About the Idiom

The saying, "food for thought," means something is worth considering or taking seriously. A metaphoric saying that relates digestion of the stomach to mulling an idea over in one's mind, this idiom dates back to the early 1800s but has origins as early as 1500.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Christmas Cookie Trays

Even though Italians are not big dessert aficionados, they love cookies, and they make plenty of them. Italian bakeries in Italy and America are filled with cookies of every description-thin crisp waffles, fried chocolate-filled fritters, twice-baked anise cookies, light almond rounds, sesame-coated fingers, diamond-shaped marzipan, chew macaroons, tiny balls of honey, soft  ladyfingers, fig-filled pouches, pignoli-studded rounds, sugared puff pastry bows, fig bars, and cream-filled puff pastries-all of which are known as biscotti, the Italian name for cookie.

Visitors to an Italian household would rarely arrive without a box of cookies to present the hostess. Wedding guests were often given little boxes of cookies as favors. And on special occasions, especially on Christmas Eve and Christmas day, dozens of these little morsels would be piled high on a silver tray and garnished with tinsel, candied almonds and pastel corkscrew-like candies. There were so many varieties on the tray that they were usually ordered from a nearby bakery and seldom made at home. Most families, however, made some cookies. notably pizzelles, macaroons, struffoli, and anise biscotti.

Pizzelles are lacy doily-like wafers with an addictive anise flavor. They are made using a special iron and are very much a holiday treat. They come out of the iron soft and harden as they cool,  which makes them easy to shape into cones or cups to be filled. But they are wonderful alone and certainly need no filling.

 Stuffoli are tiny balls soaked in honey and formed into different shapes. At Christmas time, most families build trees out of the balls and then sprinkle the tree with different colored sprinkles to give a festive holiday look to the tree.

Macaroons are made of coconut or almond paste, and while both are soft and chewy, the flavor of each is very different. Macaroons have an slight indent in their centers in which to put a nut or maraschino cherry. At Christmas, it is traditional to center them with red and green cherries to give them a holiday feel.

The twice-baked cookies are the biscotti we see so often in the grocery stores and coffee shops. They are traditionally flavored with anise and have anise seed sprinkled in the batter. The batter is formed into a loaf, baked, cooled, and then sliced and placed back in the oven to brown and harden.  Many Italian homes keep a towel-covered pot filled with them in one of the cupboards so they will stay hard. Their anise scent permeates the house the entire season, and you can always see someone snitching one to dunk in milk or wine.

 The Feast of La Vigilia

Christmas is known around the world as a day of feasting and overindulgence. But Italians take the holiday to another dimension. They celebrate Christmas Eve as well. While most families are rushing to finish up last-minute Christmas preparations, Italian families are gathering together for a festive Christmas Eve dinner—a fasting feast. An oxymoron you might say. Well, it may be, but there is really no other way to describe the Italian Christmas Eve dinner.

It is a fast, first of all, because the Italians honor the belief that La Vigilia—the vigil of the birth of Christ—is sacred. And, much in the centuries-old Catholic tradition of abstaining from meat on Friday and certain holy days, only fish is served. But it is a feast just the same, as the table is laden with a bounty of fish dishes—traditionally seven, nine, or twelve—although three, four, thirteen and as many as twenty-one fish dishes have been known to grace a Christmas Eve table. There is no set number, and every family has its own preference.

Each number of fish dishes prepared signifies something, although its significance is speculative and varies among regions and families. Three dishes are said to honor the Holy Trinity; four represent the gospels. Nine signifies the number of months Mary was with child. Eleven represent the Apostles without Judas; thirteen include him. The most common number is seven, which has given the celebration its popular name, The Feast of the Seven Fishes. The significance of the number seven, however, runs the gamut.

The most popular explanation is that seven signifies the seven sacraments of the church. But it is also thought to stand for the seven virtues, the seven deadly sins, the seven days of creation, the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit, the seven utterances of Christ on the cross, the seven hills of Rome, the seven pilgrimages, and even the seven wonders of the world. Who knows? There is no consensus, nor does any Italian family care. You might say that each Italian family serves as many dishes as it can afford—or even as many as will fit on the table. But, regardless of the number of dishes, the ritual of Christmas Eve has been handed down from generation to generation and serves as a living connection to a centuries-old tradition.

In Italy, the types of fish served mostly depend on availability, and the menu varies with each province. Traditionally, however, the dinner always includes baccala, eel, smelts, anchovies, scungelli, and calamari prepared in a variety of ways—in a salad, stuffed with ricotta cheese, broiled, simmered in a tomato sauce, or breaded and fried. Here in America, the menu often follows family traditions that have been handed down from the old country. But as life changes, so do customs, and new generations are putting a new bent on the traditional dishes. Today dishes that incorporate all the fish into one dish—such as a stew or cioppino, a paella-type rice dish, and even a mixed seafood salad—are finding their way onto modern tables.

The staple of the meal is pasta, sometimes prepared with oil and garlic and set alongside the fishes so each person can incorporate the fish with the pasta or have the pasta as a side dish. Or it is sometimes prepared with clams, mussels, shrimp and lobster and served as a separate course. Vegetables such as broccoli rabe, eggplant, spinach, and zucchini round out the meal. And stuffoli, pannetone, pizzelles, and biscotti lend a little treat at the end.

There are few holiday traditions as bountiful as the Christmas Eve feast. Virtually any and all kinds of fish make an appearance, and preparing for the dinner can take several days. A daunting task, no doubt, but still anticipated by one and all. It is an event, not just a meal. It is a tradition that beckons family and friends to gather together, unwind, and visit. It is an important part of the rich and varied Italian culture. Celebrated by most Italians, whether they live at home or abroad, it is a tradition that helps Italians them remain close to their heritage. 

3.28.10

Life as we knew it was forever changed after my mother died. And none of us was ready for the change. We muddled through the rest of the year, my sisters and I poring ourselves into school, Dad frantically trying to find himself, our home incessantly empty and quiet. Even though everyone had made it their favorite pastime to set Army up with a “nice girl,” no one found one that seemed to suit him. And then he met Roz.

            At first, we were thrilled when Dad began dating her a few weeks after the new year.  She appeared to be a very fastidious, well-spoken, well-dressed woman who could provide Dad with some well-needed companionship.  And we were happy to leave it at that.  But he wasn’t. All too soon he became smitten. Completely enamored by her. Totally consumed by her. He did what she wanted to do. Went where she wanted to go. Associated with the people she preferred. Her every desire became his command. They became inseparable. And we became resentful.

            So, it was no wonder that we were not happy when Dad insisted that we have Passover Seder at her home in Northeast Philadelphia. It was, after all, Holy Week, and this was going to infringe on our Italian Easter observances. Worse yet, we had come to think of her as a manipulator, and we were sure her holiday would overshadow ours. But, in deference to Dad, we went grudgingly, totally unprepared for what was to come.

            As usual, she looked as if she had stepped out of a bandbox. Designer attire. Carefully manicured nails. Perfectly coiffed hair. Diamond rings dotting her fingers. Gold bracelets dangling from her wrists. And it was obvious that she had tackled the usual Passover cleaning with a passion. Her house sparkled, as did the china, crystal, and silver reserved for these special meals. Every room was filled with French antiques that had been polished to a high gleam. And the imported figural lamps and figurines looked as though they had been cleaned with a toothbrush.

            But it was the dining room that totally astonished me. A wide array of macaroons, cheesecakes, and chocolate delicacies graced the sideboard along with an epergne of fresh fruit. And on the dining table was the traditional Seder plate surrounded by chopped liver with herbed matzo and a huge fish that she had diligently boned and stuffed with the traditional gefilte fish mixture. I stared in amazement and disbelief as I realized that the middle leaf of the dining room table was missing, which virtually divided the table into two distinct and separate sections—each set with different china, crystal, and silver.

             “This is a very high holiday, Army,” Roz began to explain, “and all of my other guests are Kosher. They cannot share a table with you and your daughters during the Seder, so I have prepared a separate area for you.”

            It took us hours to devour that meal—miniature cabbage rolls stuffed with beef, spring asparagus with a lemon sauce, salmon filets prepared with white wine and tarragon, tiny meatballs with a sweet and sour sauce, potato pancakes with dried apples, boneless lamb leg infused with herbs, baby artichokes with drawn butter, roasted game hens with a matzo mushroom stuffing, French green beans with mushrooms. But although the food was delicious and had obviously been a labor of love for Roz, it was the most laborious meal we have ever had to agonize through.    True to form, though, Roz was the consummate hostess, effortlessly pouring wine, serving course after course, and speaking back and forth between the tables—Yiddish to her Kosher friends, English to us. Dad—never one for keeping his opinions to himself—paid no heed to the work that must have gone into preparing the meal, let alone the feat of constructing that amazing gefilte fish, as he nonchalantly announced—

            “Roz, your gefilte fish would really taste much better if you would use something other than carp. Carp eat off the bottom of the river and have a muddy, mushy flavor. Why don’t you get a nice large sea bass?” Bass are not scavengers and would make a much tastier gefilte fish.”

 

12.22.09

I am leaving Wednesday to spend the Christmas holiday with my daughter and  grandchildren in Virginia. They have just had a heavy snow storm, and I am anxious to enjoy a white Christmas once again. I miss Virginia and the white canvas of snow that covers the countryside this time of year. It reminds me of the Christmases of my childhood in New Jersey.

 

 

I love living in Florida, but I don't think I will ever get used to the moderate temperatures here at Christmastime. I long to head home. And this time I can, although that wasn't the case in 1960 when I moved to California. My husband was a new college graduate with a stipend to study there, and with precious little disposable income we had no hope of returning home for the holidays. I tried to get into the spirit of a California Christmas but, although we were there for eight years, I really never did get used to it. Somehow the image of Santa Claus in a palm tree didn't conjure up fond memories of my childhood. And I hated the thought of rearing a child without the white Christmas I so loved. I yearned to go home.

 But since it was out of the questions, I wanted to have a wonderful Christmas and continue practicing the traditions anyway. So I tried everything I could think of to make our holiday celebrations similar to those we had back home. But it was just too hot and dry. Christmas trees shed their needles before they were hauled from the lot. Garland strung outdoors turned brown in little more than a day. The Santa in the department stores wore shorts. But regardless of the obstacles, I set out to create our own Christmas in California.

I  was hell-bent on keeping the traditions, but I knew there was no way I could recreate the Ciccotelli holiday celebrations. There was no way I could replace the family and friends who would fill my grandmother's home.

 

 

The food that was a never-ending affair. Grandpop beginning each meal with a toast that commemorated his success as a tailor and  businessman:

Here's to those who have old clothes

And have no wives to mend them.

 

The many hours of preparations, eating, drinking, singing songs, telling stories. The women, aprons finally removed, sitting around the table reminiscing about the day. The men playing poker well into the night.

 Yes, I knew I couldn't recreate that atmosphere. But I did know that I could create the dinner—the escarole soup with tiny meatballs, the turkey and dressing, the mashed potatoes and gravy, the fresh cranberry sauce and the star of the meal—the homemade ravioli.

Ravioli has been the mainstay of our holiday dinners as long as I can remember. Making the ravioli was and still is the prime activity on Christmas afternoon. It has always been a major production as many generations of hands join in to roll out the dough, spoon out the filling, form the little pillows, and seal their edges with the tines of a fork. No age group is exempt, and children are commandeered from the moment they can sit on a chair and reach the table. I think I was about four or five years old when I first helped "fork" the ravioli, and I was a mere eight years old when my grandmother first let me make the dough.

