Goodbye my Friends

Three years ago, when I was driving to my Aunt’s house, I saw something that opened the Italian-Canadian flood gates of my mind. Memories of happy days with cousins and friends came flooding back to me, and after spending time with Zia, I rushed home to write them all down as a tribute to my Italian-Canadian roots.  While writing out my memories, one particular thought hit me like a thunderbolt.  The era I had grown up in—that early-immigrant culture—was gone. Those of us who were born to immigrant parents are not who our parents were, and many of our parents have transformed over the years, adapting new ways and a new culture (though I’m willing to bet most of our moms still use rags rather than Swiffing the dust away.) Ma che Swiffer?! Ma per piacere! Much of the good times and hilarity I remember was rooted in our frugal roots.  Learning to live on less and making the most of what we had— whether or not it was tomato season— was a religion that few of us practice anymore.

But back to the story I first wrote in 2009. I tried to peddle Growing up Italian-Canadian and what to do about it to Toronto’s major newspapers and a few national Canadian magazines but got the va via response instead.  More attempts and rejection letters later, I filed the story away and forgot all about it. Only when a friend asked about its outcome a year later did I decide to take another look at it and publish it myself. And so this blog was born. 

  

The past 10 months have been fun and nostalgic and I thank all of you for reading my stories. I am deeply grateful to have had you as followers. I hadn’t planned on leaving you so soon, but I have an opportunity to take on more responsibility in the work I love to do and I’m going to go for it. If I keep blogging while taking on this increased work load, I'll be a regular Joe Pesce before long. And since I've learned my limits at this point in my life, I've decided my stories must end here. I’m glad I had a chance to contribute a portion of my Italian-Canadian memories, and delighted that I had any followers at all! I hope you’ll revisit these pages when you’re feeling a bit nostalgic, or look up other sources that pay tribute to our roots.  

Vincenzo Pietropaolo’s powerful and moving photo-documentary book Not Paved with Gold is one I revisit every now and then. I’m so happy to have it in my personal library and highly recommend it. The Italian-Canadian Museum in Vaughan provides a wonderful tribute to a time and culture that’s slowly slipping away. And if you like to travel and love history, you may want to visit the Canadian Museum of Immigration in Halifax. Just last week, I met someone who told me he's planning a family pilgrimage to Pier 21. He and his parents emigrated to Canada when he was 10 and he wants to go back with his kids to look up some history there. How cool is that?  Check out www.pier21/ca

Time has changed many of our traditions but there’s one I’m planning to keep as long as I’m able. Come fall, you’ll find me at my favorite farm knee-deep in perfect bushels of tomatoes and sweet red peppers. I’ll select a few for the trunk of my car, then chat with the owner while we work our way over to the vegetable stand to select a few eggplants, zucchini and other gifts from the earth. Maybe I’ll see you there.


Thanks again everyone! Arrivederci e tante belle cose.

Memories are Made of This

When I was 10 years old, my Dad had a heart attack. It happened after a New Year’s Eve gathering at our house in the middle of the night. When my sister and I woke up, only Nonna was there. My parents had taken the ambulance to the hospital. Three days later, Dad suffered another heart attack, only this time it landed him a 3-month hospital stay.  It was a game changer for all of us.

Do you remember that one aunt and uncle who hosted all those big family parties when you were growing up? Well, in our extended family there were two of them: my parents and my Zio Paolino e Zia Angelina. It was party central at our house and at theirs for years, ‘til the heart attack hammer smashed our fun to smithereens. 

Some days, free-falling fragments still hit me wherever I happen to be standing. At a funeral last year, an extended relative who I hadn’t seen in years said to me:  “We couldn’t wait for the weekend so we could go to your parents place! In those days, Toronto was so small and there was no place to go. Come Friday night… scappa… out from work. At your parents’ house we had so much fun.” 

Although Dad’s hospital stay saved his life, it was the beginning of a recovery that lasted years. His heart attack propelled us into the giant swimming pool of life and we swiftly learned to tread water. Mostly I remember watching Gilligan’s Island after school and playing with my sister while waiting for Mom to come home from her daily hospital visits. Nonna was always there. She’d cook pasta, then clutch her rosary and stare out the front window.  It seemed as if someone had turned off the music in our lives.

