Let’s Play Chicken, Nonna.

     When I was about eight, my maternal grandmother came to Canada for the first time. All five of us dressed up, drove to the airport, parked the car and went inside the terminal to meet her. My father, who had stopped smiling days before, paced, and my mother kept adjusting our clothes while snatching glances at the sliding doors.

     “Oh there she is!” said my mother. My father snapped into action, and ran to take her suitcase. She let him have it, and kept walking towards us. She hugged her daughter before inspecting each of her grandchildren, and I remembering thinking three things: so this is what having your own grandmother is like; she smells funny; she’s about as tall as me. My mother took her arm and back to the car we went – four of us in the back seat – my sisters and I, and my mother, with Nonna in the front seat. My father drove.

     My mother asked Nonna about her brother. “He’s fine.”

     My mother asked Nonna about the flight. “It was fine.”

     My mother asked if there was any news in the town. “Let’s talk about it when we get to the house. I’m just a little tired.” Understandably so.

     When we arrived at the house, my father brought her suitcase upstairs to mine and my sisters’ bedroom. He put it on the bed. She told him to take it off – it’s dirty, for goodness sake. He did, and left. Five minutes later, she called him back to open the suitcase. Inside were two full wheels of Friulano cheese wrapped inside her nighties, plus one dress and a toiletry bag.

      She handed Pa the cheese – one for you, and one for Anita, my mother’s sister. He thanked her and left. I just stared at her. A grandmother – finally, but when she spoke to me, I couldn’t respond. While I understood Italian, I couldn’t speak it. Disappointed, she shook her head. So downstairs I went. Within the hour, Zio and Zia arrived with my cousin, and that night we had dinner all together.

     Nonna sat between my aunt and uncle – two people she hadn’t seen in over fifteen years, and when they left – her first week was to be with us, she looked sad. But my mother looked sadder.

     Now, I don’t know what kind of conversations occurred between my mother and grandmother when they were left alone during the day. All I remember is that when arriving home from school, my mother looked tired, and her sharp tone made me think that this whole visit wasn’t going well.

     By midweek we had all fallen into a new routine. Nonna, who was a retired cook, made dinner while Ma continued to sew until the last minute. But one night Ma asked me to go and help Nonna with the chicken.

     I froze. “I’ve never done chicken.”

     She sighed. “Vania. I have to get this hem done. Please just do your best.”

     “Okay.”

     I joined my grandmother in the chopping of rosemary, but when she left for a moment, I took it upon myself to remove all the skin that covered the breast and leg pieces. With the oil on high, I placed the pieces gently into the pan where they stuck miserably to the bottom. Prying them free with my wooden spatula was useless. The oil splashed all over the stovetop, and when she re-entered what she probably saw was an awkward youngster wrestling with a hot pan. She rushed over, grabbed a pair of tongs and took the pan off the heat. Peering in, she saw the mess I’d made, and in a rather loud voice, said “Why? Why would do that? The skin keeps the meat moist, and look at what you’ve done! Your mother hasn’t taught you anything.”

     I ran back downstairs thoroughly ashamed and because I was (and still am) a cry baby, and snitched on my Nonna. “Ma, she said you haven’t taught me anything.”

     My mother lifted her head, folded the skirt in half, inserted the needle into the cushion, and instructed me to stay downstairs.

     I sat there but heard nothing. Silence, and when we ate dinner that night, there was also no conversation. Plates were passed around. My father kept his eyes on his plate, and after dinner, my grandmother went upstairs while we cleared up. It was two more days of this – of a growing distance between Nona, and her daughter and granddaughter (I can’t speak for my sisters), until my father drove Nonna to Zia Anita’s house, and there she stayed for the remaining eight months.

     We visited often. It was obvious that Nonna was very happy to be there, and I’m not going to lie – the atmosphere in our home changed back to being light-hearted. My mother said it was best as my aunt’s house was much larger, and offered my Nonna more peace. Besides, she hadn’t seen her older daughter in so long…

     To be fair, Nonna was always excited to see her granddaughters. She hugged us. She kissed us, and really tried to connect with all three of us. But at eight I couldn’t figure out why she seemed so happy at Zia’s, and not so happy at our home. All I knew was what I felt which was confusing. My father clammed up in her presence. My mother was nervous. Plus there was a visible attachment to my Zio, and Zia that didn’t exist between her and my parents.

     It didn’t exist because I found out later on that she loathed my father.