 "Measure out two eggs to each cup of flour—no salt, no water," my grandmother instructed. "Put the flour on the counter and make a deep well in it. The well should be deep enough to hold all the eggs, but just deep enough so that the eggs will reach the top. That way, you will know you have enough eggs for the flour and enough flour to drink up all the eggs. Use your fingers and start to blend the eggs into the flour, but be careful not to break the well or you will have eggs all over the floor."

 

 

I worked and worked, but it seemed as though the eggs and flour would never come together. My hands were full of sticky flour. “Rub some flour on your hands until they are clean and then knead the dough until it forms a ball. “Impastilo fino a che non sia liscio e lucido come bambino dietro. Knead it until is is as smooth and shiny as a baby’s behind,” my grandmother would coax.

 

Once the dough had passed inspection, I set it under an over-turned heavy earthenware bowl in order to keep the dough moist and prevent it from forming a crust. I then let the gluten rest, and after an hour or so climbed up on a chair to get my grandmother’s black iron macaroni machine and all its attachments from the cupboard. Then I fastened the machine to the countertop, placed its wooden rollers in their proper slots and attached the hand crank. Removing the dough from under its earthen bowl cover, I carefully kneaded it once more, cut off a piece, flattened it on the flour-dusted countertop, and put it through the wooden rollers several times, tightening the tension knob with each pass, until the dough was stretched into a long thin rectangle, ready for the ravioli filling.

 

 Throughout my childhood I anxiously waited for Sunday when I could once again help my grandmother make the dough. I loved to feel that silky pliable ball come to life in my own hands and watch as the steel cutters of the macaroni machine magically produced picture-perfect “homemades.” And, as I grew older, I never got over the satisfaction of making my own dough. Over the years, I have had many trials and tribulations, but never did I stop the tradition of making ravioli on Christmas Day, not even that first Christmas in California.

 We had only been in California a few months and didn’t know very many people, so I made the ravioli for just the three of us that first year. But it wasn’t the same and, anxious to share this tradition, I invited my boss and his family to join us the next year.

   It was very hot, so I made the ravioli early in the morning before the heat of the day set in. I covered the finished the ravioli (too many, I thought) with a tablecloth so they wouldn’t dry out and filled a huge pot with water.

 

 

Once my guests had arrived, I turned on the burner under the pot and joined them for drinks on the patio while I waited for the water to boil. Everything was going well until I went into the kitchen to cook the ravioli. When I lifted the tablecloth off the ravioli, I gasped. My beautiful ravioli had softened, spread, and stuck together in globs. “These are ruined, I said to myself, shuddering at the thought. “What am I going to do now?”

 “It's a good thing I made too many ravioli,” I thought as I gathered my wits. I was rattled, but I refused to become daunted by the situation, so I went into the living room and asked everyone to follow me into the kitchen where I handed each of them an apron. “The ravioli got too warm, spread out and stuck together,” I apologized. “But I made plenty, and  I think I can save some of them if I cut out every other one. You can help me by putting flour on the ones we save and resealing each of them with a fork. They agreed, and we all got to work, finishing our evening with delicious ravioli served by candlelight—the hosts and guests of honor still sporting remnants of flour as we toasted Christmas in sunny California.

 As we all came together that day, so has my own family come together for more than fifty years—my daughter, who began to help when she was about four, and all of my grandchildren who were so eager to help that they needed a high chair to reach the table. Although we make the ravioli at my daughter’s house now, that’s the only thing that has changed. Christmas Day will still find us singing and laughing as we all get together to roll, cut, fill, and fork the much-anticipated ravioli. My grandchildren—the fourth generation of my family to have been born in America—are grown now, and two of my grandsons are married. I hope their wives are beginning to get caught up in the excitement of our tradition. It is my fondest wish that it keep alive for many more generations.

 

Merry Christmas, everyone!

About the Idiom 

The saying, "egg on my face" means to have done something that embarrassed you. There are two possible origins, both of which date from the 1950s. The first could be a sloppy eater whose face had a lot of food left on it, and the second may be a performer at whom the audience threw eggs. Both would have been embarrassed.

 

 

Ravioli Filling

This is the ravioli filling we have been using for the six generations our family has been in America. The dough, as outlined in the story above, is two eggs to a cup of flour, no salt, no water. Knead the dough until smooth and shiny. A half cup of flour per person will yield enough ravioli to have a few left over. This recipe will fill about 100 ravioli, which is the number we make each year.

1 pound very lean ground beef

3 pounds whole milk ricotta

3 eggs

1/2 cup grated Locatelli romano cheese

1/4 cup chopped parsley

Salt

Freshly ground pepper

Put ground beef in a skillet and sauté until brown. Drain completely on paper towels, making sure no grease is left on the meat. Set aside to cool. Meanwhile, put ricotta, eggs, and cheese in the bowl of a mixer. Mix on medium speed until well blended. Add parsley and mix in well. Season to taste with salt and freshly ground pepper.

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12.09.09

My mother’s kitchen was very different from my grandmother’s. A creative woman with a flair for the latest in design, Mother enlarged the kitchen by tearing down the wall into the breakfast room, adding bright linoleum on the floor and painting the cabinets a trendy salmon color. Then she set out to fill the kitchen with every new appliance. She was the first to have a chest freezer, an electric “mixmaster”, a pop-up toaster, a pressure cooker. Her kitchen drawers were crammed full of every imaginable new gadget—a plastic syringe to baste a turkey, a wire contraption to slice a hard-boiled egg, an implement to peel and core an apple, a macaroni machine to roll and cut the dough in one step.

Washing Washing Dishes in My Mother's Kitchen, 1954

The kitchen was her habitat. Except for the few hours she spent knitting in the evening, she was in the kitchen conjuring up food with which to fill the freezer in case “company comes.” Which it always did. Our house was continually filled with people, and the freezer stood at the ready cramped with plenty to feed them.

How I longed to be able to cook as well as she. So I stayed by her side, watching, questioning, mimicking. Always anxious to teach, she allowed me to experiment at every opportunity. “I’m going shopping. Why don’t you put this roast in the oven?” “Here’s a recipe that should be easy for you. Why don’t you try it?” “Dad and I are going out for a while. Why don’t you cook dinner?” I always took the challenge and, at first, it was always a disaster. But she was always there to bail me out of my mess. However, one day while they were gone, I attempted to make my first batch of cookies. I was ten years old.

I measured the ingredients meticulously, carefully leveling off the dry ingredients with a knife. That was the easy part. Measuring the solid shortening, however, was not so easy. Biting my lip and working diligently to get every little air bubble out of the measuring cup, I managed to measure the correct amount of shortening, cream it together with the sugar, add the eggs and, finally, add the liquid. The mixture looked a little bland, so I added a full bottle of blue food coloring to the dough before dropping spoonfuls of it on a cookie sheet and putting the little rounds into a much too-hot oven. The atrocious cookies that resulted were the brunt of my father’s jokes for years. Burned around the edges, the rock-hard little nuggets had turned a sickly green from the combination of blue food coloring, heat, and yellow egg yolk. “Angela, you really should patent this recipe,” he jokingly said. “You have found the secret to tinted concrete.” Mortified, I became determined to overcome his ridicule, and worked diligently by my mother’s side to improve my techniques. My reward came with Christmas cookies that year.

Baking cookies was a major project in our household for a month before Christmas. My mother made batch after batch of cookies, both for the family and friends. But she made only one kind—traditional spritz cookies that she put through a press—until she discovered Aunt Chick’s unique and unusual three-dimensional cutters. Mom had seen these cutters, the brainstorm of a food columnist in Tulsa, Oklahoma, advertised in one of her women’s magazines and, true to her penchant for having the newest in kitchen gadgets, she ordered them in time for Christmas cookie-making season that year. It was 1948. 

I don’t think we were completely prepared for what came in that parcel post package. There were four adorable red plastic cutters—a Santa, a star, a tree, and a stocking full of toys.

And along with the cookies was  recipe and two pages of detailed instructions on how to roll them, cut them out, and mold them—one at a time! “It’s only three weeks until Christmas,” I exclaimed when I saw the instructions. “We’ll never have time to make enough cookies for us, let alone for everyone else you give them to.” Undaunted, Mother set out to read the detailed instructions, excited at the prospect of having such different cookies come from her kitchen.

Remnants of the Instructions Received in 1948

As expected, making them was neither a quick nor easy task. The recipe was straightforward and the technique quite traditional: sift together flour, salt, and baking soda; cream sugar and butter and add eggs and vanilla; combine mixture with dry ingredients Mother, an accomplished and experienced baker, mastered the dough on her first try, but making the cookies was another story. There were four separate steps of trial and error: figuring out the exact amount of dough that would make one cookie without too much waste, rolling the dough to the precise thickness to result in a cookie with defined features, pressing the dough into the mold properly so that it could be released easily (the Santa took two steps here), and slapping the cutter on the counter with enough pressure to release the dough without breaking the plastic cutter. We wasted a whole batch of dough before we conquered the technique.

Once the first sheet was baked, we were hooked. The cookies were beautiful and delicious and unusual, and we knew that, no matter how time-consuming or difficult, we would make them every year.  

 

The cookies became a Christmas tradition, and the thought of not making Aunt Chick’s cookies has been unheard of in our family for four generations. I first inherited the cutters (yes, the same ones) when I got married.  When my daughter was old enough to help, we made the cookies together. She then inherited the cutters (yes, the same ones again) when my first grandchild was born. As each grandchild became old enough to help, they joined in with us.

But, alas, by the time we had been using those same plastic cutters for nearly thirty years, they began to crack and even to break, and we couldn’t find a source for replacing them. So, we used glue and scotch tape to try to hold them together, and gingerly pressed the dough into them and gently slapped them on the counter, hoping another crack would not form or another corner would not fall off. But it seemed inevitable that these cutters were going the way of no return and that this tradition was not going to live much longer.

That is, until I searched the internet a few years ago and was lucky to find that Aunt Chick’s granddaughter had resurrected the molds, was manufacturing the cutters, and had begun to market them. Needless to say, I ordered several sets. I gave one set to my daughter that first Christmas, just in time for cookie making, and put the rest away. This year, two of my grandsons, who were recently married, will receive them as stocking stuffers in the hopes that they will continue this tradition and propel it into a fifth generation.

About the Idiom

The saying, "full plate ," means that you have a very busy schedule, many activities, or a great deal to cope with. The expression originates from the first of the 1900s and refers an overloaded dinner plate to a lot to get done.

 

 

Spirited Holiday

Mincemeat has filled the holiday air with its spicy scent for centuries. While Its origin is  obscure, it is believed that it was first made during the Crusades, when exotic spices were brought from the East by knights, and that it became an integral part of the holiday season by the middle of the 1600s.Thought to bring good luck, this rich mixture graced every table,  and it became the custom to eat one pie a day between Christmas and Twelfth Night.

America began its love affair with mincemeat in the 18th century, introducing a  commercial mincemeat in about 1885. Early in the 20th century, teetotalers replaced the spirits with cider, and the meat was eliminated by vegetarians. The Italians, true to form, added pine nuts and marsala wine to the mixture in an effort to make it their own.

Thanksgiving is the perfect time to make mincemeat as it must be aged for at least a month.  Traditional mincemeat calls for finely minced boiled meat to which chopped  apples, raisins, currants,  suet, brown sugar, cider, brandy, rum, nutmeg, mace and cloves are added. Substituting a substantial amount of fruit for the meat makes an equally delicious yet different mincemeat. But nothing can replace the alcohol. Whether brandy, rum, or marsala is used, some type of liquor is necessary to assure a perfectly melded whole.