By the time Dad came home in March, each of us had fallen into various states of brooding. Dad for his beloved Lucky Strikes, a two-pack-a-day habit he ditched on doctor’s orders. Mom for new ways of cooking besides the dip-it-in-egg, then breadcrumbs and fry method. And my sister and I for our favorite crusty Italian bread, pastries, salami e salametti, potato croquettes, arancini, Ma’s sky-high pizza pies, and the Sunday pasta al forno she used to bake loaded with chunks of ham and mozzarella cheese. "Time for a whole new diet," announced the doctor. "And no visitors, just lots of rest."  I cried inwardly for my cousins and the large family gatherings. I missed them, but we had to face the music…or lack of music… for as long as it would take for Dad to recover.

In came The Osterizer, the new family blender purchased to whip up health and nutrition, and other nightmare concoctions like Breakfast in a Glass. The kitchen table became our battle zone. Our lovely, chunky Italian bread swapped places nightly with thin slices of brown toast bread until Mom started baking her own. And skim milk subbed in for red wine. Just who was this crazy doctor? Son of a badda-bing. My sister and I were too young to understand and we hated him for issuing such mean-spirited rules.

By force—that’s how I joined Healthy Eating Anonymous. Feelings about my membership have evolved over the years from Tearful Rookie to Diet Natzi—I transformed into an unquestionable fanatic after my kids were born. I’ve calmed down a bit, though I opt for healthy alternatives for everything that crosses my path. That’s how this Quiche-tatta came to be. It features a brown-rice crust that’s better for your heart. And since this is Heart Month, why not give it a try? My recipe is below. As for my dad, he’ll be 88 next month. We’re thankful he’s still here to lecture us on what not to eat. To our relief, Mom put the Osterizer away years ago. Though she's not pureeing them anymore, she's still Queen of Vegetables. Like every family, we’ve shared good times and bad. I like the way Dean Martin sings about it here. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mv9PSkNkUfs

And now the Quiche-tatta: 

For the crust:  mix together 2 cups of cooked brown rice, an egg, 3 tablespoons of crushed flax seeds, a tablespoon of parmiggiano cheese and a little salt in a bowl. Blend well, then transfer it to a pie plate (greased with olive oil first) and pat down so it’s even all around like a regular pie crust. Because I often use whatever leftover rice I have on hand, at times I only have enough rice for the bottom.  Bake about 12 minutes or until firm in a 350F oven.

For the filling:  Beat 4 eggs with whatever leftover vegetables you have on hand (this time I used a ½ cup of broccoli, a few mushrooms and chopped cooking onion but I’ve used spinach and rapini, too) with 2 to 3 tablespoons of grated cheese. Cheddar and parmiggiano make a nice combo. Thin slightly with 1 or 2 tablespoons of milk. Season with salt and pepper and dried parsley. My kids don't like fresh parsley but I still use small amounts in soups and resort to the dried flakes everywhere else and they've yet to notice. Clorophyll is good for you! Add this filling to your par-baked rice crust and top your quiche-tatta with fresh tomato slices. Bake at 350F for about 40 minutes.  Allow to cool slightly before cutting and serving. Great for lunches if your kids are tired of sandwiches. Just don’t mention the brown rice, flax and parsley parts.

National Nonna Week

In his button-up coat, far right, is Mr. BBQ  with his siblings, cousins, and Nonni, fondly remembered by all as Babu and Dido.

Nonna Maria TV had me doubled over this week. I laughed so hard I feel like I’ve done a month of situps. Thanks to everyone who sent it to me. It’s vintage. Did our Nonnas all go to the same school?  Did they all learn the fine art of what to do with shoes? Met-te-te le scarpe, leva-te-le-scarpe! No, no, lascia le scarpe, lascia le scarpe...

If you haven’t seen the clip of the charming and lovable puppet created by Montreal native Anthony Imperioli and his friends, check out their latest episode all about what Nonnas say. It is priceless. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ofNrtq6w3w

School of Ma must have been where all our Nonnas went.  Ma, a-do-vai?  Ma, a che ora ritorni? Ma, sh-tat-attende, si capite? Ma, che-shta- me- fa shi-pazza!  So many memories; such fierce love those Nonnas had for us.

Top pic: i Nonni Siciliani.          Bottom pics: la Prozia e i Nonni Ciociari

We felt it every time we ventured out, especially when it came to La Giacca.  Speaking of jackets, it’s February and I’m feeling mezza scema. My big bulky giacca means I take up more room than usual. It’s a fight to turn the steering wheel in my car, and I knocked over a display at the grocery store. I will have to buy my groceries elsewhere for a while. I sound loud and swishy when I walk but it’s my very best heating device. Ma, whadda-you-gonna-do? Che brutta figura. At least I’m not like my dad, wearing my giacca in the house, swishing all over the place. Oh yeah. That’s what we can look forward to when we’re in our 80s.  Even central heating can’t warm up those ceramic tiles. Well, I suppose it could if you raised the temperature a little but then that would blow the Tomato Budget come Fall. Can you imagine having only 100 jars of sauce in your cantina instead of 300?  Che brutta figura. 