     When my father came back from his mandatory military year (and a half in his case because my father was a troublemaker) he first saw my mother at a festa, dancing. He claimed that it was her waltzing abilities that caught his eye, so he asked her for a spin. Ma reluctantly said yes. She knew of him, had heard the stories, and was less than impressed. When the dance was over, Pa asked if he could take her out. She said, “Absolutely not.”

     Ma said this routine went on for a year. Can I? No. No. No. Can I though? No. Until one day it was yes, and then my mother said, “I really enjoyed being around him. He was funny, and kind, and very handsome. But his reputation wasn’t great.” My father was mischievous, a fighter when he or those he loved were threatened, a reformed Romeo, and a practical joker. He was also a hard worker, extremely responsible towards his immediate family, and very generous, and loyal to those he loved, and trusted. But if Nonna knew about his better side, she gave no indication.

     When Ma brought Pa home to meet her parents, Ma said that Nonna disliked him on sight. According to her, Pa proudly carried all the negative traits listed above plus he had no education, and would forever be a construction worker. He also came from a poor family, a poor LOUD family that was by her standards coarse, and lacked all the social etiquette required to marry Nona’s daughter. But one thing she didn’t factor in was Pa not caring what she thought. He was never openly disrespectful towards her, and instead poked back by irritating her in the guise of playfulness.

     Like the dolls. I’m not sure where the décor trend of studding a couch with dolls came from, but Nonna had three dolls dressed in long festive skirts: one for each corner of the couch, and last was placed in the middle. When Pa came over to pick my mother up for a date, there was no honking for her to run out, and away they went. In those days, a fellow who picked a girl up for a date went inside the house, so that her parents could clap eyes on him, and in many cases, pepper him with rhetorical questions then baste the guy in sceptical stares so that he left feeling truly trussed, and roasted. 

     Ma said that when Pa would come into the house to pick her up, he was polite but never enthusiastic. He would sit, listen and wait until he could leave with her, and his departure, he timed. Pa waited until both my Nonna, and mother were out of the living room, and in the foyer, before he would quickly turn each doll on its head and leave them there with their skirts up over their heads. Maybe he thought Nonna would laugh but that seems implausible. Ma said he did it to bug Nonna, and it worked so well that Pa performed this ritual every time he came to the house. Maybe he was giving Nonna a solid reason to dislike him but for my father who didn’t really care whether other people liked him or not, that would have been too much work.

     As time went on, my parents got engaged thinking that this would perhaps force my Nonna to accept him. Nope. So, my mother got pregnant, and here I want to be perfectly clear: this was not my father’s idea, but hers, and she paid for it dearly, and for the rest of her life.

     The first I heard of this grand scheme was when I was eighteen, and my sisters and I were talking to my mother about how she met my father, how their relationship progressed, and what her wedding was like, and Ma cried. Because I had only ever seen her cry once before, this shook me. 

     “Ma? Why are you crying?”

     “Shame.” When my parents went to the priest of the local Roman Catholic Church to book the ceremony, they confessed to their sin of pre-martial sex. Because of this, she and my father got married under the sky of public shame. Her explanation went like this:

     “ Your father and I got married at eleven because we were forbidden to get married at the best time – noon. Noon was for not-pregnant brides. I wore a soft green dress and jacket because I instructed white is for virgins. And the bells that ring for all weddings? Silent. Bells don’t ring for pregnant brides. And that girl that got married in white at noon with the bells ringing? She too was pregnant. She was just smart enough to lie.”

     Her tears now made way for a bitter angst, and when I tried to console her – to say how backwards the church was, and how despicable the priest was, she cut me off. “Do you understand how humiliated I was on a day that supposed to be one of the best days of my life?”

     I shut it.

     The pain of that day didn’t end there. Everytime she spoke to her mother, everytime she saw her, it all came back again. Except now she had us, the little tribe created by the deep love my parents had for each other, and I think that and time, lessened the hurt.

     Throughout her lifetime, my mother made over three hundred wedding dresses. Rarely was she glad to see the back of her brides because most shared their excitement with my mother. She, in turn, felt honoured to be part of such a special event. The most memorable dress she made was for a bride who came to my mother in her fourth month of pregnancy. The young woman, a Roman Catholic, and engaged to be married into a large Italian family, was shy. When taking her measurements, my mother reassured her that she would look absolutely beautiful on her wedding day, and the woman did, dressed in her custom-designed, white raw-silk dress adorned with hand-sewn beads and pearls. I’m not sure if this woman got married at noon, but I’m certain that everytime she came to the house for a fitting, the church bells rang for them both.  

