's character, Lt. Col. Bill Kilgore, said he loved the smell of napalm in the morning, but I can't say the same for the smell goat brains and eggs in the morning.

Yuck!

Mamalukes

Everyone knows a mamaluke. Mamalukes are everywhere. They're not overly common but they're not particularly scarce either. What? You don't know what a mamaluke is? Serious? Well, in case some of you don't know, I guess I should tell you.

A mamaluke is an Italian word, actually an Italian slang word, for someone who does something dumb, stupid, silly or foolish. (Or is dumb, stupid, silly, or foolish.) Also, it can describe someone who doesn't fit in for reasons I'll get into in a minute.

Let's say you're a cool Italian dude and you hang out with a bunch of other cool Italian dudes -- which most Italian dudes are, cool that is -- you may or may not let someone who is a mamaluke hang out with you and your friends. If you do -- because you have heart or something -- you and your friends will still often let that person know they're a mamaluke and let them know often, in spite of everyone having a heart.

Mamaluke is a word that's almost always aimed at guys, that is, males of the Italian-American persuasion.  It's not a particularly hostile or mean-spirited word. It is an insult, but not a huge insult. Calling someone a mamaluke is often said with a smile, but with a slightly disgusted shake of the head. (Not real disgust,  more like feigned or pretend disgust) You don't usually call a stranger a mamaluke unless you know something about them which means they're not a total stranger. Not really. They're at least known to you, even if what you know is only that they're a mamaluke.  Generally, you have to know someone to know if they're a mamaluke or not, which excludes most total strangers, but not always. That's because a total stranger could be walking down the street and they just look like a mamaluke. If someone looks like a mamaluke, stranger or not, odds are they probably are a mamaluke. Just saying.

Mamaluke is a word -- a label, name, or insult -- mostly reserved for friends or family. It's also a teasing kind of word. You can tease someone by calling them a mamaluke even if they're not a mamaluke. Calling someone a mamaluke is not usually said as part of some fighting words. There are words that are fighting words amongst Italians but mamaluke isn't usually one of them.

Don Corleone chastising Johnny Fontaine for unmanly behavior

Mamaluke can also be used to insult a guy's masculinity. Let's say one of your friends is totally ruled by their mother, sister, girlfriend, or wife. If so, there's a good chance they are a mamaluke and a better chance, leastwise amongst my friends and I, that we'll let a mamluke know they're a mamaluke, and we'll let them know often and plenty.

Remember the scene from The Godfather when Don Corleone slapped Johnny Fontaine for not being a man? The Don was disgusted to the point where simply calling Johnny Fontaine a mamaluke wasn't going to cut it. Johnny went way beyond the mamaluke stage when he cried in front of the Don.  He deserved to get smacked-- not whacked, but smacked.

I had a cousin. His name was Sonny. (RIP Sonny.) That's what everyone called him. But Sonny wasn't his real name. His real given name was Santillo.   Sonny was older than me. He was almost the same age as my Dad, maybe two or three years younger than him. I loved Sonny. We got along great. Sonny lived with his mother from the day he was born till the day he died. He was probably in his mid-sixties when he died from the cancer. (His Mom, my Aunt Mary, was my Dad's oldest sister and, sadly, she survived her son, Sonny.)  But, as much as I loved Sonny, he was still a mamaluke. I wouldn't call Sonny a mamaluke to his face because I loved and respected him. I didn't refrain from calling Sonny a mamaluke because of what he might do. I simply didn't want to hurt his feelings.  But Sonny was a mamaluke nonetheless, and I wasn't the only person in the family who considered him to be a mamaluke or called him a mamaluke behind his back. By the way, you wouldn't call Sonny a mamaluke to his mother either because that would get you in big trouble. Not only with the rest of the family, but you might risk getting smacked in the head with a cast iron frying pan or something.

Arab mercenary: A Mameluke

People who study where words come from think the Italian word, "mamaluke," comes from an Arabic word, "Mameluke" or "Mamluke."

The Mamelukes/Mamlukes were Arab soldiers, mercenaries who sold their services to Napoleon. The uniforms the Mamlukes wore were either white turbans or some silly hats, vests, bright red pantaloons and boots. Many Italians from those days thought the Mamelukes looked foolish or silly. Especially, for being warriors. They thought they looked anything but manly. So, the label "mamaluke" was likely born to describe a guy who is foolish, silly, or unmanly, i.e., not a real man; leastwise, the Italian version of what a real man is supposed to be... which is anything but a mamaluke!

A Brief History of Pasta

Rigatoni! Your humble blogger's favorite pasta.

Who doesn't like pasta? No one, that's who. Pasta may be the world's most popular food. When most people think of pasta, they think of Italian food. That's because Italians made it famous. Other ethnic and regional people's have pasta-like food they love. The Germans and Hungarians, for instance, have their spaetzle. But spaetzle ain't pasta. Not even close.  By the way, have you ever heard someone speaking in Hungarian? I have.  A bunch of times. It sounds a little bit like Italian, but not as pretty.

Marco Polo: Famous Italian Traveler

There are many theories about the origins of pasta. Some say Marco Polo brought it back from China. But Marco Polo, in his writings, never said anything about pasta, macaroni, or noodles even though, I'm pretty sure, he sucked a noodle or two down when he visited China in the 13th century.

More than a thousand years before Marco Polo went to China and brought some things back -- even if it wasn't pasta but might have been a popular water-sport game that's still played in millions of swimming pools each summer -- the 1rst century B.C. Roman, Quintus Horatius Flaccus, called Horace in the English speaking world, wrote about a dish called lagana which, no doubt, eventually became lasagna. Horace's references described a food that was very pasta-like, but in a lasagna-like sort of way.

There are also historical references to pasta-ish food being prepared by the Greeks in the 2nd century A.D. and the Arabs in the 4th and 5th centuries, A.D.  But I guess their pasta-like dishes weren't all that popular and didn't have much staying power amongst those people or elsewhere. I mean, who thinks of Greek food or Arab food when they're thinking of pasta? Again, no one. That's who.

So, let's just say that, for all intents and purposes, Italians invented pasta... leastwise, what most of the world thinks of as pasta. I mean, who thinks of Italian food when they're thinking of pasta? Everyone. That's who.