No one recognizes my dad these days as his giacca fits well above his nose. The only way I’m sure it’s him is because a) I know he lives there b) I recognize his eyes and c) he’s worn the same giacca for the past 10 years. Plus, I hear my mom in the background. But, let’s face it. At his age, going back and forth from the kitchen to the cantina in a Slanket would be complicated, so da ski giacca itza-gonna-be! It's warmer this week so he has probably scaled back to his heritage Nonno sweater.

But back to Nonna Maria. She make-a my heart-a sing, eh? Her stellar performance stirred up memories. Te facci’ neccone pasta?  Te facci’ neccone pizza?  Te facci’neccone castagne?  No matter what the season, my Ciociara grandmother was ready to feed us even before we could peel off our swishy giacchette.  She had lots of stories to tell…and a prayer or two to share. Here’s one she taught us about chestnuts, adapted from the Signs of the Cross Blessing, and one I never got tired of asking her to repeat in her dialect when I was very young:  In nome del Padre, figura in cape, nocce, nu-sci-cchie e castagn’infornate.

Soak chestnuts in water for 10 minutes before you slice them.

Ma, that’s how I remember it anyway. Here’s Nonna's recipe for oven-roasted chestnuts. You can still find some at the grocery store if you hurry.  Just don’t wear your bulky giacca when you go there. And if you do...vi raccomando, non fate una brutta figura, eh?

Careful here...discard all chestnuts that are too hard to cut.

Cover chestnuts in cold water and soak for 10 to 30 minutes. Longer is  


better. In the meantime, set your oven on broil mode.  Place chestnuts on a cutting board and make a deep cut in each one before placing them on a cookie tin. Don't attempt to cut those  that are hard as rock. Toss them out. Place tin under broiling elements; keep oven door slightly open as always when you broil and check every two to three minutes. Careful…like anything else on broil, chestnuts can burn easily and there's no saving them once they're black. Roast til they’re golden brown (anywhere from 5 to 10 minutes). Save your fingertips from burning and let cool a little before eating. While you’re savoring them, enjoy this classic Nonna Maria video of her at the hair salon. There are many other episodes online as well. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OXD4cR1AZ5c Keep up the great work, Nonna Maria TV crew. Bravissimi!  

You Know You're Italian When...

When did grocery shopping get so complicated?  I remember the days when I’d go to one store, pick up everything that was on my list, come home...realize I had forgotten a few items...add them to my list for next week and put everything away while the kids helped and snacked on all the best goods.

Now it goes more like this:  drive to the store but while the rapini looks pretty good, the peppers and eggplants are disappointing. Too mushy. Hmmm...what to do? Buy the rapini and a few other things.  Drive to another store for some firm and amazing peppers only to discover the eggplants are musha-musha over there too. What is going on?  It’s January that's what. Soooo…it’s on to store number three for the melanzane while nursing a headache. If they’re not primo over there, I’m not buying them this week which gets me thinking about being Italian, or European, or just a Foodie who is so particular about veggies that are firm and flawless you’d think I was shopping for diamonds. 

And so, another list comes to mind as I drive home. I'm on a roll now so instead of cooking dinner, I focus on my list of You know You're Italian when and take my last emergency-backup lasagna out of the freezer for tonight's dinner.  Must make a couple of backup replacements for the freezer this weekend!  You never know when the next emergency will strike. So here goes. 

You know you're Italian (or a Foodie) when...

1. The size of the cantina might stop you from buying a house.

2. Family members check out the cantina before you sign the papers.

3. The brand of tomato paste you buy can be an issue.

4. Whether or not you buy tomato paste at all can be an issue.

5. You’ve had countless conversations about which pasta doesn’t stick when you cook it (with or without oil... another cause for discussion), how many packages of meat are left in the freezer, and how much money to put in the envelope.

6.     Someone in your family works in the food business.  No worries. If they work in contracting or hairdressing, they’ll know someone in the food business.