Part One – I am Canadian. No, you’re not. Yes, I am. No, you’re not. Yes, I am.

     When my parents bought their house, they purchased it in Rexdale – about an hour outside of Toronto. The house satisfied my father’s criteria – large backyard, and single family dwelling. But for my mother, decision to buy was a little more calculated. She wanted to raise her family in a primarily Canadian neighbourhood, a place where English was the spoken language on the street and in local shops, a place where when her daughters made friends, they would be Canadian.

     This was not a rejection of her Italian culture. Instead, it was a reaffirmation of where she and my father were raising their children – in Canada. If their children were going to be fully functioning Canadian citizens, we would need to master the language, understand the laws, and rules of this society, and embrace the customs. According to my mother, living one culture inside the home only functions to make you live against the other outside the home. Rejected was the option of burrowing deep into an Italian-immigrant enclave to savour the comfort, and support of this community because eventually her children would have to enter Canadian society, and as such, she thought it best that her children understand how their country functioned, and what societal norms they would be expected to follow.  

     Theoretically, this concept works until other Canadians categorize you as not really Canadian.

     Your appearance, your name, what you have for lunch, who your older sister is, and ‘why is she hanging out with the Eye-talian kids from Father Henry Carr?’ – all this works to pull you aside from other Canadian kids, and an inner duality is born.

When hanging out with my Canadian friends, I strove to be extra Canadian. I ate Dairy Queen ice-cream – not gelato. I used a different lexicon of words, inflicted myself with a more serious demeanour just in case they thought I was just another WOP who’s only interest was boys, the latest clothes, hairstyles, make-up, music and movies from Italy, (their belief system of what Eye-talians were– not mine.) I spoke to them about my aspirations – going away to university, and getting a degree. I beefed up on provincial and federal politics, Indigenous rights, Canadian history, and Canadian literature. I lost my Italian inflection when pronouncing Italian words like ‘biscotti’ which became bizcoti – no clipped ‘C’ or, ‘T.’ But I didn’t fare any better on the alternate side.

     When I entered into the sphere of my Italian-Canadian friends, it was lipstick colours, and perms, Italian movies at the cultural centre, and what was Versace designing this season. It was dancing at Italian banquet venues like the Famee Furlane to the latest music from Italy. It was Friday night gelato on St. Clair Avenue – a main thoroughfare  that cut through the second Little Italy in Toronto, and boys wearing ‘Kiss me. I’m Italian’ t-shirts. It was the summertime CHIN Radio picnics at Centre Island on Lake Ontario that celebrated the Italians who built, and lived in Toronto. Participation fee was two outfits: daytime shorts and top, and an evening look of Jordache jeans, paired with hopefully an imported Italian top. You changed in the park bathroom, and while putting on yet another coat of lip gloss, you thought about that beautiful Italian-Canadian guy you bumped into by the rides. Summer stories were about your friend’s friend’s sister, and her grand wedding with twenty bridesmaids, twelve food courses, and a honeymoon in Italy. Less happy was the rumours about that impossibly pretty girl named Chiara who was spotted in Frank’s silver Trans Am with the T-roof. You’d never catch any Italian girl dating a Canadian guy because they just didn’t understand us. We were Italian.

     Except we were NOT.

     A trip to Italy makes this very clear. Something as simple as (incorrectly) ordering a latte macchiato in the afternoon marks you out as Canadian, and don’t even start the conversation about a glass of wine with pizza. They think they own the beer and pizza pairing. (They can have it.) and if you try and speak Italian (I gave up) with that awful accent – all this works towards the obvious. You are a Canadian not an Italian, and this is true.

     But not being enough of either leaves you nowhere except where people stick you. The trick here is to ignore it all and not care, and when I started writing this, I thought I had all this under control. But then this happened.

July 19th, 2019 – For the past two days, the internet connection was intermittent, so we called our provider, and after another twenty-four hours, a second technician arrived to fix it. My ‘Canadian’ husband and I explained the problem as tech studied the work order which is listed under my first and last name.

     He looked up and asked me, “Are you Italian?”

     “No. I’m Canadian. My parents were-”

     “Well – I figured that because you don’t speak with an accent, but Italian, right?  Anyway, your internet connection-”

     Is it a big deal? No. But my irritation is this: you asked me a question about ME. I TOLD you the answer, but you dismissed it anyway feeling more at ease with your own answer about who you think I am. Guess what Mr. Bell? I am a Canadian, and proud to be so.