 

11.19.09

Thanksgiving never fails to bring a flood of memories to my mind. It’s no wonder. Among our family events, holidays were the most important and, among the holidays, Thanksgiving reigned supreme. It ushered in the Christmas season, the most wonderful time of the year for us. It was a time when rituals were created, memories shared. A time for drawing together our family and friends. A time for feasting and spirited toasting.

By the time the fourth Thursday of November arrived, the Ciccotelli household was bustling with activity. Friends and family gathered from far and near, and there wasn’t a day when my grandmother’s house didn't overflow with the family, relatives of the family, friends of the relatives’ families, and friends of the relatives’ friends. Everyone was welcome. It was so exciting for us children. We couldn’t wait for the next group to arrive. They showered us with affection. And we basked in their attention.

Four Generations of Family Around the Dining Room Table

My grandmother had three tables in her home—in the dining room, the breakfast room, and the kitchen—and every one of them was always filled. The food was a never-ending affair. Thanksgiving carried with it no religious mores or Italian traditions, so it allowed a bit of deviation from our usual holiday menus. Still, the dinner table groaned with a resplendent spread of family favorites: antipasto of salami, pepperoni, anchovies, assorted cheeses, olives, marinated artichokes, and roasted peppers; a salad of mixed greens with a simple oil and vinegar dressing; roasted turkey complete with stuffing, mashed potatoes, roasted yams, sautéed zucchini and squash, flat green beans with oil and garlic, giblet gravy, and cranberry sauce.

GramMom Bringing the Turkey to the Table

And, as if that wasn’t enough, some type of pasta always preceded the salad: a lasagna of homemade noodles layered with ricotta, mozzarella, and romano; cannelloni or manicotti stuffed with ricotta and ground meat; baked rigatoni or ziti tossed with Italian sausage and cheese; or those glorious potato gnocchi, slathered in gravy and served with meatballs (yes, in addition to the turkey). And every meal also promised bowls of fresh fruit, nuts, and our favorite Italian pastries—crisp cannoli shells bursting with sweet riccotta, pizzelles and biscotti rich with anise, mincemeat tarts redolent with pine nuts and marsala—and a wide selection of aperitifs, wine, and cordials not for the faint-hearted.

But the first year I was married, I found myself at a stressful Thanksgiving with my new husband’s family. Suffice it to say that they were not happy with us. He was a freshman in college. We had eloped in October. And we broke the news to them the night before Thanksgiving. Still, they made a herculean attempt to be hospitable, even though I know it must have been an insurmountable task for them even to be civil.

 

But my mother-in-law made every attempt to reach out to me. “Why don’t you help me with the stuffing by dicing these vegetables?” she said matter-of-factly as she handed me some onions and celery. A bit daunted by the sheer volume of the vegetables, I began to chop and fill two Dutch ovens—one with the celery and the other with the onions. To each of these, she added a stick of butter, topped each with a lid and put them on the stove over a medium flame. “These need to simmer until they are translucent and their juices have melded with the butter. In the meantime, let’s cut the crusts off this bread and cut it into cubes.” When she handed me two loaves of unsliced bread, I conjured up the nerve to say, “This is such a different proportion of vegetables to bread than I am accustomed to.” “Ah”, she replied. “Just wait; you’ll see.”

 

When the vegetables were barely tender, she took them off the stove, added the bread, and gently tossed them together, seasoning the mixture with nothing but salt and pepper. Then she set the mixture aside. “Let’s clean the turkey while the stuffing cools,” she said. Once the stuffing was room temperature, she tasted the mixture, adding a bit more salt and pepper. She then spooned it into the turkey, trussed it up, and put it into the oven to roast. We spent the rest of afternoon preparing the trimmings and waiting until the turkey was golden brown.

 

Everything was about that household was foreign to me. My in-laws were dressed to the nines—he in a jacket and tie, she in a dress and high heels even though she was cooking. And it was so quiet. The only sound to be heard was the muffled voice of the football game announcer on the living room television. There were no children running around the house, no men playing poker under the cooks’ feet, no adults clamoring for a story-telling spotlight, no raucous songs sung in loud voices. And just six of us—not thirty—sat down to a table set with “Sunday best” china. The modest menu was typical of America in the 1950s: turkey with stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, jellied cranberry sauce, frozen lima beans, mashed turnips, buttered Brussels sprouts, and a relish tray of celery and black olives—no groaning board here. There was just one pumpkin pie for dessert, and the only drinks in sight were apple cider and grape juice.

 

Not expecting much, I was astonished at my first taste of the stuffing. Mostly vegetables, it was light and fluffy, so unlike the heavy bread-laden stuffing of my youth. “This is so delicious,” I exclaimed, not having tasted anything like it before. “I must admit I was a bit skeptical while we were putting it together.” “I know,” she replied. “I have been getting that reaction for thirty years, ever since my husband Ed’s Aunt Katherine shared this recipe with me. She had a beau who was a chef. This is the same stuffing he served at the Waldorf Astoria.”

 

That was 1956, and I have made this dressing every year since, even while I owned Willow Grove Inn. But what a change it was to prepare it at a restaurant where we often served more than 100 guests. The first Thanksgiving, my sister had come up with a unique idea that she named Have Your Turkey and Eat It Too where we offered a  dinner that featured a whole turkey served to each table. Our thought was to make the setting much like going to a family member's home for a holiday dinner—tables set with beautiful linens, antique china, crystal and sterling silver—and to provide an unrushed, elegant, yet friendly atmosphere for each family.

 

The Willow Grove Library Set for Thanksgiving Dinner

 

Customers ordered their turkey by the pound, and we often found ourselves cooking from 20 to 30 turkeys—not an easy feat. Even though we had a commercial kitchen, we had only two ovens. And since each held at most four medium or two large turkeys, we had to perform somewhat of a juggling act to get them cooked properly and served hot.  As a result, we kept our heads above water by concocting a detailed schedule for each turkey the day before, putting the first of the turkeys in the oven at midnight, and starting to cook the gravy and side dishes at the crack of dawn. It was a long day, so full of hustle and bustle that we almost never had a chance to sit down and enjoy dinner ourselves.

 

Though we were exhausted at the end of service, we were also elated. Our guests had loved everything. Loved being seated at a table set with antique china just for them. Loved being served a whole turkey that they carved themselves. And loved taking their leftovers to have at home the next day.  The Have Your Turkey and Eat It Too idea became so popular that many of our guests returned year after year, making it their own family tradition to have Thanksgiving dinner at Willow Grove. And, invariably, they always asked if we would include an extra portion of Aunt Katherine’s dressing. 

 

Antique Staffordshire Makes a Lovely Thanksgiving Table

 

Recipe for Aunt Katherine's Stuffing

About the Idiom

The saying, "from soup to nuts," means that you have completed a task from the beginning to the end.  Its analogy refers to the first and last course of a meal, and the idiom has appeared in slightly different forms from the 1500s.

 

The Fall of the Mighty

Really more a legume than a nut, chestnuts have long been a major source of food. They are mentioned in the Bible and referenced, to mention a few, in works by Homer, Shakespeare, Whitman, Wordsworth,  and Frost.  They have been favored for centuries in the cooking of Asia, Greece, Germany, Spain, Portugal, and Italy,

And, once known as the king of trees, the chestnut played an important source of food for Americans as well. Tasty and nutritious, the glossy brown nuts from these trees played a major role in the rural eastern economy. Families depended on harvest gleanings of the chestnut produce flour, make desserts, and fatten livestock.

Suddenly, the American trees began to blight. In the early 1900s, Asian chestnut trees imported as nursery stock carried a deadly fungus. Our native trees were very susceptible to the organism, and the lethal fungus—spread by rain, wind, birds, and animals—entered the bark of virtually every chestnut tree in America. Limb by limb they started to die, and within the course of a few years, they were gone. Today, only a handful of trees remain as a reminder of the great chestnut empire.

But there is hope. In the past few years, there has been a resurgence in the effort to develop a chestnut that is blight resistant. Ongoing research projects by the
American Chestnut Foundation are dedicated to restoring the American chestnut to its former place in our forests.

Both delicious and healthy, chestnuts are very low in fat and easily digested. Boiled, baked, or roasted, they add texture, color and flavor to the most simple dish. They can be eaten like vegetables, made into soufflés, stuffed into game, made into pasta and dumplings, paired with fruit or chocolate for an elegant dessert, or ground into flour to make bread and pastry.

But perhaps they are the most delectable when simply roasted.  And, soaked in red wine, they make a warming dish to share with friends on a cold fall evening. An example of nature's perfect timing, wine and chestnuts are wonderful complements to each other. The richness of the chestnut meat is a perfect baffle to the surprising undeveloped flavors of the fresh wine—the sum of the two being far greater and more rewarding than either alone.

 

11.04.09

It's hard for me to believe that I have neglected to write a post for three weeks now. Well, I hope it won't be hard for you to understand.  I was out of town for a week and caught a bug that kept me sick for a week when I got home. But the fact remains that October has come and gone, and it is already the first of November.  Were I now at Willow Grove in Virginia, I would be busily preparing for our annual Chestnut Festival, which we began in 1990 at the nudging of Edna Lewis when she spotted the chestnut tree in the back of Willow Grove.

Edna Lewis by the Chestnut Tree at Willow Grove

My friendship with Edna Lewis began serendipitously when we planned an event at Willow Grove to commemorate Thomas Jefferson’s 250th anniversary. A famed chef and cookbook author, Edna Lewis, often dubbed "the grande dame of southern cooking, was a legend in her own time. She was born in Orange County, and her birthday was April 13, the same as Jefferson’s, so we took a chance and invited her to be guest of honor at our event. She agreed, and after that she would visit us at  Willow Grove whenever she returned to Orange to see her brother and sister. Hour upon hour, she would stand by our chefs in the kitchen, quietly coaching and coaxing while she shared with us so many of her culinary secrets.

It was on one of these visits that she spotted Willow Grove’s rare chestnut tree. “Angie, you have a chestnut tree!" she exclaimed to me one day. "No one has a chestnut tree these days.” Frankly, I hadn't paid attention to such a tree. I was not aware that inside the spiny green balls that fell off the tree were chestnuts in hiding. 

Chestnuts from the Willow Grove Tree

Except for the imported chestnuts my family bought from Italian stores and those sold by vendors on the streets in Philadelphia during the holidays, I had not been subjected to chestnuts. But when she said, “We'll have to work on some recipes to bring the virtually unknown chestnut into the forefront of Southern cooking once again,” I was immediately inspired. We began researching and testing recipes. Her ideas were endless.

We created a mushroom and chestnut tart, experimented with chestnut risotto and ravioli, stuffed Vidalia onions and portabella mushrooms with a chestnut mixture, added chestnuts to our venison terrine recipe, made a chestnut sauce for our homemade fettuccine, developed soups and salads made with chestnuts, added chestnuts to every vegetable imaginable, created a chestnut spaetzle and a chestnut cream. And, as if that weren’t enough, we enhanced our tried-and-true main dishes and desserts. Duck breast, trout, sweetbreads, bison steaks, salmon, quail, goose, tenderloin and lobster all took their turn with some chestnut concoction. Cakes, pies, puddings, soufflés, and candies were enhanced with chestnuts in some form.

Edna in the Willow Grove Kitchen

Then one day Edna announced, “I think we should have a Chestnut Festival to celebrate the harvest of your chestnuts this year. We have enough recipes that we could prepare an entire dinner where every course will feature chestnuts. And all from your tree.”