7.     You can have your hands on a Pizzelle Iron in one or two phone calls.

8.     Picnic is another way to say Family Reunion.

9.     You’ve driven up to an hour to pick up cheese, meat or porchetta.

10. You’ve gone as a group.

11. You’ve done this more than once.

12. You’ll do it again. 

13. At least one person you know owns a 40-year-old stove that sparkles like it just came off the assembly line. 

14. You recall hearing “Quanto arriviamo a casa facciamo i conti” of days gone by and know it has nothing to do with math.  Your parents most likely said it to you after you ate more than your fair share of cannoli at Zia’s house. 

15.  When you visit your parents or aunts and uncles, you sit at the table, even though it’s not lunch time. It’s not dinner time either. But there's food on the table.

16.   Summer camp involved dusting and vacuuming the house for your mom or cleaning out the garage.  Then you made pizza or biscotti. Or both.

17.  Your parents’ idea of downsizing is giving away only one of their pasta machines.

18.  Your parents’ freezer is packed to the brim with food even though they’re empty nesters. They never know when they"ll have to feed a crowd at a moment's notice.

19.  Your kids started peeling garlic to help with dinner when they were three.

20.  Going to the grocery store for eggplants only to find them mushy all over town can drive you more than a little crazy. But you know you'll do it again.

Enjoy your grocery shopping this week.  May the first store you visit stock everything to perfection so you don't have resort to your emergency back-up plan. I can't wait to see the Farmer's Market again this summer.  How about you?

Happy New Year

I hope you had many heart-warming gatherings over the holiday season.  Or was it the type of Christmas that reminded you of boots?  As in I parenti sono come gli stivali…piu vanno stretti e piu fanno male. Rhyming translation: Family is like a pair of boots, the tighter they are, the more of a pain in your hootch. I’ve known both varieties of Christmas but Grazie a Gesu Bambino this last holiday season was a good one. Not every family gathering can be rapturous and for this, it's good to remember this simple recipe:


~ Start with 2 cups of patience, add a tablespoon of laughter, a teaspoon of thoughtfulness and a pinch of understanding.  Mix all together and serve to everyone you meet. ~ Of course, if this dish doesn't work out, it's always good to keep a couple of firm pillows handy so you can punch the living stress out of your system!


Thank you to the Secret Santa who gave me the pasta buttons you see above. A sweet surprise that's most appreciated. I love them.

December is the warmest month but come January, I feel so much ambivalence. No matter how much thought has gone into finding toe-insulating boots, it's hard to imagine any creature but Caribou is happy to tread outside these days. Mannaggia al'America. Though we have had a mild winter so far—che pasa?  Is it El Nino or are we just warming up the planet by all that extra pasta we’re cooking this time of year? 

I'm working hard to maintain an Attitude of Gratitude and counting on my kitchen comforts to see me through the next eight weeks. Comforts that feel like old friends. Can you relate to this? For example, has your favorite scolapasta ever broken its base?  Two minutes of silence are in order.  Oh no!  Not the scolapasta!  It’s like losing a best friend. It deserves a proper burial for all the al-dente joy it has given us.  True blue scolapasta, I release you to Cucina Heaven.  You will be missed. And now since we go on living, we need to find another just like you. Strong and dependable. 

Where to begin?  It needs to have a base that’s precision leveled, no rough edges, and easy enough to handle with one hand.  If you’re anything like me, you’ve spent as much time shopping for a scolapasta as you have for the perfect pair of shoes.  And you know how long that takes. There are some things I will pay more for and a scolapasta is one of them.  Here are a few other kitchen favorites. 

My oil and vinegar bottles...extra virgin olive oil and two for basic vinegars: red wine and balsamic.


My peperoncino bowl. Well loved by all the cooks in the family.

Mr. BBQ's stack of books that reminds summer is on its way.

No this isn't all of them. He has more.


Since we're stuck indoors most nights, it's TV with channel surfing being our favorite show.  How will we make it through these grey and dreary months?  If I get through last season's episodes of Desperate Housewives, there are two Italian movies I'd like to see before spring arrives. One is La Dolce Vita. I'm not a big fan of Fellini but I've heard it's very good. The other is Mediterraneo directed by Gabriele Salvatores, an Academy Award winner I longed to see years ago when it was released. If you've already viewed them, and you're considering something other than channel surfing, I recommend these three: Stanno Tutti Bene, a bittersweet and memorable story starring Marcello Mastroianni, Johnny Stecchino, a hilarious ride with Roberto Benigni and Nicoletta Braschi and Cinema Paradiso, great nostalgia with Philippe Noiret.