     I appreciate everything my country stands for, and all the opportunities it offered my parents, and continues to offer my sisters and I. However, I am not confusing my love for this country with unfiltered adulation. We have a lot to work on. Racism is alive, and well in Canada, and our terrible treatment of the Indigenous population is despicable. But I live in a country that rejects all forms of revisionist history, and I have faith in our democratic process that isn’t diluted by vicious name calling, and personal insults. In this country, we don’t hobby in building people up only to rip them down, and while if you make it in New York – you make can it anywhere, if you make it in Canada, and you will forever be in the Canadian conscious. This steadfast loyalty doesn’t leave a lot of room for the new comers in any one field of work, but it does speak to a true North attitude, strong and free.

     I don’t resent the negative experiences I went through. They worked to inform my conscious, made me a little tougher, and awoke a deep empathy in me, and my sisters for all new immigrants to Canada.  

     Today, I am a complete Canadian whose parents were Italian during a certain time period in that country. For them, going back to visit family proved bittersweet. They left so many beloveds to start new, but Italy? It changed just as they had. They were no longer the Italians of Italy because that country was gone. They were more like their three daughters straddling cultures. For my mother this was settled once she achieved her Canadian citizenship, something my father refused to do.

     He said, “I don’t really belong to this country. But I don’t belong to Italy either.”

     I hope it was enough that he belonged to us – his family, but I’m sure it wasn’t.

Part Two – In this Country we Speak English – Code for ‘Go back to your own Country’

     If you know nothing about Torontonians, know this: they love, and appreciate cottage time. Even hardcore city people who prefer cement over trees, relish a trip up north for one overnight. It’s the quiet, the fresh clean air, the green, violet, and pink lightshow you get at midnight – if you are lucky. It’s the lake, and conversations on the dock, or deck with friends and family that can take hours because no one is going anywhere too fast. To enjoy all this though, there is the drive, and with everyone leaving the city at the same time, and limited highway space, depending on where you cottage, this can take upwards of three hours – one way.

      I grew up with my Aunt Anita (Zia) and Uncle Rinaldo (Zio) having a cottage in Parry Sound, Ontario. I have so many great memories about this place – trips when I went with them alone, where I sat between my Zia and Zio in the front seat, and when Zio drove down a hill, I would raise my hands and scream weee! The hill was not big, but I was a child, and it was fun. There were also family trips where Zia and Zio kindly opened their doors for all of us to stay, and other times where my parents would rent a cottage at the Bend’s, and we got to stay a week.

     When I turned seventeen, the property next to my Aunt and Uncle cottage went up for sale, and my parents bought it. They went up almost every weekend in the following summers, and hosted many long weekend festivities at the summer home. Joy was doubled because my Aunt and Uncle were there, and while each couple had different ideas about what it meant to ‘relax,’ they came together often. Pa, and Zio would go fishing or hunting. Ma and her sister, my Zia, would go for walks, or cook, or even just talk. If my sisters and I were around, it was in and out of the screen door for snacks, and bevies, and badminton, and boat rides, dinners preps, and a before dinner a boci ball game.

     My younger sister, ‘Y’ thrived in this outdoor environment. Today, she drives for two hours only to park, and walk for four hours in some conservation area. She needs the outdoors like my older sister needs a nice restaurant, or lively people around her, or a cocktail in an interesting bar, or a cheery pub. Upon arriving at the cottage, ‘O’ would unpack her things in five minutes, before bolting into the kitchen to ask, “Who’s in for going to town to have a nice lunch and a glass of wine? Then we can then walk around for a couple of hours shopping…no one?” ‘Y’ would say that ‘O’ missed the point, but really cottage living can be anything to anyone.

     Parry Sound in the early 2000’s was a small Ontario town. I know it had one café (I was the one who went with ‘O’ when she came into the kitchen) and a tower you could climb up to see the surrounding area. That is pretty much what I remember about the town, and to be honest, I haven’t been to Parry Sound in over ten years. I am certain that it’s changed quite a bit – perhaps it’s more diverse now than back then, but somehow I doubt it. Back then Parry Sound was white, English and protestant which didn’t matter as we didn’t live there. We did however have to venture into town once in a while to pick up something we forgot to pack.   