Italian explorer, Amerigo Vespucci

By the way, pasta-making machines were invented in Italy a very long time ago, in Renaissance times. (The Renaissance was another great Italian invention because that's where it started, in Italy.) Dried pasta, which they made with those machines, has a long shelf-life and was often taken aboard ships for long ocean voyages. Both Christopher Columbus (an Italian who is generally credited with discovering America, at least by and for the Western World) and Amerigo Vespucci (another Italian explorer, one who America is named after) no doubt had plenty of pasta on board their sailing vessels. That's so cool! Not only is pasta one of the most delicious foods on the planet, one that can be prepared in so many awesome ways with so many sauces and more, it's also one of the most practical foods ever invented! That's due to its ability to be stored for long periods. Just cook it with water! What's simpler than that? Nothing. That's what.

A wise man once said that anything can be made complex or complicated, but it takes pure genius to make things simple. Are all Italians geniuses? Probably not. If you knew my cousin Salvatore, called "Sonny" by all, you'd know that's not so. But pasta is definitely a genius-inspired food! So, what does that tell you about Italians? Plenty. That's what.

Ernie Was Right!

Ernest Borgnine in a scene from "Marty."  What a good-a boy! Won and Oscar for it too!

Years ago, I was earnestly pursuing a career as a Hollywood writer which, I hoped, would lead to directing.  I had a few successes, but not enough to keep me going in the long run... especially after having a child, and later another, which meant I had more people to worry about, to be responsible for, to provide for than myself. So, I scrapped my Hollywood ambitions and got a normal job. I became a working-class hero. Leastwise, a working-class something. I'm not bitter. I don't blame that decision on anyone. That's life. La vita. Sometimes, it doesn't go as planned.

We sold a few scripts, that is my writing partner and I, which were either film screenplays or ideas for TV shows, but only one of them was produced.  My writing partner, who I met at film school and who is still one of my dearest friends (he eventually put a law degree to work and became an attorney) and I sold  a TV sit-com idea that was produced by NBC. Unfortunately, it never went to series and only made it as far as an aired pilot. It was called "Whacked Out." It starred Dana Carvey (before anyone knew who he was), Desi Arnaz Jr., and some other funny and talented actors.

The coolest thing (besides "Whacked Out" being produced by a major network) was when they taped the pilot in front of a live audience. Lucille Ball was there to support her son and my friend and writing partner and I were seated, by the producers, next to Lucy for the taping. That was so friggin' cool! Lucille Ball of I Love Lucy fame!  I was like a stuttering fan-boy.

Almost immediately, Lucy acted like she knew us from way back and when she was officially introduced to the audience -- not that she needed an introduction -- she made my partner and I stand up with her while she extolled the virtues of writers and how none of what people see on TV or at the movie theaters would be possible without the imagination, creativity, and hard work of writers; people who most audiences never get to see or meet. A truly a class act Lucille Ball was.

A typical old school Italian barber shop. (Just kidding.)

Not long after, one of our other sit-com ideas was optioned by another production company.  "Optioned" means a producer or a production company pays the writers to secure the exclusive rights to a script or a story idea for a specified period of time while they pursue making a deal with a network or a studio to produce it.

This newly optioned project was called, "A Little Off the Top." The "situation" in this situation comedy revolved around an Italian-American family whose patriarch owned and operated an old school Italian barber shop in an unnamed city and what takes place when the man's son returns home after graduating from hair styling school to join his Dad in the barber business.

The family patriarch -- a 1rst generation Italian-American who comes from a long line of proud Italian barbers -- is thrilled to have his son join him in the business. The comedic conflict begins almost immediately when the son shares his new ideas for the future of the barber shop: Ideas and plans that aren't in line with what his father wants for his son or the barber shop.

The son wants to turn the barber shop into a trendy hair styling salon. The father wants to keep it the way it has been. In order to maintain peace and stability in the family, the two decide -- with Solomon-like wisdom -- to split the barber shop in half with one-half remaining an old school Italian barber shop and the other half becoming a trendy hair styling salon. (With no walls separating the two enterprises.) The comedy is driven by the family dynamics of new generation versus old -- old school versus new school -- and, of course, the daily interactions of all the old timers who have frequented the barber shop for years and how they comically collide with the new generation of trendy hipsters who are the new customers of the "salon."

Borgnine having a non-Italian dinner with a friend.

The production company that optioned the show made a deal with Ernest Borgnine to play the lead. He would play the patriarch of the family, the old school Italian-American barber. Ernest Borgnine was himself a 1rst generation Italian-American. His real name was Ermes Effron Borgnino. He was born in Connecticut to parents who were both Italian immigrants..

We had a number of writer's meetings. One of the things Borgnine was insistent on was that the show begin each week during a traditional, Italian-American, Sunday family dinner with all the family characters in attendance. Dinner always had to feature spaghetti and meatballs served up with all the other traditional Sunday sauce/gravy dinner fare. Ernie was a man who loved his Italian food.

I can't adequately express how thrilled I was to be creatively involved with an actor of Borgnine's caliber.  But on the issue of starting the show each week during an Italian-American Sunday dinner, the sort of dinner both Mr.  Borgnine and myself had participated in many times during our lives, we disagreed. It wasn't a negative sort of disagreement but a creative disagreement. Hey! What can I say? I was young. I was stupid. I had new and different ideas. Better ideas, or so I thought. Our creative disagreement became almost like Mr. Borgnine and myself were playing the two main characters in the show-- the old Italian head of the family and the young upstart son with the new ideas.

Writers can be adamant about "the sanctity" of their work, which we often love and treat almost like spoiled  children.  Actors can be the same way about the characters they intend to create and play. In the end, the show didn't happen. It was never produced. Not because of creative differences but because it didn't. Getting anything produced in Hollywood has long odds. Always has, always will. And "A Little Off the Top" wasn't able to beat those odds. But that's another story.

Now that I'm older, a lot older, and hopefully wiser, I realize Ernie was right. He was 100% correct. The show should have begun each episode the way he envisioned it, taking place at the table during traditional Italian-American Sunday dinners. Famiglia: That's what the show was about at it's core, not barber shops or trendy hair salons or even Italian families for that matter. Ernie was right. It would have been a great way to serve up the show to audiences... if the the show had ever been produced. 

Rest in Peace, Ernest Borgnine. You were a true movie star, a great man, and an Italian-American artist of distinction!

A Slice of Pizza History

As all Italian-Americans know -- and will tell you given the slightest opportunity -- Italians are a very proud people. Why? Obviously, because we have so much to be proud of.  When God handed out things to be proud of, Italians must have been his favorites.  Why else would  God put the Vatican in Rome? He sure as hell didn't put it in Paris or Dublin or Krakow.