I have no recipes to share with you this time. The careful boxing up and storing of Christmas memories has gobbled up most of my energy. Instead of cooking interesting dinners, I've been wishing Tomie dePaolo's Strega Nona and her magic pasta pot would visit my kitchen. I did spend time browsing through some of my favorite cookbooks on the weekend, however, in case Strega Nona is a no-show. I found inspiration in Chef Pasquale's words: "The chef is like a composer, creating new recipes and adapting old ones to express the individuality that is found in each of us." Which is a very nice way to say: Moms create new recipes to express the lack of time they had to shop for groceries and to ease the panic they feel when dinner hour is almost upon them and there's nothing for the table. The holidays are over and we're slowly getting back to our hectic schedule. See you next week!

You want me to bring the cake?

Heaven help the hostess who asks me to bring dessert. I am not a baker, nor have I ever been.  The reasons for this are probably rooted in family medical history (a story for another day), and though I've tried my best over the years, it's probably in everyone's best interest if i dolcetti come from someone with a sweet tooth who can deliver. 


One of the worst cakes I ever baked was buried under one of the three plastic trees in our High School foyer. (Not M. High for those of you who know me...the other High School in sap country, as some of you used to call it, after I moved away.) It was a day in June and our grad year.  There were three of us. K., J. and me.  We cut the cake in the staff room...it didn't look too good...hmmm, not cooked in the middle...but we proceeded as planned. We wandered down to the lobby to wait for our rides home and delight in some cake. One bite and K. grabbed the box from my hands, lifted the first tree beside her, and stuffed it in. There it went, never to be seen again. I still gasp when I think about it. She was that brassy and zanier than anyone I've ever met.  J. and I still talk about it.  As for K., she moved away, to our relief. She could dream up trouble just by breathing. 

Any sweets I make now don't involve baking.  It seems to work out better if I stick to this rule. My kids agree, as they've tasted enough of my half-baked disasters. The trouble is, I substitute too much in my endless search for healthier alternatives. Whole wheat flour instead of white, honey instead of white sugar, pureed prunes instead of butter...no wonder nothing ever turns out. Here's one of my favorite dolci and a recipe from my local health-food store. I make them almost every Christmas and they're as good as any regular truffle out there. Try them and, trust me, no one will want to bury these in your house plants.


1 cup peanut butter
1 cup carob
1 cup honey 
1/2 cup each sesame seeds, crushed flax seeds and unsweetened dessicated coconut 

Mix all together (in a Cuisinart works best). If the mixture seems too dry, add more honey. Shape into balls and roll in carob or coconut.  Refrigerate for at least 2 hours before serving. 


So how does the buried cake story end? Well, much as I held my breath that summer, none of us got a call from the school principal, which still amazes me since there was a crowd of kids in the lobby that day and none of them with Blackberries to distract them.

Over the years I've thought of a few possibilities as to what happened after K. told me without telling me that my baking was more than unacceptable:
1. The caretakers followed their noses and found a moldy mountain of goo in a sand-covered box, cursed the kids with nothing better to do, and spent the rest of the day tidying up the planter.
2. The cake is still there.  It fossilized into a rock over the years and the plastic tree above it is a couple of inches taller than the others. No one knows why and no one cares.
3. One day while K. was baking a glorious cake for her adorable and innocent children in their new and happy home, she opened the oven door when the timer bell rang...and out sprang...a plastic tree! She then had an anxiety attack, a symptom that follows her to this day. No matter where she is in the world, every time she sees plastic vegetation, she faints. Her kids were traumatized as well and, as a result, have never tasted a morsel of cake. Think of all they've missed! Call it karma, I guess, or the perfect order of the way the universe evolves. Personally, I like this ending best. How about you?


Buon Natale a tutti!  Merry Christmas everyone. Buone Feste. Thanks so much for reading my blog this year. I wish you and yours all the best life has to offer this holiday season. May 2012 bring you much happiness, and an abundance of pasta that's cooked just to your dente.  See you next year.

Not Exactly Eggplant Parm

When my youngest was little, I was a stay-at-home mom for a few years.  Life slowed down in heaps. There was an abundance of time-- the kind that gets you moving fridges and stoves and dressers and commodes to get at dust bunnies and their babies.  There was time enough to make stuffed chickens, stuffed peppers and stuffed zucchini.  There was time for traditional Eggplant Parmesan.  The kind that's double-dipped in egg and breadcrumbs, gently fried in olive oil and topped with a homemade Ragu.  Nothing but melanzane and parmiggiano gratuggiato cotte in una barca di Ragu, then topped with mozzarella as far as the eye can see. In those days, I kept candles on my kitchen window sill and lit them every evening before starting dinner. I would read and reread my favorite cookbooks while my kids played quietly with their toys, and spent entire days dehoarding the basement til it felt as spacious as our living room.  