My Italian heritage quickly took hold. In Italy, the first taste of fall brings together  chestnuts and wine. The chestnuts, harvested during the early weeks of October, are carefully stored to await the release of the first new wines in early November. Then, as the leaves begin to fall, the natives get their first taste of the wine paired with the autumn chestnut crop. According to custom, the chestnuts are roasted, peeled and dropped into a glass of the Novello. As the wine is sipped, the flavors and aromas of the earthy chestnut mingle on the palate with the fruitiness of the new wine, creating a unique sensation.

The fun-loving Italians have used this tradition as a reason to hold festivals throughout Piedmont Italy. From village to village, crowds gather for the annual chestnut festival, where chestnuts are roasted over blazing fires. And the celebrations begin—chestnut market fairs, chestnut tastings and costume parades, folklore fairs, and fairs combining chestnuts with other dishes. And there is always the Novello to enhance the celebration. In many villages, neighbors compete to see who can provide the best allegorical representation of the grape harvest. Town squares become alive with music , floats, and performers in fancy costumes, providing street theater at its finest.

Festival-goers buy bags of nuts and glasses of the new wine. Rushing the chestnuts from the fire, they slough off the shells and drop the chestnuts into the glasses of red wine. As they enjoy the festivities, they sip the wine and then partake of the wine-soaked nut, which is sweet and meaty, tasting of the forest and sweet hay. Fritters, made of the sweet chestnut flour top off a perfect day.

Remembering this, I said, “We could follow the tradition in Italy’s piedmont and have our own Novello Festival. After all, Willow Grove is smack in the center of the Virginia piedmont, Virginia has newly fermented wines, and we have a bountiful chestnut tree." Pairing this with Edna's chestnut recipes and my Italian heritage seemed a natural beginning for a Novello festival with overtones of the old South. So, Edna, my chefs, and I began developing menus.

And the first Willow Grove chestnut festival was born.  Keeping with tradition, the festival began with everyone roasting chestnuts, peeling off their blackened shells, dunking them in the new wine, and savoring the mealy centers of the earthy chestnut with the flavors of the fruity new wine. Breaking away from the Italian tradition of a Novello street fair, we offered a seven-course dinner to continue the extravaganza. Each course was paired with a Virginia wine and each course featured chestnuts—game consommé with chestnut spaetzle, Chesapeake crab and chanterelles in chestnut crepes, mixed field greens with chestnut-peanut vinaigrette, grilled quail with chestnuts and wild raspberries, roasted pork loin with orange-persimmon-chestnut chutney, and a sampler of Edna’s desserts: chestnut cake, chestnut and blood orange compote, chocolate chestnut truffles.  The Virginia winemakers were on hand to talk about the wines and, of course, Edna was always there to participate in every stage of the food preparation and celebration.

Edna Holding Court with the Willow Grove Chefs

The festival was such a success that we continued it for more than 10 years. But then, how could it not be? Chestnuts, wine, and camaraderie blend well, and we had them all. A Novello made by a Virginia winery. Chestnuts grown at Willow Grove. And the friendship of Edna Lewis and her entire family—her brother  George, her sisters Ruth and Naomi, her niece Nina.

Many times, at the end of the day, Edna and I would sit together in the tavern at Willow Grove—she with a glass of Jack Daniels and I with a glass of wine—as she shared with me her eloquent tales of days gone by.  I miss those days, as she, along with Willow Grove, are gone now. And, although I don't see Ruth and Nina  much since I have moved to Florida, I keep in touch with Nina by email and hope she will enjoy this little story about her Aunt Edna and will send it on to her Aunt Ruth.

 

Recipe for Edna's Roasted Pork Loin with Chestnuts

About the Idiom

The saying, "eating humble pie," means that you have behaved in an unacceptable way and that you are apologetic. Its origin comes from medieval times when humble pie (or umble pie as it was known in medieval England) was a dish made from entrails that was served to lower classes and servants.

 

Soup by Any Other Name

Here in the U.S. as in Italy, once the long hot days of August and September are far behind, and the cool nights of October and the rainy, sometimes snowy, days of November begin to unfold, things begin to heat up in the kitchen. And visions of soup immediately come to mind. While the name soup has many connotations—some thin, clear broths and some so thick and hearty they could be classified stews—all  of them have one thing in common. They reflect the very region in which they are made. Regional and local habits and climates determine which ingredients work well together. Recipes  vary from home to home. And the ingredients invariably consist of what is readily available.

Italy, soup, and minestrone are probably synonymous to everyone in the U.S., although minestrone as we know it is probably very different from that made in Italy. Literally translated as “big soup,” minestrone is basically a concoction of beans, pasta, and  vegetables that  have been added to a broth. But it is only one of several popular soups with Italian heritage that are popular here today.

Brodo is a clear base soup made of fish, meat, or vegetables to which delicate ingredients such as thin noodles, pastina , rice, or cheese may be added at the end of cooking. A good example of this is stracciatella, Italy’s version of egg-drop soup. The name comes from the rag-like shards that form when a mixture of eggs and cheese is added in a thin stream to a rolling pot of good chicken broth. The result is a delicate soup that is elegant enough to preclude the most formal dinner. When spinach or escarole leaves, and even tiny meatballs, are added to the broth prior to the egg-cheese mixture, the dish becomes a popular hearty first course to many holiday dinners in Italian households.

A  zuppa is a semi-liquid consistency rendered by cooking meats, fish, shellfish, seafood, herbs, and legumes and thickened by pouring the liquid over bread that has been grilled or toasted in the oven. Zuppa may often contain meat or vegetables, but it rarely contains pasta or rice. Lentil soup and split pea soup are two common zuppas that come to mind, although it is not unusual to find the lentils paired with small pasta rather than bread. More often, however, the zuppa is poured over the bread and allowed to sit until the bread begins to sop up the soup’s juices.

Chunky bits of meat, vegetables, and legumes added to a brodo result in a minestra, a thick, hearty soup.  Usually a combination of the vestiges of the season, a minestra will sport such ingredients as fresh peas and asparagus in the spring, corn cut from the cob and fresh tomatoes in summer, squash and wild mushrooms in the fall, and heavy root vegetables such as potatoes and turnips in the winter. The addition of pasta or rice to the minestra results in a type of minestrone popular here in the U.S. Pasta fazoli, an even more hearty minestra, is a very common plebian dish that has now become gourmet fare in many restaurants in the U.S.

And, although made specifically to dress pasta, a ragu—or what we called gravy in our family—is, in the strictest sense of the word, a very hearty minestra. Fashioned from meat and vegetables, and served over pasta, it was often combined with beans or peas to make a hearty soup at the end of the week.

So warm your heart and soul as you warm your kitchen. Raid the refrigerator, the freezer, the pantry and concoct a pot of homemade soup. You will have a treat that was well worth the effort.

10.08.09

My grandmother’s kitchen was big—really huge for the times. Towering white metal cabinets held a wide array of cooking paraphernalia—blue agate roasting pans, seasoned black iron frying pans of all sizes, huge aluminum pots for cooking spaghetti and gravy. The drawers were full of wooden forks and spoons, many of which were worn, scorched, and bent from years and years of use. The white formica counter tops held metal canisters, bread boxes, and cookie tins, all hand-painted with rooster and fruit motifs. Colorful aprons, potholders, and kitchen towels hung on hooks on the black and white tiled walls.      

Against one wall, in front of the white enamel and black iron gas stove, was a rectangular chrome table with a red porcelain top on which my mother, much to the family’s dismay, had diligently scratched everyone’s name. It was here that we ate our daily meals. It was here the women in the family spent most of their time. And it was here that I learned to cook.

 There was always something on the stove in my grandmother’s kitchen, although it was TuTu, my great-grandmother, who always did the cooking.  And, except for the Italian pear tomatoes used to make gravy for spaghetti, she used only fresh foods or those she had diligently “put up” the previous year. She had several vegetable “victory” gardens, so at the end of the summer there were always fresh tomatoes ripening in windowsills, pots of bitter greens sautéing on the stove, green beans longing to be snapped, sweet peas waiting to be shelled, and gleaming Ball jars waiting to be filled and stored.

On most days, TuTu would prepare some kind of meat with a tomato base—garlicky meatballs for spaghetti, cubes of tender veal shoulder for spezzato, fat Italian sausages full red pepper and anise, a braziole stuffed with herbs and cheeses, just-slaughtered chicken for cacciatore—all served with some kind of macaroni. But on Monday, soup always replaced the pasta, although pasta was invariably in every soup. And there were as many different soups as there were pastas—minestrone with vegetables and ditali, penne with beans, shells with peas, lentils with elbows, chicken with egg noodles or pastina, beef with vegetables and rigate, crab or fish with egg bows. I loved to sit by my great-grandmother’s side as she prepared to make the soup—no simple task.

An all day-affair, the process began with her waking early in the morning and rolling her long salt-and-pepper colored hair into a large bun. She put on her black high-top oxfords and lisle stockings, pulled on a printed housedress, and tied an apron around her portly middle. Then she would head to the kitchen long before the rest of the house awakened. There she would search the refrigerator for the weekend’s leftovers—the carcass from a roasted chicken, newly shelled peas or lima beans, a few pig’s feet, a handful of noodles—which she used as her base for the minestra. Or lacking that, she would begin with a fresh chicken or piece of pork or beef. But whatever concoction she dreamed up, she had the hands and the heart to transcend the sum of the parts into a glorious whole.       

But it was on Sunday when TuTu’s cooking acumen really showed through. To me, the very essence of Sunday was the aroma from that huge pot of gravy wafting through the air as we walked through the door after Mass. It signaled Sunday dinner. And, to this day, the scent of tomatoes perfumed with sweet basil and pungent garlic epitomizes Sunday morning.

In our family, making gravy on Sunday was an inexorable ritual. Preparations began early in the morning and all the women in the house were summoned to help. Each was given a task on which she focused with meticulous care. This was not a time to experiment or cut corners. Every step in the process was sacrosanct. None was to be compromised or omitted. The ensuing gravy had to be nothing less than sheer gastronomic perfection. It was the test of each woman’s culinary merit. It was the backbone of our Sunday dinner. And it was the basis for many dinners the rest of the week.

The first—and most important—step was to remove every trace of skin and seed and to simmer the tomatoes until they were no longer acidic but, rather, sweet to the taste. There was no way, in my great-grandmother’s mind, to salvage gravy if the tomatoes had not been cooked properly. Large pieces of beef, pork, and veal sautéed in garlic and olive oil while the tomatoes cooked. It was imperative that the meat be sautéed at the same time the tomatoes cooked so that the garlicky drippings could be added along with the tomato paste. Otherwise, my great-grandmother would insist, “il sugo otterrà il patè, the gravy will be pasty.” Only after the tomato paste and drippings were blended thoroughly did she add the sautéed meat along with coarse salt, freshly ground pepper, romano cheese, sautéed garlic cloves, chopped fresh parsley and, when in season, fresh basil. Never did she use oregano. “Ll'origano è per pizza, non spaghetti, oregano is for pizza, not spaghetti," my great-grandmother would chide. “Only women too lazy to cook their tomatoes put oregano in their gravy.”

Preparation complete, the pot of gravy was set on a back burner to cook for hours. During the cooking process, I would follow TuTu into the kitchen and watch while she stirred and sampled the contents of the pot. “Prenda un gusto. Take a taste,” she would say as she handed me a wooden spoon filled with the aromatic brew. How delicious. I was eager for a piece of Italian bread sopped in a sample. So, when she shook her head and put the lid back on the pot to signal it was not ready, I was so disappointed that I stupidly asked her, “Just how long will the gravy have to cook?” Thoroughly impatient with me, she replied, “Fino a farlo esso. Until is is done.”