Italian food, of course, is a source of incredible pride amongst Italians. And it ain't false pride!  There's a reason Italians are so proud of our food: It's the best food on the planet!

One of the Italian food groups Italians are exceptionally proud of -- well, besides pasta, our  Sunday Sauces/Gravies, meaballs, braciole, sawseege, our specialty cold cuts like salami, capocolla, proscuitto,  sub/hoagie/hero/grinder sangwiches, all the parms (eggplant, chicken, veal), all the fish served on Christmas Eves and more -- is pizza. Pizza rates right up there at or near the top of the long list of foods Italians are especially proud of. And yes, pizza is a food group all on it's own.

So, today I'm going to give you the Reader's Digest condensed version of those wonderful-yet-simple Italian flat-bread delights we all know by one word: pizza.

Since way back when, the city of Naples was a thriving, bustling, seaside town. It was jam-packed with Napoletans. (nah-buh-le-dons) A lot of those Napoletans lived and worked on or near the waterfront. The closer you got to the water, the more crowded and bustling Naples was.  I'm not talking about the rich or the aristocracy of Naples. I'm talking about the working classes.  Any time you've got lots of working-class people living and doing their things in a small area, someone's gonna step-up to feed them some cheap but delicious food. I'm not talking about restaurants, cafes, and other sit-down joints to eat, although I'm sure there were plenty of those as well.  I'm talking about street vendors. And that's just what happened in Naples.

Naples waterfront, 16th century, birthplace of pizza. That's not the world's biggest pizza oven in the background. It's Mt. Vesuvius, on the other side of the Bay of Naples, belching up some hot stuff.

If you're a street vendor, you probably want to be selling food that's fast and easy to make and can be eaten by hand by your customers.  Back then, there weren't a whole lot of prepared foods that fit that bill. But pizza certainly did! That's right, pizza was probably the world's first "fast food." And it was invented, like so many other fantastic things, by Italians.

During that time, most of the rich people were eating fancy French food because they thought that was more cultured. (Rich people, please.) They considered food like pizza to be beneath their dignity and station to eat. You know what? Vaffanculo to them. They had no idea what they were missing.  But then, one day in the late 19th century after Italy had unified,  the King and Queen of Italy came to Naples and the Queen, Queen Margherita, wanted to try some pizza. I guess she heard it was good or maybe she wasn't a snob like many rich people are, especially royalty. So, she ordered a few of her minions to go out on the streets of Naples and get her a variety of pizza from the local vendors. 

Queen Margherita with her name-sake pie.

When the minions brought back the pizza for Queen Margherita, she tried them all and decided the one she liked best was a thin-crust, flat-bread pizza topped with mozzarella cheese, red tomatoes, and basil leaves on top. (White, red, and green-- the colors of the Italian flag that pizza just happened to be.) To this day, a cheese and tomato pizza with basil leaves is still called a Margherita Pizza. 

Not long after, a whole lot of Italians immigrated to America and lots of them came from Naples and the areas surrounding Naples. Both my grandparents did. And guess what they brought with them? Yep. Pizza!  Since many Italian immigrants settled in the Northeast, especially in New York City and the surrounding areas, pizza vendors began springing up all over the place. Soon, Italians began spreading across America bringing pizza with them. It didn't take long for non-Italians to discover pizza and they, of course, fell in love with it. That's why pizza is one of the most popular foods in America. And we made it!

By the way, if you come from where I come from, North Jersey -- where the best pizza in the world is made -- we don't say, "I want a slice of pizza," or  "I'm going after a pizza pie," or simply the word pizza, by itself, without the pie added.  We just say we want "a slice."  Or, we say we're going to get "a pie."  If we want some other kind of pie, like an apple or a cherry pie, then we say we want a slice of apple pie or a cherry pie. When we want pizza, we just call it a "pie" or a "slice." You've been schooled. Well, some of you have. Some already knew that.

Next update: "Ernie Was Right!"  (The Ernie is Ermes Effron Borgnino, aka Ernest Borgnine.)

We Made That!

The contributions to humanity by Italians and, later, Italian-Americans is enormous. "We made that," is a term that gained some popularity in recent years. For the most part, the term has been ascribed to things of questionable origins. (The people claiming they made it didn't. Leastwise, not on their own.) But not so for many contributions made by Italians and Italian-Americans.

I could go on and on about people like DaVinci, Marconi, Meucci (the true inventor of the telephone), and many more, but today I'm going to write about Conti, Dominic Conti, the Italian immigrant who invented one of the truly great and much-loved contributions to Italian-American cuisine: the Sub Sandwich.

Dominic Conti hailed from Montello, Italy. Like so many others of his nationality, he came to America in the very early 1900s. Also like many other Italian immigrants, Dominic settled in the great state of New Jersey, where I just happened to have been born and raised. He opened an Italian grocery store in Paterson, NJ, where he sold, amongst other Italian foods and fare, traditional Italian sandwiches.  Dominic's sandwiches consisted of a long, crusty, Italian bread roll filled with cold cuts and topped with lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, onions, oil, vinegar, Italian herbs and spices, salt, and pepper. The sandwich started with a layer of cheese and ended with a layer of cheese so the bread wouldn't get soggy. (Good thinking, Dominic!)

The sub that inspired *the sub*

One day, Dominic visited a local museum and saw a recovered-and-restored, turn-of-the-century Naval submarine on display. The rest was history. Dominic was so inspired by the sub, he named his Italian sandwiches "submarine sandwiches" and the sub sandwich entered the American lexicon.

Sub sandwiches are known by different names depending on where you're from. Even though there are regional names that differ from "submarine sandwich," and variations on how they're made, they all owe their pedigrees to Dominic Conti. A few of the other popular names for Dominic's sub sandwiches are hero, hoagie, and grinder.

Subs can also be hot sandwiches, the most popular being the meatball sub. My friend, Johnny Meatballs, who (like Conti was) is another Italian-American entrepreneur living and plying his trade in the great state of New Jersey, owes much to the spirit of Dominic Conti. Much like Conti did, Johnny also uses an Italian roll but his sandwiches are filled with his signature meatballs along with cheese and his authentic Italian Sunday Sauce/Gravy.  Johnny has another sandwich, one he and his food-vending paisan, Frankie Antipasto, recently unveiled to the world. It includes meatball, sausage, braciole, soppressata (an Italian salami), sauce and cheese. Mama mia! Now that's a sandwich! It's the Holy Trinity of hot Italian subs!