     In my third year of university, I couldn’t get back to Toronto to join in the Thanksgiving weekend up at the cottage. As it turns out, I missed a fantastic time where dinner began in the house, only to continue until well after midnight with sausages being cooked over the open fire. Ma said it was glorious. Everyone came together – her husband, two out of three daughters, her sister and brother-in-law – all in a mood to celebrate. On the Saturday, ‘Y’ drove Ma and Zia into Parry Sound to pick up a few last minute ingredients at the grocery store. Once in, the three of them took their time, went up and down the aisles talking quietly –  in Italian, about perhaps – this ingredient, or that recipe, or what was planned for dinner that night. When they paused for a second – still in conversation, a lady interrupted them.

     “In this country, we speak English.” Done, she walked on.  

     Her drive-by rebuke killed the conversation between my mother, and my aunt who stood shocked. Ma and Zia, two English–speaking, Canadian citizens froze, but not ‘Y” who ran right after this woman, caught up to her, and stood in front of her cart.

     “What did you say?”

     “I said, in this country we speak English.”

     “In this country – in my country, I will speak in whatever language I want, you ignorant cow. Besides those two women do speak English and probably better than you do.”

     The woman jerked her cart left to get around ‘Y,’ then accused my sister of stealing the baseball cap she was wearing, and my sister said – well nothing nice. But it was probably accurate.  

     When ‘Y’ got back to Ma and Zia, they were silent, and wanted to leave which is what they did. But ‘Y’ remained so irritated by the incident that when I called days after Thanksgiving, it was her – not my mother, that told me this story. Why? Because talk like this triggers a deep level of hurt, and makes you question everything.

     There was my mother, and aunt – both Canadians who in the course of their lives and in conjunction with their husbands, worked very hard to purchase, and pay mortgages on two properties. They contributed daily to the tax base, and exercised their privilege to vote. They raised their children in a responsible manner ensuring that they could successfully function in Canadian society.  

     But none of this matters to bigots.

     “In this country…”(means – in this country that isn’t your country…) “we” (means not you – because you are a foreigner, not a Canadian) “speak English.” (means stop talking in that strange language. This is my country. I am a Canadian. I get to tell you the rules.)

     This phrase often pre-empts the repugnant classic, “And if you don’t like this, go back to your own country.” It’s standard phrase of hate which rolls off the tongues of those who are fearful that their country is changing beyond recognition. For this woman, she was scared that her personal blueprint of Canada would be obliterated by all these immigrants. But this only fuelled her hateful rhetoric. It wasn’t what caused it.

     What made her rigid with fright was this: if the landscape of Canada changes, where will I fit in?

     No where, is my answer. In this country of constant change due to new immigration, there is no room for people who stay fixed when everything around them is fluid. Stay erect in one spot and you become the obstacle that currents move around, and eventually over. As a new immigrant, blending-in is both a painful, and exciting exercise best accomplished in deep waters framed by a flexible shoreline.

     First step is to learn the language, customs and laws of your new country. This is mandatory if you want to achieve any modicum of happiness, and positively contribute to your new home.

     Second step is that shedding of old customs for new ways. When these don’t work for you personally, you shed those and adopt anew, or go back to old customs. It’s a constant and repetitive process that requires time, and has a ripple effect. It starts with the individual. But if you have a family, they too feel the effect of your choices as do the extended family, friends in all their varied relationships, the community, the co-workers, business, neighbourhood, city, country…bottomline? Everyone is neck-deep in transition.  

So the underlying expectation that immigrants are the only ones who need to adapt is nonsensical. Every Canadian needs flexibility. But this is an uncomfortable proposal because it’s like asking someone who has always sat at the head of a table to move over a little so a new person can fit around the table. Why should they move? Weren’t they there first?

     Sure – but so what. If you think because you are a fifth generation Canadian, that this makes you exempt from having to move over, get a grip. Under the law, you are only as Canadian as a first generation Canadian is. And if that stings, think about all those naturalized Canadians. I am no more Canadian than my father-in-law who while being born in Oxford, England, has been a naturalized Canadian for over fifty years. He and I share the same rights, and responsibilities. We are both Canadian, and no one is going to tell me otherwise, and while he sits at the head of his table, he is also the first to make room for a new guest.

Part Three – Dessert anyone?

     At age seven, I made a friend who lived around the block from me – Darcy Taylor. Her parents hailed from Hunstville, and came to live in Toronto for employment. Her father was a rakishly handsome TTC bus driver who fashioned his hair, and sideburns like the 1970’s Elvis, and when her mother wasn’t teaching piano, she motored through the house with a laundry basket hitched on her hipbone, stopping in each room to eat from strategically placed bowls of potato chips. She was impossibly thin, and was forever trying to gain weight. I really liked her parents who opened their home to me often for lunchtime.