But when it was finished, it was time to eat. And there was no fooling around once the spaghetti water was boiling. Everyone was warned that the spaghetti was being dropped into the water. And everyone immediately gathered around the table. Except Papach, that is. He would still be in the basement, tasting wine from the barrels. A Sunday ritual as well, he would spend several hours, tasting the red, the white, the mix, the acgua until he heard my great-grandmother call, “Domenico, Domenico,” from the top of the basement steps. “La cena è pronta. Arrivare al tavolo, puzzadron. Ma in primo luogo lascilo li sentono fischiare. Dinner is ready. Come to the table, you stink pot. But first, let me hear you whistle.”

She was certain that if he could whistle he would not have had too much wine. We children would snicker and giggle as he approached the table and, unable to blow air through his pursed lips, would sheepishly reply, “Il mio Louisa bello. Come amo il mio Louisa bello. My beautiful Louisa, how I love you, my beautiful Louisa.”

Recipe for TuTu's Chicken Minestra

About the Idiom

The saying, "forbidden fruit," means an object of desire whose appeal is the direct result of the fact that it cannot or should not be obtained or something that is tempting even though it is potentially dangerous, illegal, or morally unacceptable. The term originates from the Garden of Eden Bible story and alludes to Adam and Eve's violation of God's commandment not to touch the fruit from the tree of knowledge. It appeared in numerous early English proverb collections.

Early Winemaking Attempts

Early colonists were crushing native grapes for wine as early as 1609, but they found their results less than acceptable. Hoping to grow grapes that would produce European-style wines, they began importing grapevine roots from France. 

At the time, England was pressuring the colonies to produce a quality wine, and in 1619 the Virginia House of Burgesses passed Acte12, which was the first of many legislative efforts to require planters to grow grapes for wine. While knowledgeable planters generally felt that native vines could be cultivated from European root stock, their attempts were generally unsuccessful. Unaware that their failure was due to delicate European vines that couldn’t thrive in climates with cold winters and humid summers, most experienced planters stopped experimenting by the late 1700s.

Thomas Jefferson, however, was unwilling to give up. He offered Italian landowner and farmer Philip Mazzei 2,000 acres adjoining his Monticello on which to grow vines. But Mazzei had little success and returned to Italy. Undaunted, Jefferson continued to pursue his experiments, but it is doubtful that he ever produced a drinkable wine.

By the1800s, cross-pollination by bees of European and American grapes had resulted in hybrids that exhibited the finesse and complexity of the European grape along with the hardiness of the American variety. Wine production in Virginia began an upswing that peaked just before the Civil War. Unfortunately, few vineyards survived the war. Then in 1880, just as Southern counties were voting to prohibit alcohol, California wines began to flood the market, and by 1914, when the country outlawed alcohol, very few Virginia vineyards remained. Attempts to plant grapes after Prohibition were unsuccessful, and expertise in grape growing and winemaking virtually disappeared until 1970 when a few modern pioneers planted a small number of French hybrid vines that began a new era of wine production in Virginia.

 

10.01.09

Today, as I sit at my computer in Florida, I am longing for Virginia. It is early fall. The harbinger of the harvest. And the thought of the faint chill beginning to develop in the Virginia air, coupled with the fiery-red evening sky and smoke from wood-burning fireplaces, makes me nostalgic. I can picture the hills and mountains that will soon be bursting with color. The maple trees that will show off their russet and gold leaves The wild grasses that are boasting their magnificent sand-colored plumes. And the beautiful mums and asters that are lending the last bit of color to the garden.

It is a time when everyone in Virginia is busy. Golden fields are overflowing with hay to be baled. Foods are ripe for curing, smoking, preserving. The best of the fall fruits—apples, pears, cranberries, pomegranates, pumpkins—are at their peak. And the last of the crops stand ready for harvest.

The vineyards are no exception. They are a hub of activity as the huge job of the harvest begins. And this requires a Herculean effort. Everyone is on guard. The day’s warmth beckons them to enjoy a picnic lunch and some of last year’s vintage rather than toiling in the fields. But the threat of an early chill hastens them to the vineyard—many times at midnight—to set the smudge pots in fear of losing the entire year’s production. At all cost, the crops must be saved. So everyone works through the night, harvesting the ready grapes and keeping safe from the harsh autumn winds those that need a few more days to ripen. The result is well worth the effort. For soon, the harvest will be over, the wine will be made, and everyone will gather for informal seasonal celebrations at which the wine will play a starring role.

Winemaking brings back fond memories of my childhood. Wine was a major part of every dinner and celebration in our home. And my family made their own wine—even during prohibition days. Our garage held a wine press that Papach, my great-grandfather, had fashioned out of railroad ties, and our basement walls were lined with barrels full of wine. Every October Papach crushed the grapes, made several types of wine, and stored them in barrels in the basement. A gentle, robust man with white hair, rosy cheeks, and a hearty laugh, Papach was a devotee of his wine and wouldn’t think of having a meal without it. It was a daily ritual for him to gather the day’s ration for our dinner. Each afternoon, with his pipe in his mouth and a twinkle in his eyes, he would take his battered aluminum pitcher and head for the basement where he would taste wine from the barrels before selecting his choice for the day. The major difference, however, was that we lived in Camden, New Jersey, and Papach did not have a vineyard. Nor did he harvest the grapes from a nearby vineyard. Instead, Papach got his grapes from a huckster.

Yes, a huckster. In those days, a huckster delivered just about everything to our door—bread, breakfast cakes, milk, butter and eggs, fruits and vegetables, meat and poultry, fish, sodas, and beer. We even had a man who came to our door to sharpen our knives and scissors. What a pleasure it was to wake up in the morning to find fresh farm eggs, cold milk thick with cream, and a loaf of hot, crisp Italian bread waiting on our back steps. Or to run out to the huckster’s truck filled with fresh peaches, blueberries, cantaloupe, asparagus, lima beans, spinach, tomatoes, eggplant, zucchini—all just picked from a nearby Jersey farm. We children loved the peddlers and knew every one by name. They, in turn, knew and loved every one of us. At the first sound of their bell, their yell, their individual call, we would run into the street, anxious to climb onto the back of the wagon and hitch a ride.

The neighborhood friends never knew the excitement we felt. Most of their parents owned their own stores, so they bought most of their supplies from each other and, for the most part, the peddlers were an accepted “rarity” of our household. Their arrival usually went unnoticed by the neighbors, although there were times the huckster raised particular attention. Especially when he was delivering grapes to my great-grandfather.

Papach would make it a point to walk out and meet the huckster when he arrived, personally hand-picking through the grapes on the wagon until he was satisfied with his selection—five boxes of Zinfandel, twelve boxes of Muscat, twenty-five boxes of black and red Alcante. Only the best would do. The huckster would then dutifully haul the boxes of grapes to the backyard and place them in the garage where the wine presses stood for the ready.

One day, after witnessing the huckster delivering grapes to our house several times, the neighborhood policeman approached my great-grandfather. “Mr. Pulcinelli,” he said, “we really didn’t know what to expect when you Italians moved into our neighborhood. We have been very surprised at many of the things you do, but the thing that surprises us the most is how much fruit you people eat.” 

 

Recipe for Muscatel Poached Pears

About the Idiom

The saying, "in a pickle," means that someone is in a quandary or some other difficult position. The phrase stems from the imagined difficulty of being stuck in pickling liquid. Although the phrase was known in Dutch by 1561, Shakespeare appears to have used it first in The Tempest in 1611.

Marsala Wine

Marsala is a fortified wine, meaning that hard liquor—namely brandy—is added to the wine while it is in the cask. This addition of brandy halts the fermentation when the residual sugar reaches a pre-determined level. The result is enhanced flavor and shelf life. Unopened, Marsala can last 100 years. And while the flavor of an open bottle of Marsala will deteriorate over time, it will last several months if kept in a cool, dark place.

Named for the town on the west side of Sicily, Marsala is crafted from local, indigenous grapes. The Grillo, Inzolia, and Catarratto grapes are the most popular for making white Marsala; ruby Marsala is made from a  combination of local red grape varietals such as Pignatello or Nerello Mascalese. Much like Sherry, Marsala is a blend of vintages, processed by a system called perpetuum where a series of different vintages are mixed together.

Marsala is classified according to color, sweetness, and age. Oro has a golden color, Ambra an amber color, and Rubino a ruby color. Secco has a maximum of 40 grams of residual sugar per liter while sweet has more than 100 grams per liter. Marsala can be classified from Fine (less than a year old) to Stravecchio (aged at least ten years in oak.  Alcohol content of a Fine is 17 percent or less while a Superiore Riserva has an alcohol content of at least 18 percent.

Traditionally served as an aperitif, Marsala lost favor as inferior Italian vintages were produced. Today, while Marsala is still known and loved as a cooking wine, Italian designations have improved and Marsala is beginning to regain its place as a dessert and aperitif wine.

 While Fine and Superiore Marsala are still mainly used for cooking, semi-dry Riservas are an accompaniment to sweet desserts, and dry Vergines are being served as aperitifs. Vergines, which are made only with Grillo grapes, are a  delicious with gorgonzola or some other soft, strong cheese spread on bruschetta. Marsala is also used in some risotto recipes and to produce rich Italian desserts such as zabaglione and tiramisu.

 

 

9.23.09

Sorry to be late writing this blog, but I am still reeling from the excitement, ambiance, and emotion of a reunion I attended last week. A reunion of the company I joined in the 1960s. One that has been out of business since the mid-1980s.   

I know that this may be hard for many of you to comprehend, but nearly 75 old friends and colleagues came together to recall memories of a company that was in the forefront of the development of a major portion of our country's infrastructure.  A company that set the standard for professionalism and interpersonal camaraderie.  A company that shaped our careers, our ethics, and our lives.

Having just moved to the Northern Virginia suburbs of Washington, D.C., in 1968, I landed a job with Alan M. Voorhees and Associates, a company that was setting out to form the foundation of our transportation system, as well as that of countries throughout the world. And it did just that. But along the way, it also fueled and shaped the careers of an entire professional community.  I was fortunate to have been part of it. Fortunate to have a  group of remarkable individuals as my mentors. And fortunate to have made friends that have lasted a lifetime.

Alan Voorhees was a pioneer in urban and transportation planning, having developed a mathematical transportation model in the 1950s that is still the standard used today. A master in his field, he was also a master motivator. He successfully gathered together a unique group of individuals who led and inspired a cadre of bright professionals to continue his legacy through firms of their own today.

We all worked hard in those early days of AMV, spending long hours at the office, traveling to out-of-town projects, bringing work home to meet a deadline, attending meetings during lunch hours. But with all the hard work, we always found time to socialize.

And so it was that we planned this get-together, not only to pay homage to this marvelous man, but to pay tribute to the achievements he inspired in us all.  Colleagues traveled from the far ends of the U.S. and even Europe to be part of this unprecedented affair. Hosted by one of the company vice presidents and his wife at their lovely home on Kent Island in Maryland,  we spent the time eating (fabulous food, by the way), drinking, talking, and laughing. We even  took boat rides, played games, sang songs, and marveled at our host's magnificent model train display. But mostly we told stories. About the places we had been. The people we had met. And the fun that we had had. My story is, of course, about food.

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Transportation wasn't the only thing changing in Washington during those days. The culinary scene was also changing. As was entertaining at home. Dinner parties with friends became elaborate. More complicated dishes were offered. And the hostess who mastered a particularly difficult dish was given jealous kudos. We were competing in somewhat of a culinary one-upsmanship.

Not to be upstaged, my cooking began to take on a more exotic flair. The AMV staff, who was traveling all over the world, brought back culinary ideas and trends. And I began experimenting with new dishes. Exploring new cuisines and tastes. Seeking some of the diverse ingredients that were being introduced into the Washington area. And I began honing my entertaining skills. There soon wasn’t a Saturday night that I wasn't entertaining dinner guests.