There are other popular hot Italian sub sandwiches beyond meatballs: Italian sausage (made either with red tomato sauce and cheese or without the sauce with grilled peppers-and-onions instead-- my personal preference), plus there's the mouth-watering alternatives: eggplant parm, chicken parm, and veal parm sandwiches. And last but not least, there's the ever-popular steak-and-peppers sub sandwich. All are delicioso!

By the way, some of you may have heard the word, "sandwich," pronounced "sang-wich."  That's because many old school Italians from back East pronounce it that way. My Aunt Mary (RIP), my Dad's oldest sister who lived much of her life on the West Coast in Azusa, CA, worked part-time in an Italian Deli out here making "sangwiches." This particular deli was quite the popular place amongst the local lunch crowd. I used to sometimes stop by when I was out that way and I thoroughly enjoyed the quizzical looks on many Californian's faces when she asked them what kind of "sang-wich" they wanted. My Aunt Mary was not a patient person. If you didn't answer quickly, she scowled, shook her head, and was on to the next person waiting to order. (Which, to me, was even funnier than her saying, "sangwich.")

So, next time you enjoy a sub, hero, hoagie, grinder, or whatever they call it in your neck of the woods, you owe some thanks to Dominic Conti, the Italian-American inventor of one of the greatest sandwiches of all time: the submarine sang-wich.

Pasta Fazool

A soupy bowl of Pasta e Fagiole.

A well-known Italian peasant dish which has been served in many Italian-American households ever since boatloads of Italian peasants/immigrants came to this country is  called pasta e fagiole, which means pasta and beans.

My grandmother made pasta e fagiole once a week.  I always looked forward to being at her house or she being at our house when she made it. Even if you've never tried it -- and if you haven't tried it you're definitely missing out on something delicioso -- you've probably heard of it. But what you heard may have sounded more like pasta fazool.

The proper Italian word for beans, fagiole, is pronounced fazool in the Neapolitan dialect. That's right. All Italians don't speak the world's most beautiful language exactly the same way. They speak it in regional dialects. But all Italians can still understand each other regardless of their dialects. We're clever that way. (And in a whole lot more ways!)

Although my grandparents came from Avellino, which isn't too far from Naples, it's not Naples. But they still spoke Italian in the Neapolitan dialect. In case you need a quick geography lesson, both Naples and Avellino are in the state, district, or region of Campania. (Whatever they call those various areas over there.) All 8 of their children spoke Italian the same way, with the Neapolitan accent. Two of my aunts married guys from the old country -- my Uncle Ralph (Rafaello) and my Uncle Carl (Carlo) -- but both of them were from Naples so they fit right in, dialect wise.

If my father had taught my brother, sister, and I to speak Italian -- which I always wished he had -- I'd be speaking it in the Neapolitan dialect. But I don't. That's because he never taught us to speak it. Period. In any dialect.

Many children of Italian immigrants, those millions of first generation Italian-Americans like my Dad, failed to teach their kids to speak the mother tongue.  Sure, many of us next-generation Italian-Americans know quite a few words in Italian. Certainly the swear words. (I do.)  And if Italian was spoken, say, at your grandparent's home like it was in my family, there's a good chance you understood many things in Italian that were said to you. Otherwise, you sometimes might have gotten a smack on the back of the head. I always thought that was entirely unfair. I mean, you don't teach me to speak Italian but when you tell me to do something, and you tell it to me in Italian, you get impatient with me for not immediately understanding what you said? In a language you didn't teach me to speak? Where's the logic in that?

There are, of course, some reasons why so many first-gen Italian-Americans (who did speak Italian) passed over teaching their 2nd-gen children to speak it. I'm pretty sure I understand some of those reasons even if I don't agree with them.  But that's the stuff of another blog update.

Back to Pasta e fagiole, which is what this update is supposed to be about.

Pasta fazool is easy to make. It's easier to make than a Sunday sauce or braciole or many other Italian dishes.  And for you cheapskates, it's not only easy to make but it's cheap to make. That's how peasant food mostly is: cheap to make, even if you're feeding a small army of peasants with it.

There are many recipes you can find on the web for making pasta e fagiole. If you want to make it authentico, which you should, go with the simplest recipes because the true beauty (and deliciousness) of pasta e fagiole lies in it's simplicity.  Just remember two things: I don't care what the recipe says, to make proper pasta fagiole use cannellini beans, i.e., white kidney beans (either canned or the old school way with dry beans), and ditalini for the pasta. No exceptions! You want to make it right. Right? Then make it right with the right ingredients! Capice?

My grandmother usually made pasta e fagiole with dry cannellini beans. That's because she was very old school about cooking and, well,  just about everything else in her life.  It takes longer to make it that way, with dry beans, but it tastes better too. You can make pasta e fagiole red or white, depending on whether you make it with tomatoes or chicken broth as the base. You can also make it like soup or less soupy. My grandmother made it both ways, red and white, depending on what she had available for the ingredients. Her pasta fazool was less a soup than some pasta fazool I've had. You can make it any of those ways depending on the recipe you go with. They're all really good, sono buoni, and delicioso!

By the way, a lot of Italian restaurants have pasta e fagiole on their menus so maybe that would be a good way for you to get introduced to it if you've never experienced the pleasures of a bowl of pasta fazool.   I used to sometimes eat lunch at an Italian deli near to where I worked and they made pasta e fagiole every Wednesday.  Come to think of it, I think Wednesday was the day of the week my grandmother made pasta e fagiole as well. The deli made their pasta fazool the old school way, the deli's owner, Giuseppe, being from the old country and all.

Dean Martin famously crooned a love song called That's Amore. I know you've heard it. Everyone has heard it. It's the song that talks about how, when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie... One of the other verses goes like this: "When the stars make you drool just-a like pasta fazool that's amore."   

Pasta e fagiole was Dino's favorite dish and now I'm droolin' for some because, just like Dino, amo pasta fazool. That means, "I love pasta fazool," you know, in Italian. Try it if you haven't. You probably will too.

My Grandmother's Maytag Bread Box

Looks just like my grandmother's laundry equipment.

I have very early memories of my grandmother, Maria Miele Giordano, hand-washing clothes. She performed this labor-intensive chore just outside the porch door on the side of the house where my grandfather had, at some point, dug a leeching pit covered with flat stones. The wash water would get tossed on the stones where it drained into the pit and leeched into the ground. No danger of throwing a baby out with the wash water with those flat stones in place. It was totally old school and I'm guessing my grandfather dug the pit in the very early 1900s.