But then came school and homework, volunteer work, back to work, family feuds, renovations, aging parents, menopausal symptoms, and growing children who loved to store precious keepsakes...in the basement.  


Speed has a way of pulverizing traditions don't you think?  It has a way of taking the love out of grocery shopping, meal planning and generally running a happy home. My traditional Eggplant Parm recipe died somewhere during those years. A victim of our pick-up-the-pace life, it lies in wait for its very unlikely reincarnation. I guess somewhere along the way I learned that having dinner ready during a certain time frame was better than watching starved famiglia transforming into Joe Pesce. 

These days, rather than burning all kinds of time planning meals and flawless grocery lists, dinner ideas take shape while I'm walking the grocery isles.  It's pretty spontaneous and depends largely on how the spirit moves. When I pick up eggplants every two weeks or so, I place them gently in my cart and trust something good will come from my oven-- even if I tune out the cheese by the time I get to its isle.  Despite my mental notes, formaggio gets left behind when there are seven different types of hummus to choose from.  

Has my family noticed?  Yes and no.  Comments vary.  Some nights I hear:  "The last Eggplant Parm was better."  Some nights it's: "Hmmm, sooo goood."  Sometimes I get:  "Nonna's is better."


"Of course Nonna's is better!  Nonna can spend a whole day making Eggplant Parm if she wants to!"  Kids today are bold, aren't they?  No backhand to worry about and so they just comment as they please.


While I used to plan my Ragu in advance, now it's Ragu if I have time. I layer my EP with whatever leftovers are on hand and grill the sliced eggplant, brushing with garlic and olive oil as I go.  Which leftovers have worked?  Rapini, spinach, shredded zucchini and thinly sliced potatoes have been nice surprises, as have thinly sliced carrots, onions and hot peppers. What hasn't worked?  I would stay away from shredded cabbage.  Yeah.  What was I thinking?  Plain tomato sauce on each layer tastes as good as mouthwatering Ragu, and cheese doesn't have to be Parmiggiano.  Cheddar, goat's cheese and grated Romano all taste great. I may have used others as well but nothing comes to mind right now.


This time around, I found myself grilling eggplants...and reaching for the mashed-potato-and-cheddar-cheese filling left over from Mr. BBQ's homemade peroghies. I layered sauce, eggplant, grated parmiggiano and mashed potato with cheddar cheese.  Repeat again and again til you're done.  Top with goat's cheese. I guess you could call it Melanzane a Tre Formaggi...or if you're older and your kids have left home and have their own families, you could call it something more romantic. This week I was whining to my mom: "I feel like I'm always at the kitchen sink.  I cook. I clean. I cook. I clean. Is this the life my kids are going to have one day?"


"But that is the luv for your familee!  You cook and clean because yu luv your familee and by doing dat you keep ev-ery one too-gether!"  


Well, how about that? Or you can call it love. 


Some days Nonnas give you exactly what you need, don't they?  
Now if she could just explain the ol' backhand to me. 


I think I'll go clean out my basement.

What is the Meaning of Al Dente?

There are only two answers to that question.  One is short; the other one endless. The short one is pretty straight forward, and is an explanation most of us have heard many times: you know pasta is cooked al dente when you bite into it and it's still firm. Pretty simple isn't it?  And yet something is missing. Where's all the emotion, hand gesticulation, anxiety? And that's when the endless answer to al dente comes in. Pasta cooked al dente means...well, how much time have you got?  Because when we're asking about al dente, the best way to answer is with another question, as in whose dente is it?  Mine? Yours? Zio Nicola's?  Ask 10 different people to cook a serving of pasta al dente and you'll most likely get 10 different results.

Last year, there were nine of us sitting at our table at my niece's wedding.  We had just finished eating the antipasto and the pasta arrived, piping hot topped with a beautiful tomato sauce. We passed the grated parmesan around the table and began eating without much dialogue. Everyone was hungry.  It was a typical wedding.  The cocktail hour had gone on longer than usual and we were eager to get to the eating part of the party. I took one bite of the penne lisce and thought to myself:  "Finally, pasta cotta al dente! I can't believe someone cooked it the way I like it.  Two to three minutes past the half-cooked mark. I want to find the chef and shake his hand!"  Thirty seconds later, I understood that not everyone was sharing in my joy. You could break the tension at the table with a veal-chop mallet. There were concerto-like cries.