     Consumed for the first time at their table was:

  1. The ham, and cheese sandwich. The ham was milky pink, and a little slimy. It had a very delicate flavour that did not stand in the way of the bright orange cheese slices that came individually wrapped. One slice of each inserted between white bread smeared with thick lashings of mayo and voila – the ham and cheese sandwich. 
  2. Spaghetti-O’s. Small circular pasta in a can. The red tomato sauce was super –sweet, and for gruesome fun, you could forced the pasta through the gaps of your teeth, and smile. Someone punched me! Ahhh!!
  3. The ultimate sundae – everything could go over three scoops of vanilla ice cream like jarred chocolate, or butterscotch  sauce, soft goopy marshallow ‘Fluff’, multi-coloured sprinkles, Smarties, chocolate chips, and chocolate bars broken into pieces, leftover cake, or stale cookies, and canned whipped cream.
  4. Hotdogs. Dog. Bun. Ketchup, mustard, and green or yellow relish.
  5. Chocolate cake…from the kitchen table, I studied Mrs. Taylor as she torn the magic box open, added water, eggs and oil and within a forty minutes, there sat the cake. The next show was a half hour later when she cracked open the canister of frosting and applied a liberal coating over the cake. Any uneven surfaces were covered beneath a crispy layer of shredded, sugary coconut.

     Being raised to eat everything put before you, I ate every bit of it. And LOVED it. Biting into Mrs. Taylor’s culinary creations pushed aside all the regular flavours I was raised on. Prosciutto, Friulano cheese, arugula salad sandwich with mustard and no mayo – bye-bye. Barilla dried pasta with homemade meat ragu – who needs that? All those sausages made in two power weekends when my parents and their friends bought a pig, and churned out sausages from leftover cuts? Nah. And fruit for dessert? How dull.

     Much to my mother’s dismay, I talked about this food non-stop. It was so delicious, and in retrospect, Ma deserved a lot of credit because she actually bought a few. The ham and cheese experiment didn’t move the flavour dial as both my parents agreed that “It tastes like nothing.” For lunch one day, Ma and I shared the Spaghetti-O’s – a spoon each before it all went into the garbage. “It’s worse than baby food, and how much sugar is in this – by the way?” The sundae was a straight-up “No.” Her question was “Why no fruits or nuts?” The boxed cake repulsed her. “There is something wrong with making a cake from a box.” So, back to fruit…but not.

     From this whole experiment came the recognition that having something kicking around the pantry that was sweet wasn’t a bad idea. My mother’s only stipulation: it must have fruit in it.  

     So started the series of thumbprint cookies with jam centres, diced and braised plums, or apricots stuffed inside biscuits rolled to resemble smiling croissants, apple slice coffee cake, and finally, the almighty Upside-down Pineapple Cake.

     While my mother started me off, it soon became my responsibility to make something fruit-filled each week, and I think that every dessert I made contained the added ingredient of resentment. I’d beat that batter, thinking – Where’s the chocolate, the butterscotch, or the carmel? What about chocolate in all its glorious forms – those hard nuggets that melt into a stream of sweetness when you cut into that warm moist cake? Or, powdered chocolate that colours and richly flavours half the batter before being swirled into a marble cake form? And chocolate icing with a touch of peppermint extract? Where is all this? Whining, and complaining is all I did.

     To shut me up, my mother bought a discount chocolate cookbook. From this, I made various icings and glazes, truffles and candy, puddings, cheesecakes, cupcakes, tortes and cakes. But before they arrived on the table, my mother cut everything into pieces. For example, my mother could dissect a cake slice into nine pieces. We all had a taste but no one ever ate a whole piece. Too rich, too much sugar, too fatty – these were her reasons when asked why the mince. It didn’t deter me though. I continued until one day, it all stopped. I retired the book on the lowest shelf, and went back to basics: the one-egg cake, plain, no icing, and a reduced amount of sugar. For the next while, I was happy to let dessert happen at other people’s home.

     Even now, I rarely bake with chocolate. If I do, it’s dark, and bitter. What I do bake with often is fruits, and nuts. I also really enjoy an unexpected savoury note in my desserts – like a sugared herb. But when I want something sweet and decadent, I buy it. And I don’t share it. I want the whole piece. It drives me crazy to watch my sisters massacre a dessert. Five different pastries turns into fifteen crumbed pieces, with the squashed custard or cream smeared on the plate.  

     “That way, everyone gets to taste each one.”