I also have not-so-early memories of my grandmother still hand-washing clothes on the side of the house. That's because, even after she was given an indoor electric washing machine, she stubbornly insisted on hand-washing clothes, outdoors, next to the porch door, with a big bucket of hot, sudsy water and a wash board.

I'm pretty sure she learned how to hand-wash clothes when she was a young girl back in the old country before she came to America. She came from peasant stock at a time and place when/where children had to hold their own contributing to the needs of their families.

My grandmother wasn't much for change. She did just about everything the old country/old school way: from cooking and cleaning, to canning fruits and tomato sauce, to feeding the chickens, gathering their eggs, and later slaughtering them for dinner, and so much more. That was done while raising 8 kids, all of them born at home, with no one else to help her until a few of her daughters were old enough to pitch in and help. Different times, for sure.

Back to hand-washing clothes.

A bread box similar to my grandmother's bread box.

At some point, I believe in the early-to-mid 1950s, a few of her children, including my Dad, decided to pool some money and buy her an electric washing machine. They were tired of seeing their Mom outside, hunched over that big aluminum bucket, scrubbing clothes the old fashioned way. The washer looked very much like the one pictured on the right.  They decided to put it in the indoor porch at the side of the house between the side door to the outside and the kitchen. There was a big sink in that room with counter tops on either side of it. It was mostly used for food preparation and little else. It never became a laundry room.

Why? Because my grandmother had another idea for using that washing machine and her idea had nothing to do with washing clothes. Nope. While even her young grandkids, like myself, understood that the machine was meant for laundry, my grandmother saw it as a top-of-the-line bread box.

That's right, she never once used it to wash clothes. Instead, she stored loaves of bread in it. And to be honest, it was a terrific bread box. It kept the bread fresh for days longer. That's because the lid on the washing machine was an air-tight/water-tight lid and what better place to store bread than in a clean, porcelain-lined tub with an air-tight/water-tight lid?

My Aunt Rosie's and Uncle Tony's children in 1947

One of my uncles, Tony Germano, was married to my Dad's sister, Rosie. They had 5 children and all of them lived in Poughkeepsie, NY, which was about an hour's drive North of my grandparent's house in Sloatsburg, NY.

Uncle Tony drove a delivery truck for his father who owned an Italian grocery store and bakery in Poughkeepsie. That's how he met my Aunt Rosie: delivering groceries and bread to my grandparents' home.

After I was born, my uncle still delivered bread to my grandmother and he did so through most of my my younger years. I think he showed up with his deliveries about once a week.  He would drop off a whole bunch of loaves of really awesome Italian bread. Rather than having a dozen or so loaves of bread with no good place to store them, my grandmother solved the problem by using her new washing machine as a bread box.  I always got a chuckle when she or one my aunts told me to go out to the washing machine and get some bread.  Where else would you expect to go to retrieve some bread than a washing machine, right? 

The Great Italian-American Sunday Sauce/Gravy Dinner

A typical plate full of Sunday Sauce/Gravy Goodness

When I was growing up, we spent many (if not most) Sundays at my grandparent's home. They lived in a small town called Sloatsburg, NY. It was the house my father, his brother, and all six of his sisters were born and raised in.

Sloatsburg wasn't much of a town. It was and still is a small community nestled in the Ramapo Mountains of lower New York state, about 25 or 30 miles North of New York City.  If you're familiar with the area, Rt. 17 goes through Sloatsburg's business district, which isn't much of a business district. After passing through Sloatsburg's business district, assuming you're heading North, there's a right turn you make off Rt. 17 which takes you up Seven Lakes Drive.

The house my grandparents lived in as it is today.

Making that right turn takes you across two bridges over a small tributary of the Ramapo River to a fork in the road. Go to the right and you're heading up towards the Seven Lakes and Harriman and Bear Mountain State Parks. Go to the left and you're headed to my grandparent's house, which is only a few blocks away.  In the middle of the fork is a small restaurant and bar. I don't know what it's now called but, back in the day, it was owned and operated by my grandmother's nephew, a guy named Bats Miele.

The Miele family, my grandmother's family, is fairly well known in and around Sloatsburg, Suffern, and a few other parts of Rockland County.  When I was a kid, Bats' place wasn't much more than a roadside stand. They sold cold beer, soda, and sandwiches. A lot of it to travelers heading up Seven Lakes Drive for a day of hiking, swimming, and more. Bats' roadside stand was well known for the meatball sandwiches it served.  That's because my grandmother made the meatballs for Bats. He paid her in bottles of beer and soda to take back home with her which was a source, amongst some in my family, of ill-feelings towards Bats because, without my grandmother's meatballs, Bats was probably out of business. They believed Bats should have compensated my grandmother better for her hard work making those incredible meatballs. But that's old school Italian family feuding stuff and I won't dwell on it even though Bats was obviously a cheap prick for not paying my grandmother in cash, not that I hold any old school Italian grudges about that.

Bats' roadside stand in Sloatsburg as it is today.

Back to Sunday's at my grandparents' house.

Like many other Italian-American families, Sunday family dinners were always a big deal. A weekly event. A mouth-watering feast! My dad's family was a large family. There would be at least thirty or more people there each Sunday for dinner. Mostly Italian was spoken in that house. To my life-long disappointment, neither I nor any of my many cousins were ever taught to speak Italian, but we understood enough of it so that if we were told to get something or do something (or stop doing something) we knew what was being said and could respond quickly, which helped avoid getting smacked upside the head.

During warm weather, we all ate under the grape arbor out back where there were big wooden picnic tables sitting on gravel which was spread out. It was a fairly large area, as was the grape arbor over it. Next to the grape arbor was a wood shed which housed many cords of wood, a cast iron wood-burning cooking stove, and hundreds of red peppers hanging from the rafters to dry. There was also a good-sized vegetable garden beyond the grape arbor. It was probably about a half acre. My grandfather grew tomatoes, peppers, string beans and a variety of other vegetables. Plus, up the hill behind the house and beyond the vegetable garden was a chicken coop, an old outhouse, rabbit hutches, and a pig stye all inhabited by the appropriate animals penned inside... except the outhouse, of course.

A Sunday-style dinner with a fictional Italian family.