"It's not cooked."  
"E cruda."
"I can't eat this."


I looked up.  Dare I jump into the combat zone with my idea of what perfect pasta tastes like? This was, after all, pasta al dente. Propio al dente, the way God had intended it to be. I looked at my table mates. Emotions were raw. In this corner, my 80-year-old-uncle with daggers in his eyes. I think he was offended. What am I saying?  He's Italian!  Of course, he was offended! Across from him, our two fine-dining chefs.  Yes, my brothers-in-law, both who cook pasta (among other things) for a living and people rave about their dishes and come back for more. And then my two cousins (who lived in Italy for at least a decade) and they weren't touching theirs either. Could I risk it? Would I jump in with: "But this is what past al dente means!" Why take a chance, I thought. Why start another family feud? Haven't all of us had a lifetime of drama already? Just stay calm and consult with Mr. BBQ.

I leaned over to my husband. Before I could open my mouth he whispered in my ear: "Do you want mine? It's not cooked."  I grinned. "Is the sky blue?" Looking at my other table mates, I marveled at this situation. Where were the happy faces? There was pasta in front of us! We should have been eating and joking and pouring the wine. How could this be? Weren't we all Italian? How are we supposed to explain what al dente means to other cultures when we can't even agree amongst ourselves? 


That's when I decided I would be crazy to add my opinion to this magnum opus. Sing high: "I love it!"  Sing low: "I hate it!" I can't do it, I thought to myself.  If I open up that Pandora's opera box of al dente definitions, I may get a noodle in the head.  It's just not worth it. I ate in silence, contributed nothing to the conversation, traded plates quietly with my husband (cringing as I did so in case anyone noticed and confronted me with: "What, are you crazy?") and ate all of his share, too.  That was one night I definitely broke the 1/2-cup-per-person-rule.  I could have starred as Woman Versus Food at my table that night-- I know an opportunity when I see one--  but honestly, I just can't eat that much.


You know that explanation: throw pasta at the wall and when it sticks, it's cooked?  Well for me it's more like: throw pasta at the wall and if it bounces back more than a little, it's cooked.  That's how it is to my dente anyway. Which explains why my mom has this crazy way of cooking pasta. She leans to the person closest to her when the pasta is past the half-way mark and takes a filo out of the pot. It goes like this:


Mom: "Che dici, e cotta?" 
Taste tester:  "Ummm...two more minutes."
This prompts the next tester in the kitchen:  "Let me check!" Another filo goes out. Taste tester Number Two:  "Ummm...Io dico five more minutes." Other fili get distributed and while everyone is talking and tasting, mom drains the pasta and nobody notices. No one ever complains and almost everyone has seconds. But if there's ever any whining about the pasta not being al dente, we never really know whose dente mom went with. 


 In fact, in our family the only thing we agree on when it comes to Al Dente is that it's the name of one of our favorite restaurants. I mean, why expend all your energy on pasta? That would leave us no room to argue about who makes the best cannoli.  I've heard it's Francesca's Italian Bakery in Scarborough but don't hold me to it as I haven't checked out this tip yet.  In case you get there before I do, please spread the word.  If they're as good as they say they are, we want to keep them in business for as long as possible. And check out Al Dente Restaurant, too.  Here's their web site http://aldenterestaurant.com Delicious food, really good prices, a great place for private parties. Definitely worth the trip to Markham.

Life is Like a Bowl of Pasta

Random thoughts from a pasta lover


Is life like a bowl of pasta?  While gazing at the mile-long display of dried pasta in the grocery store last week, this question came to me.  Pasta was on sale, three for $5.00; a mix and match type of deal.  Do I pick farfalle, spaghettini and bowties, or penne, spaghetti and bowties?  Or maybe just two spaghetti and one bowtie?  Spaghetti is loved by all in our house and bowties are just fun. 


I stood in the isle pondering my options and asked myself why I was taking so long.  I mean, why sweat the small stuff, as the book says.  (I read that book by the way-- a couple of times, maybe more-- but still agonize over three for $5.00 deals and other simple options.) And so, the question had to be answered.  Is life like a bowl of pasta?  I think it is.  I have an even 10 answers that tell me so. I went with 10 because 8 or 9 (or even 11) would be a little odd to me, someone who insists on sweating over the little things, even though she read the book a couple of times and maybe even more. If you have thoughts about how life is like a bowl of pasta, please share. Random thoughts are good...as good as 3 for $5.00 deals. 