Needless to say, I was anxious to have my boss and a few other company vice presidents for dinner. Once they accepted I excitedly came up with a menu. I knew they all liked, and expected, Italian food. And, knowing the perfectionists they were, I knew the dinner had to be spectacular. But, since I worked long weekdays, the menu had to be simple enough that I could clean house, shop, cook, and get the party ready in a few hours on Saturday.  I decided on veal marsala with homemade fettuccine and a big, beautiful salad. This was something I could partially prepare ahead and get on the table quickly once my guests arrived. I would make the dough before shopping. Roll out the fettuccine when I returned. And cook the pasta and sauté the veal just before serving.

Things on Saturday went according to plan. I was exhausted when our guests arrived, but the house was sparkling, the table set to perfection, and the dinner ready except for last-minute details. After a few cocktails, I excused myself to get dinner on the table while my husband offered our guests another round. I sautéed the veal, making the marsala sauce as the fettuccine cooked. Once the salad was mixed and the bread out of the oven, I put the veal, fettuccine, and bread on the table.

Just before calling my guests to the table, I went to the kitchen to get the salad. But, as I was putting the salad on the table, I tripped and the salad went tumbling to the floor. I stood there horrified, wondering what I was going to do. I was entertaining the top executives of the company. The salad was a third of the meal. I had no ingredients with which to make another. And there was no time to go to the store. I took a deep breath and did the only thing I knew to do.

I picked up the salad, put it back in the bowl, placed the bowl on the table, and beckoned to my guests. “I have just given new meaning to the term tossed salad,” I mused. “I just tripped over the dining room rug and all the salad fell on the floor. I don’t have any ingredients to make more, so I put everything that wasn’t touching the floor back into the bowl. Please feel free not to eat it if you’d rather.”

Recipe for Veal Marsala
 

About The Idiom

The saying, "apple of my eye," means that someone is in a quandary or some other difficult position. The phrase stems from the imagined difficulty of being stuck in pickling liquid. Although the phrase was known in Dutch by 1561, Shakespeare appears to have used it first in The Tempest in 1611.

Balsamic Vinegar

Derived from the French term, vin aigre, meaning sour wine, vinegar is not always made from wine. Virtually any liquid containing sugar and starch can be made into vinegar. The process occurs naturally when bacteria come in contact with alcohol and transform it into acetic acid. And, while vinegar has been around for more than 10,000 years, it has only been during the past several decades, that specialty vinegars have come on the market. Developed to complement the mainstays—white cider, wine, and malt vinegars—they provide a special or unusual taste when they are added to foods. Favorites in the gourmet market are, among others, rice, raspberry, chardonnay, and balsamic.

Considered  liquid gold, balsamic vinegar has been prized in Italy for centuries and valued as far back as medieval times for its healing properties. Through the ages, fine balsamic vinegars were  given as special gifts, considered heirlooms and even made part of a bride’s dowry. Although wealthy Italians have been producing balsamic vinegar for more than 1,000 years, it has been commercially available for only the last 40 years or so. And it has only been in the past three decades that it has been discovered by American cooks.

Balsamic vinegar is made with an entirely different process that begins with the must, unfermented juice from whole grapes, including skins, seeds and stems, that are cooked and reduced to a dark syrup. This syrup is then aged like fine wine in wood barrels, the type of which produces a distinct flavor to the vinegar. As the vinegar ages, it reduces naturally by evaporation through the barrels. The longer the vinegar ages, the thicker the liquid, more concentrated the composition, and more complex the flavor, making the older vinegars highly prized and even higher priced.

A fine balsamic is such a perfect combination of sweet and sour that it can be drunk like wine and is a wonderful complement to cheese, ice cream, duck, and other dishes. All genuine balsamics are made in Modena and Reggio, which have caves that are conducive to the aging of the fine vinegar. They are carefully regulated in Italy, however, due to the popularity and price of fine balsamics, many imitations have sprung up. A true balsamic will have “grape must” or balsamic on the label. If it doesn't it probably is  generic red wine treated with flavorings.

 

9.13.09

 

My grandfather was a handsome, jaunty man who wore nothing but hand-tailored clothing. A slight five foot six inches, he had a ruddy complexion, thinning grey hair, and eyes that always flashed a mischievous twinkle. He was meticulous about himself in every way and was always flawlessly groomed. I remember his impeccable taste in suits—worsted wool in winter, gabardine in spring, light-colored flannel or linen in summer—coupled with highly polished wing-tipped or spectator shoes. Very self-assured in most things, he was a bit self-conscious of his short stature. Consequently, he rarely left the house without donning elevator shoes and a fedora that somehow gave him a confidence that contributed to his perky walk and outgoing smile.

Trained as an apprentice tailor in his native village of Tollo, Italy, he was unrelenting in his quest for excellence. This gained him a reputation as the premiere tailor in Philadelphia and led to the success of his neighborhood tailor shop. He became so successful in his tailoring business that every clothing manufacturer in Philadelphia wanted him to make their coats. And everyone he knew wanted to work for him. So as the contracts poured in, my father, my uncles, my aunts, the Philadelphia relatives, and his paisanos, compares, and comares all joined him, and the business expanded to more than 300 employees. Never one to compromise quality for quantity, he held all his employees to his high standards, no matter who they were. Following each coat through every step of the process, he checked that the material was cut so that the patterns would match exactly when sown. That seams were opened and pressed before they were joined to another. Collars felled so that they would lie in a gentle roll around the neck. Sleeves set so that their seams and the side seams of the coat would look continuous. Buttonholes stitched at perfect right angles to the front of the coat. Buttons sown by hand with enough stitches to assure a sturdy bond. And loose threads cleaned completely at each stage, not just when the coat was complete.  He made such an impression upon me that still today I match patterns—even when I wrap a gift—and I cringe at garments that are now made with no attention paid to matching the patterns.

 I adored him. And I sat by his side incessantly whenever he was around. I loved watching him wink at me as he bit into an apple. Listening to his laughter as he filled his wine glass. Hearing the walnuts crunch as he cracked them with his bare hands. I never missed an opportunity to join him when he had breakfast—always a cup of rich dark coffee with cream, a thick slab of fresh Italian bread, and two eggs broken into a glass of cold milk. My eyes would follow the raw eggs as they flowed in a thin stream into his open mouth, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as the nasty concoction slithered down his throat. I watched him in amazement, never giving a thought about cholesterol or salmonella.

Grandpop  had a small garden directly outside the kitchen where he grew basil, oregano, rosemary, parsley, garlic, dill, fennel, and chives—the very essence of a good Italian kitchen—alongside daisies, marigolds, and fruit trees.  But it was my grandmother, not he, who tended the garden, gathered up fresh flowers for the table, and snipped enough fresh herbs to accompany the day’s larder. My grandfather wanted nothing to do with gardening. Except for doting on his prized fig tree, that is.  And, as with everything he did, he tended that with perfection—carefully feeding and pruning it in the spring and, before the first autumn cold snap, judiciously wrapping it in burlap to protect it from the New Jersey winter.  The result was well worth his effort, and we were all rewarded with juicy plump figs from the onset of warm days until the sharp days of fall settled in.


We ate those figs every chance we had, and the feel of that fuzzy skin against my tongue and the taste of that sweet crimson flesh will be forever imbedded in my mind. How I loved them any way they were served—wrapped in salty proscuitto, under a slice of mellow gorgonzola, partnered with bitter escarole and drizzled with a vinaigrette, drenched in heavy cream, soaked in sweet muscatel wine.  They served us as appetizers, salads, and desserts. But mostly we enjoyed them hot and soft right off the tree.

 I can still picture Grandpop today, standing next to his tree, eyes twinkling, as he carefully picked the figs one by one. “Qui, assagi la dolcezza di questo fig bello. Here, taste the sweetness of this lovely fig.” he would encourage as he handed a fig to each of us. Of course we never said no. He was the boss. His word was law. Everyone waited for his approval. Nothing began or ended without him. Dinner was served when—and only when—he arrived at home. The spaghetti was not dropped into the pot until he was sitting at the table. The roasted meat and salad were put on the table only when he had finished his spaghetti and his dish was cleared from the table.  

He sat at the head of the table, demanding the best from each and every one of us. Everything we bought, everything we ate, everything we wore had to measure up to his scrutiny. Sometimes it did. Sometimes it didn’t. And when it didn’t he was not happy. He had a keen eye, a sense of pride, and a discriminating taste. He expected the best, but never more than he expected of himself. And this stayed with him all his life.

He was adamant about being the first to arrive at the factory and the last to leave. No one started work before him. No one left after him. And so it was on the last day of his life. Rushing to get to the factory one snowy morning, he had a massive heart attack. We were all devastated, expecting the worst. My sister rushed to the hospital to assess the situation, having been told he was in an oxygen tent and could not speak. As she walked in the door, he opened his eyes and looked at her. ”For God’s sake, Lexy,” he said with labored speech, “you don’t have any buttons on your coat.”

Recipe for Grandpop's Duck and Fig Salad

About the Idiom

The saying, "the way the cookie crumbles," means that this is just the way it goes, that things don't always turn out the way you think they will. One of its origins is the French saying, "c'est la vie" or "that's life."

 

Pound Cake

The first pound cake recipe seems to have been written by Hannah Glasse in Art of Cookery published in 1747. It called for a pound each of flour, butter, eggs, and sugar, with the eggs providing the only liquid. In those days when many people couldn't read, this simple convention made it simple to remember recipes. Cupcake is another food of this genre. It wasn’t until the mid-1800s that liquids were added and sometime in the 1900s when baking powder was introduced. These later refinements, including white refined flour, make for a lighter, but still somewhat dry, poundcake.

Duncan Hines changed all that with the introduction of the 1234 cake published  in the Duncan Hines Dessert Book in 1955. Probably based a cookie recipe published in The Canadian Home Cook Book, compiled by the Ladies of Toronto and Chief Cities and Towns in Canada in 1877, the combination of one cup of butter, 2 cups of sugar, three cups of flour and four eggs produces a slightly chewy cookie-like product. Duncan Hines adjusted the recipe by adding baking powder, vanilla, salt, and most important, separating the eggs and folding in egg whites, which resulted in a more tasty, moist, yet still dense product.

But it seems the homemade cake has fallen on disfavor.  Since the advent of cake mixes in the 1940s, people have been hesitating to make cakes from scratch. And, if they do, they now resort to substituting strange ingredients—vegetable sprays, non-fat shortening, sugar-like chemicals, whole wheat flour, egg beaters, skim milk—for the pure ingredients they fear are unhealthy. Why bother? None of these substitutes adds to a cake’s texture, flavor, or appeal. Instead, the result they produce is no better than the bland, tasteless, puffy, dry, products found on grocery shelves today.

Treat yourself. Take time to make a homemade cake. Use the real thing. Resist the temptation to succumb to those who disdain the wonderful ingredients of nature. Then glaze your cake with icing or merely dust it with powdered sugar. Slather it with chocolate sauce. Top it with fruit, nuts, or ice cream. Indulge. Eat it with pleasure. The smallest slice will satisfy your soul.

 

9.06.09

Tomorrow is Labor Day. It is also my daughter’s birthday. What a bittersweet time Labor Day represents. Sorrowfully, it signifies an end. The end of summer. The end of vacations. The end of summer romances. But happily, it also signifies a beginning. Another autumn. A new school year. A time to make new friends. And so has it been throughout my life—a bittersweet time of both sadness and joy.   