I have, or at least had, plenty of aunts, uncles, cousins and second cousins. There were also a few aunts and uncles who weren't really (blood-related) aunts and uncles but we called them aunt or uncle as well. They weren't simply friends of the family, they were family and they'd be there most Sundays as well. We also did Christmas Eves and Easter Sundays at my grandparents' home in Sloatsburg and, as far as family feasts go, those were even bigger deals than Sunday dinners.

Italian's often talk about their Sunday Sauces or Sunday Gravies and what they're talking about is that big pot of tomato sauce.  Non-Italians often call it "spaghetti sauce." Puh-leeze. That doesn't do it justice. First off, it's not always served on spaghetti. Other types of pasta like rigatoni, shells, or ziti were often served instead of spaghetti at my grandparents' house on Sundays. Personally, I liked rigatoni best, still do. Ziti is my second favorite.  Shells are good too and... oh hell! I love it all!

The macaroni topped with sauce/gravy is only part of the feast. It's the meats in the Sunday sauce that truly steal the show: meatballs, sausages, braciole, big chunks of pork, sometimes even chicken (but not often) were in that Sunday sauce pot and all of it had simmered in the pot for hours, making it not only delicious, but practically melt-in-your-mouth awesome. The macaroni, sauce, and meats were served along with loaves of Italian bread, salads, sliced cold cuts (salami, mortadella, prosciutto, capicola), plus sliced and grated cheeses, marinated peppers, and more.

Sometimes, my grandmother and aunts would also make mulinyan (eggplant parm), veal parm, peppered chicken wings that were fried in olive oil, along with all the Sunday sauce pot stuff and everything else I mentioned.  All the cooking, by the way, was done on a big, old, cast iron stove that was half-wood-burning and half-gas-burning. Oh my God! What I wouldn't give to sit down for one more of those Sunday dinners at my grandparents' house surrounded by all my family who were around back then.  Cherished memories for sure.

If you're not of Italian descent but you've been invited to and participated in a traditional, Italian-American, Sunday Sauce/Gravy dinner, consider yourself fortunate. It's a feast for all your senses and it means you're not just friends of the family who invited you, you are like family to them.

The small tributary of the Ramapo River from one of the bridges before the fork in the road. I snapped this while on a trip back home last year. It was Fall and the trees were in their colorful autumn splendor.

Olio d'Oliva

The storefront of the offices of Don Corleone's Genco Pura Olive Oil company.

If you cook Italian, eat Italian, or are Italian, the olive (oliva in Italian) is a big deal. Especially when it's pressed into oil. The olive tree has been around a long freakin' time. Like six thousand years! It started out as a shrub, a bush, but turned into a tree after people started messing around with it.  You know, cultivating it. Even the Egyptians, way back when they built the pyramids, already had olives and olive oil. The olive tree is one of the oldest cultivated fruit trees on the planet! And yes, it's a fruit. It's got a pit, a seed. If it didn't have that pit, it wouldn't be a fruit. It would be a vegetable. If you eat a can of pitted olives, you know, olives without pits, you're still eating fruit. Duh.

The ancient Greeks believed the goddess, Athena, invented the olive. Zeus, the ancient Greek's Godfather of Gods, was so thrilled with Athena's invention he gave her the land known as Attica which is the part of Greece where Athens is located. (Athens... Athena... get it?) Why did Zeus think the olive was so terrific? Because the olive gave his people, the Greeks, light, heat, food, medicine and perfume, and Zeus cared about his Greeks and wanted stuff for them. Good stuff. Stuff they could use.

You'd think Zeus, being such a concerned-for-the-Greeks godfather of all Greek gods and all, would have come up with olives himself. But I guess not. It was a woman's job I suppose. Personally, I'm not sure olive oil perfume works for me as a sexy scent but what do I know?

BTW, I'm not an ancient Greek or a god although I do have a body like a Greek god. Yep. I've been to museums and seen statues of Greek gods and, like them, I don't need too big of a fig leaf either. TMI? Sorry.

Besides being used for cooking and other things, olive oil is used in religious rituals. The Muslim's prophet, Muhammad, told his followers to apply olive oil to their bodies. He used oil on his head, probably to avoid dry, fly-way hair. Hey! It's dry in the desert and between that and the hot sun, you're hair needs help even if you always wear a hat or a turban or whatever it is those desert Muslims wear.  If you're out somewhere and the person next to you smells like olive oil, he or she might be a Muslim. Just saying. Not to be outdone by Muslims, Catholics use olive oil during baptisms and a few other ceremonies. They call it "Holy Oil" but, between you and me, it's just olive oil that's been blessed.

Olive oil can also be used as a name. There's a famous cartoon movie star named Olive Oyl. She replaced the "i" in oil with a "y" but you know how movie stars are. They always have to be different.


Like gasoline, olive oil comes in different grades. There's regular olive oil, virgin olive oil, and extra-virgin olive oil.  The difference between these grades of oil is which pressing the oil comes from. First press = extra-virgin, second press = virgin, and the last press is regular olive oil.  Personally, I'm an extra-virgin olive oil kind of guy. No sloppy seconds or thirds for me.

Cooking with olio d'oliva is something all Italian cooks do. A lot of other kinds of cooks use olive oil too but considering Italian food is the best food on the planet, how they use olive oil in their cooking doesn't matter as much.

You can use olive oil as part of your salad's dressing. I know I sure do. There's no better dressing for your salad than oil and vinegar and the oil has to be olive oil. For vinegar, I like balsamic and other red wine vinegars. You can keep that apple vinegar stuff. It has no business on a salad, but a tablespoon of it in the water you use to make poached eggs is nice. And don't forget: If you're gonna eat your dinner salad like a boss, that is, like an Italian, you eat it after your meal, not before.

You can and should fry with olive oil but it burns at a lower temperature than other cooking oils. All that means is you have to be a little more careful when frying with olio d'oliva. It's worth it as frying with olive oil makes the food taste so much better. Trust me on this. Here's a partial list of things that should be fried in olive oil: meatballs, sausages, braciole, veal cutlets, chicken cutlets, moulinyan (eggplant), all the fish you fry on Christmas Eve for the Festa dei sette pesci (Feast of the Seven Fishes) which includes smelts (C'mon! You gotta make smelts!), shrimp, cod, and calamari. Then, there's stuff like fried zucchini, fried moot-sa-rell (mozzarella), and more. I fry up my peppers-n-eggs with a little olive oil. I love  peppers-n-eggs, and not just for breakfast. But use the Italian sweet frying peppers, also known as Anaheim peppers, and not the bell peppers. I don't have anything against bell peppers but if you're going to make peppers-n-eggs the right way, make them the right way. Again, trust me on this.