How life is like a bowl of pasta:

1. Sometimes you feel like a wet noodle.
2. Sometimes good luck drops into your life like grated parmesan on your plate.
3. Variety makes the heart sing.
4. Don't take more than your share.
5. Be thankful for what's in front of you-- don't wish for something  nobody cooked!
6. Fussing over the details makes all the difference. (If you disagree, ask yourself why you're still making tomato sauce from scratch when you can buy it at the store.)
7. There are days when all you really want is pasta but all you have is tomatoes.
8. Sometimes it seems everyone is getting a bigger portion than you...and times when your bowl is overflowing with the best ingredients life has to offer.
9. It's best to work together to clean up our messes.
10. Savor every bite-- it's over before you know it.

More about pasta next week. How can this basic dish start an argument in most families?  It can and it does.

Nectar of the Neighborhoods

Eight years ago, a friend of ours bought a wine-making business. We were happy to support him, though I was skeptical about making our own wine. Despite the wonderful smells that lingered for weeks in and around our neighborhood every Fall when I was growing up, I couldn't erase the thought of fresh grapes fermenting into a stiff and unsavory turpentine-like-beverage that never seemed to bother our fathers-- a joke that kept many of us laughing for at least a decade. Come to think of it, I remember a gathering with friends last year when we were still howling about that wine and how, out of desperation, one of us discovered it was perfect for clearing the bathroom-sink drain one day.

 The wine-making business has changed a great deal from those 
early-immigrant days. It's not as much fun as it used to be back when our dads rearranged our cement-block garages for at least a month every Fall...though there's no question today's end product tastes a lot better! Driving in and around Toronto, we'd see the signs Uva per Musto outside Darrigo's grocery store and that's when we knew the grapes had come to town. Our fathers lined up their wine-making equipment in the garage and hustled in the crates. We neighborhood kids would move from garage to garage (our makeshift outdoor living rooms) where activities were infinitely more entertaining than staring at the TV.  

We'd gather around the wine presses like they were Christmas trees and circle around the thundering damigiane.  Our dads would swap notes and press the grapes. We'd show our strength by adding some muscle. My dad would make red, our Friulano neighbors would make white and share their grappa-making secrets. We'd visit uncles in their cement-block garages and wood sheds and listen to more wine-making secrets.  It was a time of great excitement; one that lasted weeks from start to finish with us kids drinking a fresh and bubbly grape juice and our dads tasting, testing, waiting, and hoping for the best. Of course many times we got the worst but that only led to more adult conversations that lasted all winter long and a decisive determination to do better next Fall. 
 

Today, larger-than-life damigiane collect dust in city garages and we no longer see the luscious grapes that turn into musto.  Instead, we start with the musto and we're bottled and done in less than an hour. But before I get too nostalgic, did I mention that today's wine tastes a lot better?  Our wine-making memories will always be with us, and while we're reminiscing, it's nice to enjoy a glass that pleases the palette! Here's how we made it this year:

Inside a beautifully decorated store, we sanitize and prepare our bottles. We choose seals and discuss labels. The fermenting grape juice moves from the easy-to-manage jug into the bottles.  












It's corked and the loose seals placed on top. Extreme heat shrinks the seals into place and the bottles are set aside to be labeled.  

 It takes three seconds for the heat coil to shrink each seal.  End result?  The final product looks as good as any bottle at the LCBO.

Today's wine jugs are one-third the size of a classic damigiana.

A corking machine makes it easy.

We repeat the procedure. First white; then red. We load up the car, pay the bill and go for lunch where we discuss politics and globalization and the complex issues the world faces today. We stop to buy Halloween candy and a few chocolate-covered raisins to chew on for our trip home and I think about how our kids used to come with us when they were younger. How we'd stop by the lake to breathe in the view and look for interesting stones and driftwood before riding back home.  I think about the prosperity they've known in their young lives-- one we couldn't even dream about as early immigrant kids. I tell these stories with the hopes that one day, when they're enjoying a glass of fine wine, they'll tell their children about a generation of nonni who worked so hard to make a nectar that wouldn't taste like turpentine. And how, despite their disappointments in their efforts most years, they drank it with great pride and with the hopes that their children would have a better life one day. One better than anything they could ever dream of.