     Okay. Well how about this: I get a whole one of my choosing, and if I want, I’ll eat another. And maybe even another. Have I ever done this? No, but don’t cut this option out. Cause really? Is there any real benefits to being an adult?

Upside-Down Ontario Peach-Barberry Cake

For the syrup, and cake portion of this recipe, all credit goes to Trisha Yearwood. All I did is sub in the peach and barberries for the pineapple slices and cherries. You can find her original recipe available on the internet. I find that everything she creates matches her attitude in the kitchen – AMAZING!!

Topping

3 Tbsp. butter

½ cup brown sugar

4 peaches – skin off and sliced – (will use less but those can be quickly snacked on AFTER placing what’s needed in the pan)

4 tsp. of dried barberries – they taste like dried cranberries and cut the sweetness of this cake plus they are purdy!

Preheat the oven. On the stovetop, and over very low heat, melt the butter in a 8 x 8 x 2 baking pan. Once the butter has melted, remove it from heat, and sprinkle the sugar evenly across the surface. Over this, place the slices of peach in a desired pattern, and where slices don’t meet, put a cluster of barberries sprinkling the rest all over.

#1 Cake – dry ingredients

1 ½ cups of sifted all-purpose flour

2 tsp baking powder

¼ tsp salt

Sift this all together – twice and put aside.

#2 Cake – ingredients that will be all wet once you cream them all together

1/3 cup solid vegetable shortening

2/3 cup granulated sugar

1 large egg

¾ tsp pure vanilla extract

Cream this all together real good.

#3 Cake

2/3 cup of milk

Blend in flour and milk alternatively starting, and ending with flour.

Drop cake batter into pan in nine spaced places, carefully and lightly spreading the mixture so it covers all the peaches. Bake 40 minutes, or until cake springs back when touched. Run a knife around the edges, and turn it over onto a cakeplate. Leave it there for a few minutes thereby allowing all the juicy sauce to soak into the cake. Now lift it. TIP – you may find some of the slices clinging to the bottom of the pan. Don’t freak out. During the baking, these slices will have made a permanent imprint in the cake. So grab a fork, and slot them back in place. No one except you will there was a little mishap.

Make sure to serve yourself a whole slice. You deserve it.

From my heart to yours.

Dentures. The Woman in Me. What did the priest say?

      For people who grew up during, and after the war, dental care was a luxury available to only the wealthy. But immigrating to Canada offered my parents a whole new dental hygiene perspective, plus an opportunity to get things fixed. For my father, this culminated in a partial bridge, then a bridge, implants, veneers, gold fillings, aluminium fillings and finally a full set of dentures.

     His decision to proceed with the last did not come easily. In fact, he thought about it for at least two years, weighing out the gains – a painless, toothsome future, and bright smiles for everyone versus going to bed at night as a toothless not-so-young Romeo. Was the contemplation due to vanity? Maybe, but I think it was aging, and to be sure, no one looks forward to getting older. You can accept it gracefully but add devices like dentures, canes, walkers, or protection pads in your underwear, and born is an internal struggle. Yes, you are grateful for all these helpers. But they also serve as reminders. Everytime you use them gone is the self of yesterday. Every morning you wake one day older, and this march will continue until you are dead.

     What?

     Right. Dentures.

     Once he decided to proceed, Ma took my sisters, and I aside for a quiet word. “He’s a little sensitive about the whole thing, so don’t bring it up regardless of what you see.  

     Perplexed, my sisters and I asked. “What are we going to see?”

     “He won’t have teeth for a few days until the swelling goes down. So if your father needs to speak – well, just don’t make fun of him.”

     As if my sisters and I were that heartless. Or stupid.

     The week slipped by without commentary, and by Sunday, all that went unnoticed but noticed had passed. I woke looking forward to a day with my family. In my house, Sundays were off limits to friends. It was church, followed by lunch, then some relaxing before dinner prep, and then eating family dinner. We closed the night out with family time in front of the television.

     On this Sunday following the dentures’ arrival, Pa dropped my mother, my sisters and I off at church (“Pray for me,” he said – my mother rolled her eyes.) He picked us up after service (“Did you pray for me? – now we all rolled our eyes). Then Pa disappeared into the shed waiting for us to prepare lunch. My younger sister ‘Y’ went downstairs, and my older sister, ‘O’ slipped away to talk to her boyfriend on the HOMEphone.