Okay. So now you know more about olive oil than you did before reading this. See? This blog is not only entertaining, it's informative and educational. Your welcome.

Twirling Spaghetti

The only right way to eat spaghetti is by twirling it on your fork. Everyone knows that. Sure, Moms all over the world cut-up spaghetti for their young kids. Makes sense, I suppose. (Although I still cringe when I see spaghetti being cut up, even when it's for a little kid.) But I'm not here to judge. I'm just saying.

Cutting-up spaghetti aside, there's two ways to twirl spaghetti, both being a proper way to eat it. One involves a spoon and the other doesn't. Both ways use a fork and both work well. Both are Nonna Approved (Nonna=Grandmother in Italian if you didn't know.)  It's your choice how you roll when twirling spaghetti. (How you roll and twirling: Nice pun, no? Probably not.)

If you come from an Italian family, you learn the fine art of spaghetti-twirling early on. I'm not even sure  it's a learned skill for Italians. It might be in our genes. We may know how to do it naturally, instinctively, without special instruction or training. It could be an evolutionary trait. We could be born with the skill. Leastwise, that's my scientific theory about it, not that I'm a scientist.

Me? I'm an NST, a No-Spoon-Twirler. Always have been. My attitude about using a spoon to twirl spaghetti is like that Mexican guy says in the old movie with the gold prospectors and banditos: "Spoons? We don't need no steenkeeng spoons."

Even though I'm a no-spoon spaghetti twirler, I know how to do it with a spoon. That could be a genetic trait too, naturally knowing how to twirl spaghetti both ways. So, I'm gonna tell you how to twirl your spaghetti with a spoon even though I don't think it's the preferred method. Why? Because some of you might be hung up on that Emily Post stuff and you think using a spoon is better table etiquette. I'm not that way but, whatever.

First, hold your spoon in your left hand. (Unless, I guess, if you're left-handed and then you might want to hold it in your right hand.) Me? I'm right-handed so, if I were to use a spoon to twirl my spaghetti, which I'm not gonna do, not now not ever, I'd hold my spoon in my left hand... theoretically.  The truth is, I'd sooner eat my spaghetti like that no-table-manners guy in the picture at the top before I'd use a spoon to twirl it.  (And I have, more than once.) But again, I'm not here to judge. So, with or without my approval, you do what you gotta do. Me not judging spaghetti-spoon-twirlers is my way of showing tolerance.

Next, with your fork in your right hand (left hand if you're left-handed) stick it in the spaghetti and lift some out. Lift enough to fill your mouth. Lift it high enough to put the spoon under the bottom strands of the spaghetti. As you lower the spaghetti down into your spoon, you should already be twirling your fork with your fingers and, through the magic of physics, the spaghetti will automatically twirl around your fork. By the time you've lowered your fork all the way to your spoon, the spaghetti should all be twirled around your fork or, at least, most of it should be.  Did I mention this is best done with a table spoon? Well, it is. Use a table spoon, not a little tea spoon. How much spaghetti fits on a tea spoon? Not much. Not enough, that's for sure. Spaghetti isn't meant to be eaten in little dainty bits any more than it's meant to be cut-up.

If you're not Italian and this twirling-spaghetti-with-a-spoon stuff is new to you, you no doubt already figured out it takes two hands and twice the effort (than it should) to twirl with a spoon. I'm a Keep it simple stupid! kind of guy. The fork-only technique is obviously simpler than using a spoon and I haven't even explained that yet.

Look at this kid on the left. His Mom cut his spaghetti for him but he's still trying to twirl it. And without a spoon! Good for you, kid!  You got the right idea. The kid is still making a mess but that's okay. Kids make messes eating spaghetti. They're kids. It's what they do. And he's twirling without a spoon. Smart kid. Happy kid. Kids are always happy eating spaghetti. Spaghetti is happy food. It is for me and it is for you whether you know it or not. We're all kids at heart. Especially, when we're eating spaghetti.

Okay. Here's how you twirl spaghetti with a fork only: Stick your fork in the spaghetti and twirl. How friggin' simple is that? Stick your fork in the spaghetti and twirl! It doesn't get any easier than that.

Once upon a time there was this monk. He lived a long time ago in England. His name was William. William of Ockham. He wasn't Italian and might not have ever eaten spaghetti but I won't hold that against him.  William once said, "The best way to do something is the easiest, most simple, least complicated way." He might not have said it in exactly those words but that's what he meant. And Willy was right! 100% correct. Today, they call William's words, "Ockham's Razor."  That doesn't mean you use a razor when eating spaghetti but -- call me crazy or call me lazy -- I think it makes more sense to do most anything in the easiest, simplest, and least complicated ways. Okham's Razor. Words to live by. Even when you're eating spaghetti.

Let Me Tell You 'Bout Braciole (Parte Due)

I'm back for more about braciole. Nice guy that I am, I didn't make you wait long for the rest of the recipe. I'm thoughtful that way. I'm also one of those people without a lot of patience when it comes to holding on to something, like finishing a recipe or keeping money in my pockets.

Since I split this recipe into two parts, you've had time -- a whole day -- to get all your ingredients together.  But if you're not ready to make braciole, that's okay too. One of the good things about the internet is these instructions will still be here tomorrow, a year from now, two years from now, maybe longer?

Alrighty then. Let's make some braciole!

If I were you, which I'm not, obviously, but if I were you I'd do this on the kitchen counter on a wooden chopping board. That's what I do but it's a free country so it's your choice.

Start out by crushing, peeling, and chopping/mincing your garlic. Notice I said peeling after I said crushing? That's because if you crush your garlic cloves with the flat side of your knife before peeling, then the peels come right off in your fingers! Mince more garlic than you think you need. You'll need a lot of garlic for the braciole. Garlic is nature's natural penicillin or whatever it is they say about it. That's why when you're sick, you have a cold or whatever and you're making chicken soup, put plenty of fresh garlic in it. The more the better. It will taste great and you'll get better quicker or won't get sick in the first place. When you're done with the garlic, set it aside. Take a quick break if you want. I don't care. It's not like you're on the clock. At least I hope you're not. I hate being on the clock.

The correct way to chop garlic. Notice the hand placements?

Next, rinse off the Italian parsley and cut off the stems. Now, chop up the parsley. Chop it good but not too finely. You're going to need more parsley than you think so keep chopping! Chop bunches of bunches of parsley. Then, set it aside by the garlic. Take another break if you want. Maybe a glass of vino?