At first, Labor Day was a day of joy.  It was the time we would go back to Camden. I missed my friends, and I wanted to go home. From the time I was about 13 and my parents stopped renting homes at the shore and started spending the summers living on the boat, I hated being there. I was so embarrassed that we were living on a boat that I never invited anyone to stay with us. I was lonely and couldn’t wait to get home.

My mother had no patience with my disdain. She loved living on the boat. It was a time when she had little responsibility. A time when she could relax. And a time when she could entertain with little fuss. She was not one to travel around. She didn’t drive, so when my father was back in Camden, she stayed on the boat, knitting, visiting with friends at the yacht basin and fixing her favorite dishes. She really loved those days, as the boat was her private haven. It was her special time. She had many friends at home, and it wasn’t long until she had made even more friends at the yacht basin. It seemed everyone she met had a boat. And it seemed they all lived on their boats.

Dad’s schedule at the factory was very consuming, so he was happy to be at the boat with no constraints. Nothing was expected of him. My mother doted on him, and they spent the entire weekend doing nothing but eating, drinking, fishing, and puttering around the boat. So our summers became days filled with planning parties for the weekend when my father would arrive at the end of his workweek.

The parties were the best times. Especially those that ushered out the season on Labor Day. A yearly ritual for as long as I can remember, the parties lasted the whole weekend and involved the entire yacht basin. But it was my father and mother who orchestrated the affair. Mom always shopped for the last of the summer’s tomatoes and peaches and prepared her baked beans, potato salad, and coleslaw when Dad arrived on Friday evening, huge beef and pork roasts, kegs of beer, good Philadelphia rolls, a cooler filled with dry ice and Breyer’s ice cream, and several of Mom’s pound cakes in hand. Everyone’s favorite—and the cake my mother made for every birthday, anniversary, religious affair, funeral, and any other life milestone you could imagine—it was not your typical pound cake. A very moist yellow cake with a somewhat coarse texture, it was so delicious it could just be eaten warm right out of the oven. But it was also wonderful topped with powdered sugar, served with fresh fruit, or frosted with buttercream.  Mom always kept a freezer full of them as she made several at a time and froze all but the one she was going to serve. So Dad never failed to raid the freezer and bring several with him.  

After setting a huge bonfire in front of the bulkhead, Dad would skewer the meat and set it on to roast, basting it through the night while the beer flowed steadily. By Saturday afternoon, everyone was feasting on sandwiches of Italian rolls filled with succulent meat dripping with juices. And by evening, with the bonfire glowing, everyone was singing songs and dancing in the moonlight. It was after one of those parties that my mother died suddenly. It was Labor Day. September 5, 1955. She had just turned 38.

Her death was a traumatic experience that totally devastated us. My parents had been high school sweethearts and were very much in love. Dad was inconsolable, unable to comprehend what had happened and why. He became so despondent that it began to affect our home life, and Labor Day began to signify a time of untold sadness for us all.

Many changes occurred during the following year, not the least to mention was my marriage and, a few years later, the birth of my gorgeous little girl on—you guessed it—Labor Day. So, on September 7, 1959, Labor Day turned from sad to bittersweet for me. My little girl will turn 50 tomorrow, and for the last fifty years, we have had many disagreements on when we should celebrate her birthday. I always insist it should be on Labor Day, the first Monday of September. She insists it should be on September 7, her actual birth date. Well, tomorrow, we will both have our way. Her milestone 50th birthday will actually fall on Labor Day, September 7, 2009. And while I can’t be there tomorrow, I will be there later this week and will be sure to bake Mom’s Four-Egg Cake to celebrate, albeit, just a few days late.

Recipe for Mom's Four Egg Cake

 

About the Idiom

The saying, "the spice of life means something that is very interesting--something that makes life worth living. Its origin is from the first century B.C., "No pleasure endures unseasoned by variety." Pubilius Syrus Maxim 406.

 

The Blue Crab

The Latin name of the blue crab, Callinectes sapidus, literally means beautiful swimmer with a savory taste. And this crab, found from the Mid-Atlantic to Florida, does not disappoint. It has a shell that blends brilliant greens, blues, and reds with cream markings, the ability to dart quickly through the water, and a body of delicious, succulent white meat. Most prevalent in brackish waters, the blue crab can grow up to eight inches across the shell and it is one of the most sought-after species of marine life by fishers  in the east. The abundance of the blue crab along with its tenacious and feisty temperament make crabbing a favorite marine activity, and it is estimated that crabbing constitutes as much as 30 percent of all marine sports on the east coast. Much of this popularity is due to the fact that crabbing can be enjoyed by everyone, regardless of age or sex, and that it is a fairly inexpensive family sport. But it is the delicious, delicate white meat that is the actual enticement, and to some, catching and feasting on the blue crab is as  much a part of summer as swimming, sunbathing, or surfing.

 

8.30.09

One of my fondest memories is spending Saturday afternoons in the summer  cruising on our boat along the Delaware Bay and the Inland Waterway—now the Intracoastal. We would set out early in the morning and, more often than not, Dad would anchor the boat and we would go crabbing. It was the children, of course, who did all the crabbing. The adults always sat in the aft cockpit drinking beer, talking and laughing the time away. I didn’t mind. I loved the bay. The water was still. No rolling. No pitching. No seasickness. I could just sit in the sun, listen to the adult conversation, and enjoy watching the boats go by as I waited for a crab to bite.

 Dad would give each of us a line with a fish head and hook at the end—no crab traps for us. That would have been too easy. “It’s more like fishing and lots more fun to crab this way,” he would tell us. “You can feel the crab nibbling at the bait.” 

Fishing was far from my favorite pastime, and I would have much rather had a trap, so I could have used the time to daydream. But line in hand, I joined my sisters as they hopped up on the gunwale and slowly inched the lines overboard. Then we sat, legs hanging over the side, waiting endlessly for the ubiquitous tug of a crab nibbling on the fish head.        

Getting the crab into the boat was no easy matter, however. At the slightest noise or movement, the crab would scurry away. “Don’t yell or the crabs will hear you, and they will jump off the bait,” Dad instructed. “And if you feel a crab nibbling, be very careful when you pull in your line. The crab will drop off if it feels any movement in the line.” How well we knew that. And how many crabs we had lost to over-eagerness. So, feeling a tug, we would motion for someone to poise a net just above the water and then try our best to pull in the line gingerly and nab the crab with the net. Then, with a little luck, our hearts pounding, and hands trembling, we would secure a crab.  

Each crab added to the basket was a major success, and we worked judiciously to fill the basket as quickly as we could. We couldn’t wait for Dad to head back to the dock where he would clean the crabs. It was a lot of fun to watch him as he carefully reached into the basket full of squirming crabs, grabbed one between its claws, and removed its outer shell so that he could rinse the innards off the remaining soft body. “You can’t taste the delicate crabmeat if you cook the crabs with their shell on,” he would say. Or, “the hard shell prevents the crabs from absorbing the sauce, and we wouldn’t want to miss a drop of your mother’s delicious sauce.” But for whatever reason, we always cleaned the crabs before cooking them.

Once the crabs were cleaned and on ice, we all sat down to lunch. Mom always made sure that there was a hefty larder of Italian lunch delicacies on board so it was easy to put together a feast in no time. I still remember those delicious sandwiches:  proscuitto, salami, provolone cheese, and roasted pepper and olive salad piled high on that Philadelphia specialty—torpedo rolls. Luckily we could get the rolls in Wildwood. There was a wonderful Italian baker there who made them just right—a not-too-hard crispy crust with a soft, slightly chewy, yet firm center—perfect. Nowhere else have I been able to find rolls—or bread for that matter—that come even close to those made in Philly.

In the evening, Mom would always prepare a feast with the newly caught crabs. And what a feast it was. Crabs cooked in dry mustard and beer. Crabs cooked in spices. Crabs cooked with garlic and olive oil. Crabs cooked with fresh tomatoes. Crabs and spaghetti. Each a treat in itself.

I can still remember the incredible taste of those delicate crabs—a mere few hours from the bay to our table—and how we enjoyed slurping those luscious flavors from the soft shell surrounding the sweet succulent crabmeat.

Recipe for Dad's Roasted Pepper and Olive Salad

About the Idiom

The saying, "a fine kettle of fish," is a sarcastic terms meaning an unpleasant or messy predicament, alluding that some awkward state of affairs has arisen.  This term derives from the Scottish riverside picnic called kettle of fish, where freshly caught salmon were boiled and eaten out of hand.

 

Weakfish

The weakfish is extremely popular with both consumers and sports fisherman. Found in inshore waters of the mid-Atlantic, the weakfish is one of our most sought-after species. And, like corn and tomatoes, weakfish are a New Jersey delicacy.  Pure harbingers of summer, schools of small weakfish invade Jersey’s inshore waters from the middle of summer through the early fall. These fish range about one or two pounds and are much more delicate than the large weakfish that enter the inshore waters to do their spawning in the spring. Fishermen will often catch the larger fish as sport, only to release them in anticipation of the smaller, sweeter, whiter flesh of the smaller summer fish.

Weakfish are one of the most beautiful fish commonly caught in the New Jersey area. They typically have a dark olive back, iridescent blue and copper sides and a silvery white belly. This variety of colors and spots gives them a likeness to the trout found in freshwater streams and lakes. In fact, they are often known as sea trout, although they are not related to the trout species.

The name was bestowed on this fish because of its mouth, the jaws and flesh of which tear easily when hooked. This presents a challenge for the angler as the fish can easily squirm free of the hook and get away. Yet, despite their name, weakfish are known to battle fiercely when hooked, thus rendering them a favorite of sports fishermen. When caught on tackle, a weakfish can be quite feisty and provide a nice fight for the angler fortunate enough to hook one

A round saltwater fish that is moderately lean with a moist flaky flesh, the weakfish has a sweet mild flavor that makes it an excellent food fish.  Best when eaten fresh, weakfish is a hands-down favorite for broiling, baking, or frying as well.
 

8.24.09

As if we didn’t have enough relatives, my parents adopted their friends as our aunts and uncles. They had a lot of friends at home and soon made many new friends at the yacht basin where my father kept his boat, the Acey.  And it seemed everyone they met joined our ever-increasing family of pseudo relatives. Who could forget Uncle Bob (whose house on the Delaware Bay was a haven for the Acey on our Sunday afternoon cruises) and Aunt Esther (who always had lunch waiting for us when we anchored)? Uncle Eddy (who took us to the drive-in movies on dollar-a-carload nights and sat on the Acey playing Gin Rummy with Mother every afternoon during the week while Dad was working in Camden)? Aunt Jennie (who visited each Sunday with the coveted Italian cookies we devoured in one sitting)? Uncle George (Uncle Eddy’s brother who married Aunt Jenny and whose engineless boat was docked a few slips from ours)? But it was Uncle Batty, my father's life-long friend, who was the most memorable of them all.

Mario Battalana and my father began a more than 70-year friendship when they were in seventh grade. Mario lived in the Italian section of South Camden and took the bus to Hatch Junior High School in Parkside, where they met. He and my father developed such a close relationship that Uncle Batty became omnipresent in our household. A confirmed bachelor, he doted on my sisters and me, lavishing us with gifts. It was he who bought us our first bride dolls. Presented us our first gold lockets. Gave us sterling silver rosaries for our First Communion. A stalwart of emotional support as well, it was he who stood by our sides at our mother’s funeral.

He and Dad were inseparable, whether at home in Parkside or on the boat in Wildwood. Nothing would keep him from joining any boat ride or fishing trip. Not even his chronic seasickness, which manifested itself no matter how calm the sea or even whether he was on a boat at all. Many were the times when he stood on the dock and turned green watching the boat roll over a passing vessel's wake.