Okay, take your first piece of thin-cut flank steak and lay it out flat. I hope you have a meat mallet because now you're going to beat your meat. You're going to beat it good. Hey! This is turds in bondage, right? What's the point of bondage without a good beating? Bondage and beatings go together like spaghetti and meatballs. Your meat will be better after a good beating. Happier when it's beat it into submission! Wait! What? You thought I meant something else when I said, "beat your meat?" You thought I was doing one of those double-nintendos or whatever they're called in French? This ain't a French food recipe and, if that's what you thought, you got a dirty mind. I'm just saying. Besides, what would you rather beat? Your meat? Or a frog or some snails like they probably do making French food?

After you've beat your meat, you might want to take another break. Beating your meat can be tiring.  Maybe it's time for another glass of vino? Maybe two? Maybe a cigarette? You know, if you smoke. Hey! I'm not here to judge. Smoke 'em if you got 'em. Smoke whatever you got if you got it. I'm very open-minded that way.

Okay. Done with your wine? Your smoke? Your break? Beating your meat? Good. It's time to assemble your braciole and tie them up. Yep. It's almost time to put those meaty turds into bondage. First, a light dusting of salt and pepper on your beaten meat. You know how much salt and pepper you like to use on things. That's how much you're going to use.

Next, spread a bunch of chopped/minced garlic on your beat meat. Don't be shy. Spread more than you think you need. It's garlic. It's good for you, remember? Then, grab a handful of chopped-up parsley and spread it on the meat. Parsely is good for you too. It's good for your digestion and it keeps your breath fresh. You might need some breath freshening after eating lots of garlic. Parsley is flavorful too. So put
more than you think on the meat. The parsley ain't going anywhere once it's tied.

Now, grab the meat at one end with your fingers from both hands and start rolling it up tight, like a jelly roll. Roll it as tight as you can. When you're done making your beat-meat jelly roll, take some string and start tying it up. Tie it tight! It's bondage, not tying your shoes. When you're putting something in bondage by tying it up,  you don't tie it loose. There's no one, single, correct way to tie
braciole by the way. Do the best you can. Be creative! Get kinky! Tie them up good. Make sure they're not going to wiggle out of their bonds. And do not, I repeat, DO NOT use toothpicks to hold them together. Toothpicks are for your teeth and maybe some other things but they're not, I repeat NOT, for holding braciole together.

You done tying? Your bracioles should look something like the uncooked braciole in the picture below. Maybe not that fancy, but you get the idea. And no Granny knots! You don't want people having a hard time trying to untie their braciole at the table! Especially, while they're drooling because they want the braciole in their mouths so badly.

Heat some olio d'oliva in a big, cast iron, frying pan. What? You don't have a cast iron frying pan?  Shame on you. What kind of cook are you? Not the best, obviously. How much olive oil should you use? I don't know. Enough but not too much. Figure it out.

And don't overheat your oil! It will burn! Olive oil burns at a lower temperature than some other cooking oils. You want to use a cooking oil that doesn't burn so easily? Use peanut oil. But not for this! That's for Chinese cooking and this definitely ain't Chinese cooking even if Marco Polo, a long-ago Italian of renown, went to China and (supposedly) brought back macaroni. You want Marco Polo? Play it in a swimming pool.

Put your braciole in the heated oil. You're going to turn them often while they're cooking. You're going to brown them up nice. You're not going to burn them and you don't have to worry about cooking them all the way through because they're going to be simmering in your sauce/gravy after they come out of the pan. That's where a lot of the cooking of the braciole takes place! In the sauce. The longer they simmer in the sauce/gravy, the more tender and melt-in-your-mouth they're going to be and the more the garlic and parsley flavors will permeate the meat. (You didn't think I knew big words like "permeate" did you? I don't. But I have a thesaurus.)

When your braciole are browned up nice and they're done, don't toss your oil! You can use it to brown the sausages and the pork you're also going to put in your sauce/gravy. (If you haven't done that already.) You might even use it for your meatballs too. What's a Sunday Sauce/Gravy without meatballs? A failure, that's what. And a disgrace.

By the way, when you're done browning all your meats (whatever order you browned them in) you can then dump most of the oil but you're going save some of it and you're going to scrape all the little bits of meat, burnt or not, left in the pan. Then, you're going to put it all into the sauce/gravy. That's probably why some people call the sauce “gravy.” Because actual gravy, like brown or turkey gravy, is made similarly with the meat juices and bits of meat. But those gravies also use flour or corn starch to thicken them and you're not going to let flour or corn starch anywhere near your red tomato gravy/sauce!

Side Note: If you temporarily lose your mind or you've already lost it, and you're tempted to make a brown gravy with the pan drippings from frying up your braciole, two words come to mind: heresy and blasphemy. And let me add this as something to consider: If you make a brown gravy with your braciole, they really are going to look like turds in bondage. Yeah. There's an image you probably don't want in your head. Again, just saying.

After your sauce/gravy is done, and I hope you let it cook a long time because the longer the better, you're going to pull your meats out of the pot and put them in a separate bowl. But you're not going to untie your braciole! Let your people untie their own braciole. That's half the fun of eating braciole. Releasing them from bondage. The bracioles are so grateful for you untying them, they make themselves taste even better!

Alright. I trust you made pasta for your sauce/gravy. Personally, I like spaghetti, rigatoni, shells, and ziti. But not all at once. Sometimes I like to make hats. You know what hats are, don't you? In Italian, they're called Orecchiette. It's from the Italian words, orecchio and etto, which means ear and little. So, they're
"little ears." But we call them hats, not ears. Hats sounds more appetizing than ears. You've probably heard someone say, "I'll eat my hat." It's and old saying. So, hats and eating have a long history of being things that go together. But not ears and eating! You ever hear someone say, "I'll eat my ear." Probably not. Besides, eating ears sounds like something the French would do along with their snails and frogs.

Okay! It's time to eat your braciole and all the rest of your incredible, traditional, Italian-American Sunday Sauce/Gracy meal. And remember: Italians eat their salads AFTER the main part of their meals, not before. Why? What are you stupid? Because the salad helps your digestion (roughage and all) and the vinegar helps prevents agita, a.k.a. heartburn. If you still get agita, make sure you have the blue bottle handy. What blue bottle? Oh please. Brioschi of course.

Buon appetito!