Never to let this get in the way, Uncle Batty was always ready to have a good meal—and to prepare it as well. Many were the times he would steel himself and jump on the boat for a day of deep-sea fishing with my father, salivating at the thought of a good dinner fresh from the sea. Other times he would arrive with just-caught clams, crabs, mussels and sea bass that he had purchased at Otten's harbor, along with newly picked peppers and tomatoes, a bag of fresh garlic and herbs, a bottle of the finest olive oil, a loaf of crusty bread, and a good bottle of Italian red wine. Then, as he sang Italian songs in his inimitable ear-piercing tenor, he set about preparing his mouth-watering seafood stew fragrant with garlic, tomatoes, and a stock redolent with brine from the sea.

He tossed the chopped onions and minced garlic into a heavy pot of sizzling oil, adding the peppers, tomatoes, herbs, and seasonings only after the onions had sautéed to the requisite translucent sheen. Once he added the seafood, dinner was minutes away, served in its own pot with slices of bread to sop up the juices. What a feast to share with a bottle of wine!

Feeling very patriotic and not to be daunted by his seasickness, Uncle Batty joined the Coast Guard when World War II broke out. “Batty, don’t you realize you will be on a boat most of your tour of duty? How will you cope with that?”my father questioned. “Don’t worry, Army. I have it all figured out. I am going to get over this problem before I have to leave. Come over to my house. I’ll show you how I am going to do it.

When he arrived in South Camden, Dad found Uncle Batty in his backyard, an outboard motor perched in a galvanized tub of water. “The way I figure it, I will steel myself to water action by watching the motor churn up waves in this tub. Watch, you’ll see”, he said, as he started the motor.

We still laugh today at the memory of Uncle Batty’s eyes glassing over only moments after the engine began to hum.         

Recipe for Uncle Batty's Seafood Stew

About the Idiom

The saying, "cream of the crop", is derived the fact that cream, the richest, sweetest, choicest part of the milk, always rises to the top, and as a highly desirable and luxurious food, it provides a clear metaphor for the best or quintessential representative of of a selection or group.

Corn

Corn is the ultimate American grain. For hundreds of years before the Europeans reached the shores of North America, Indians were drying hulled corn into hominy. But until Columbus landed on our shores, corn was virtually unknown in Europe.

There is some uncertainty as to when corn first went to Europe, although it is an accepted fact that Columbus took it back to Spain. At first, corn was only a garden curiosity in Europe, but it soon began to be recognized as a valuable food crop. Within a few years, it spread through France, Italy, and all of southeastern Europe where one recipe followed another until various refinements developed.

But America still reigns as the capital of fresh corn, and production of corn has come a long way since the Jamestown settlers arrived on our shores. Today it is grown from coast to coast in a multitude of varietals and hybrids.

When choosing corn, look for ears with bright green, snugly fitting husks, and golden brown silk. Inside, the kernels should come all the way to the ear’s tip, with tightly spaced rows, and appear plump and milky. If pricked, a kernel should pop and spurt milky white juice. Ears with medium-sized kernels are best. Very small kernels are immature, and large kernels will  have a starchy taste.

The sugar in corn turns to starch quickly with heat and with time. Therefore, proper care is of the essence if you want to enjoy the sweetest, most tender ears of of corn. The best thing is to cook the corn as soon as possible after it is picked. Second best is to refrigerate unshucked corn immediately and to cook it as soon as possible thereafter. Be sure to wrap it in wet paper towels and place in a plastic bag so it doesn't absorb odors from other foods.

Once the husks are removed, boil or steam the corn--never more than three to five minutes for best flavor.
 

8.18.09

While tomatoes were one of the glories of New Jersey summers, they took somewhat of a back seat when it came to the corn. Available only for a few short months, Jersey corn was eagerly anticipated, and it was not unusual for families to drive miles out to the country to purchase fresh-picked corn.  Luckily, each year when school was out my family would pack up the car and head to the seashore. The drive to Wildwood took us past the truck farms, the flat pine barrens and the many produce stands. This was prime corn season in New Jersey, and we couldn't wait until we could pick up some fresh-picked corn.

The trip was long, hot, and tedious—eighty miles at fifty miles an hour on the Delsea Drive, a two-lane road full of stop-and-go traffic. To pass the time, we sang silly songs with my father and counted the miles by the Burma Shave signs that dotted the side of the road.

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We would giggle as we anticipated the line on each sign and then scream out each line as it appeared. My mother quickly tired of this never-ending commotion. “Okay, I’ve had enough,” she would groan. “Must you read every sign? There must be hundreds of them.” But Dad would just egg us on. Always one for a good laugh, he would even dream up slogans of his own:

We would giggle as we anticipated the line on each sign and then scream out each line as it appeared. My mother quickly tired of this never-ending commotion. “Okay, I’ve had enough,” she would groan. “Must you read every sign? There must be hundreds of them.” But Dad would just egg us on. Always one for a good laugh, he would even dream up slogans of his own:

Your mother's cream puffs
Hit the spot
But they won't cure
The beard I've got.
Burma-Shave

Cars in those days had no air-conditioning, and the suffocating heat permeated the car, even with the windows rolled down. We, of course, kept our chins resting on the window ledge of the car door, eagerly anticipating the smell of the salty air that would signal we were about to cross Grassy Sound and head over the bridge into Wildwood. Oh, how I remember our excitement. “Hooray,” we would cry, “we’re finally here!”

Wildwood was a paradise for us. Each day we would race to the beach, a quarter-mile of fine white sand from the street to water’s edge. There we took off our sandals and splashed in the surf until we reached the beginning of the boardwalk. A two-mile promenade of wooden planks well within the sound of the ocean’s immutable roar, the Wildwood boardwalk was a myriad of amusement piers, arcades full of barkers, frenetic carnival games, funky souvenir shops, all types of eateries, and first-run movie theaters. There we spent the afternoon at game booths in the arcades and on the oversized piers where daring rides tested our nerves and stomachs. Never to admit to having enough, we headed back to the Cresse Avenue pier to harvest mussels or dig for clams with Aunt Carrie, my grandmother's sister.

When we were in a hurry to gather enough shellfish for dinner, we all stood knee-deep in the surf under the pier and filled our baskets with the mussels we pulled off the pilings. More time consuming, but the most fun, was digging for clams with our feet. We all walked along the beach, wiggling our toes in the sand until we felt a clam. I guess that must be the origin of the saying, "Jersey girls can never get the sand out of their toes!"

Once we had a basket full of shellfish, we headed back to the house and then set out to buy corn for dinner, an almost every day family adventure during August. What fun it was to sort though the mounds of ears, searching to find those with the tiniest worm. “Worms only go to the sweetest corn,” Aunt Carrie would instruct, so we naturally searched every ear to be sure it had a worm. And how insistent she was about its being fresh and sweet—so insistent that she set a pot of water on the stove to boil before we headed out to the stands. And we even shucked the corn in the car on the way home. The minute we walked through the door, we dropped the freshly shucked ears into the boiling water. We could hardly wait the few minutes until the corn was on a platter and we could bite into an ear. What joy it was to savor the slight crunch of its plump kernels against our teeth as the sweet milky juice spurted into our mouths and mingled with the taste of the smooth, salt-tinged butter. Yes, as you might guess, we were experts in removing the silk. And, yes, the car was a mess. But never mind. There has never again been anything as glorious a treat as an ear of Jersey corn in August. And the taste of those sweet tender kernels was well worth any cleanup and a perfect complement to any seafood dinner.

Recipe for Aunt Carrie's Steamed Mussels or Clams

About the Idiom

The saying, "salt of the earth," is derived from the Sermon on the Mount and means thoroughly good type. The term was used metaphorically to illustrate how the people of God were to stand out from the rest, emphasizing that goodness will never lose its importance or influence.

 

Tomatoes

Today tomatoes can be found in a variety of colors, shapes, sizes and growth time: large red irregular beefsteaks, medium round red globes, and egg-shaped red and yellow plums. Gaining in popularity are heirloom tomatoes that come in white, red, yellow, green, black, and purple, as well as several striped varieties. However, although these varieties are usually sweet and far surpass the commercial types for flavor, they are very fragile and do not travel well, so it is unlikely we will see them in grocery stores. Seeds and plants are available, and some varieties can be found in farmers' markets and specialty stores.

The New Jersey Rutgers tomato is an outstanding heirloom variety. It was first introduced in 1934, during the height of the canning industry in New Jersey.  Not only was it the ideal canning tomato, it traveled well and soon became the preferred choice of some 75 percent of commercial growers worldwide. It is no longer grown commercially, and although seeds are available, they have been cross-pollinated and the flavor is just not the same.

But there is hope. The researchers at the New Jersey Agricultural Experimental Station are working to bring back the old-time tangy flavor of the Rutgers-developed Ramapo tomato. I am anxiously waiting for the day I can once again savor its unique goodness.

 

       

 

8.12.09

One of the best things about growing up in New Jersey was the fresh produce in the summer. Camden, my home town, is situated on the banks of the Delaware River, adjacent to South Jersey’s richest and most fertile soil where verdant farms produced more than 100 different kinds of fruits and vegetables. From late spring until fall, the country roadside stands overflowed with the best of just-picked delicacies, and whatever wasn’t sold fresh at the stands was trucked by hucksters to Camden food plants for production and shipment. Those were the heydays for Campbell, Ritter, and Heinz, and the beginning of the frozen food bonanza.   

Song of the Hucksters

“Red ripe tomats, red ripe tomats

I’m sellin’ red ripe tomats to make a livin’

Oh won’t you buy some

Oh won’t you try some

I’m sellin’ red ripe tomats to get along."

Tomatoes were at their peak for only a short time. But, oh, those tomatoes. Every day during the summer, trucks piled high with freshly picked Jersey tomatoes on their way to the Campbell Soup plant would fill the streets of Camden. And so would everyone who lived there. We all knew a quick stop would mean tomatoes in the street—and all for the taking. So we stood on the sidewalks, equipped with paper bags, baskets and even salt shakers, and waited for the “big fall”. It was a sight to see, that convergence of people running into the street to gather up the tomatoes. Were they delicious! Tender and juicy and warm off the truck. No mind they were split or they might be dirty. We simply picked one up, brushed it off, and bit into it right on the spot, savoring the sweetness and acidity of its dark, creamy flesh.

In season only from mid-July until Labor Day, tomatoes were the mainstay of many a summer meal. Eaten right from the garden, paired with mussels and clams into chowder, sautéed with crabs to make a sauce for spaghetti, grilled with fresh-caught sea trout, or concocted into a bouillabaisse or cioppino, fresh tomatoes are delicious any way you fix them. I especially looked forward to fried tomatoes the way my mother prepared them—Pennsylvania Dutch style. Unlike the fried green tomatoes with which most people are familiar, my mother used only juicy, ripe, red tomatoes which she coated with salt-and-pepper-seasoned flour and fried in sweet butter until the outside of the slices took on a light crust while the centers cooked to a soft sweet pulp. Topped with cream gravy full of crunchy tomato bits, it was a sheer delicacy. And, to this day, I look forward to tomato season when I can fix a special breakfast of scrambled eggs and fried tomatoes. 

Jersey tomatoes had a unique juicy acid/sweet taste that is hard to find today, even in New Jersey. But there is hope. The researchers at the New Jersey Agricultural Experimental Station are working to bring back the old-time tangy flavor of the Rutgers-developed Ramapo tomato. I am anxiously waiting for the day I can once again savor its unique goodness.

Recipe for GramMom's Crazy Gravy