     I stayed, and helped my mother prepare the lunch – frittata with whatever was leftover from the past few days. I minced the garlic, and onion and as that cooked, I chopped up the cooked zucchini, roasted red peppers, and left over salami. Ma washed the salad. The conversation between us consisted of a few scattered words until she said, “Vania, it is so strange to kiss your father goodnight now that he doesn’t have any teeth.” Then she giggled.

     I was overwhelmed with emotion. My parents expressed affection for each other, and us all the time and openly, but I had only ever seen my parents kiss on the lips once. So having my mother confess this to me made me feel grown-up – a girl turned woman. It was so significant that my mind has marked this moment forever. I see the sun coming into the window, the pattern of light, and shadow filtered through the lace curtains, and it fell on to the table. I see Ma in her yellow sundress with the flowers, her front teeth, and how one was slightly fixed over the other. I feel her long fingers, and how her perfect oval nails rested on the skin of my wrist as she spoke. I joined her in the giggle but my smile spoke of happiness at everything being right. Here I was – a girl this morning but an eighteen-year old woman now in the kitchen with her mother sharing intimacies.

     Ridiculous? Maybe, but this moment meant, and still means a lot to me.   

     With lunch ready, I called everyone to the table, and there they sat – my father at the head, and me opposite him at the other end; ‘O’ and ‘Y’ on my right with my mother on my left. I remember passing the frittata around, and regarding each of my family members with the love only a woman – not a girl-child, can bestow, and they looked back at me.

     “What’s up, freak?” asked ‘O.’

     ‘Y’ just looked at me briefly before dismissing me entirely.

     “I’m just happy,” I said, and around went the salad.

     Then Pa asked, “What did the priest say today?” and this dissolved into a thousand other topics that over the next forty minutes we discussed, and debated. I watched them – my sisters and parents, and I remember it now in slow motion – laughter, heads thrown back, pointing each other, more laughter.

     Okay that didn’t happen. Instead, this did.

     Pa asked, “What did the priest say?”

     I lifted my face from the plate, looked at him, and then I saw something that made me convulsive in laughter. The fork slipped from between my fingers, and I between gulps of air, I thought, It’s gonna happen. I’m going to pee my panties right here. But I can’t stop. I can’t even breathe…and I don’t care.

     I did try though. To breathe. To stop. Seconds of slowing down but then I would look at Pa again, and there he sat: very still, with his chin out, his neck extended long, the tanned skin of his face, neck and shoulders dark against the white sleeveless undershirt. And that new smile, a bright shock of white, big teeth, all those choppers perfectly lined up.

     And below this, strung (on fishing line) were his old yellowed teeth – a necklace of decayed, pre-historically, and impossibly long molars, and an eyetooth, one front tooth – maybe eleven teeth in total. And I couldn’t hold it in. I slammed my foot down.  

     Ma was furious, shocked at my insensitivity. “Vania. Stop it. Now. I mean it.”

     But I couldn’t stop it, or him. One daughter down. Pa shifted his attention now to ‘O.’ He asked, “What did the priest say?”

     ‘O’ surveyed the scene, looking from me to my father. She knew that my laughing at Pa’s new teeth was seriously offensive, plus a serious offence, so why was I still alive? Finally she saw the fangs around his neck, and pow. Gone. Two daughters down. ‘Y’ was next. He asked, “What did the priest say?”

     She began to answer but instead said, “Oh. My. God.”

     I stopped laughing long enough to ask, “You don’t find this funny?”

     She said, “No. I find this disgusting. I mean, I’m trying to eat.”

     Sputter…water from the nose, and a chorus of cackles. Eating…’O’ and I dove into another fit. It took at least thirty seconds but ‘Y’ joined us, eventually.

     By this time, Ma was furious. Her sole focus was the ruined lunch, and the shenanigans at the table. “Will someone tell me what exactly is going on?”

     Pa did. He faced her. He smiled – flawless. He even dashed off a wink before drawing his index finger across his collarbone. “Rica…you like my neck-o-lace?”

     She gasped. “Oh, Gianni. That’s terrible.” Then she laughed.  

     Pa went on to explain how difficult it was to drill small holes into his teeth, how some had dissolved under the pressure of the drill bit. In fact –

     “Stop,” she said. “Enough. At least take the necklace off while we are having lunch.”

     But my father refused, and lunch went on.

     Now, when I recall this whole episode, I think of the effort my father took in drilling those little holes into his teeth. I think that perhaps this was his way of taking the sting out of getting older, or perhaps of taking some control over a situation he found embarrassing.

     But most of all I think about how he took something personal, and made it an incident we could all share with laughter.

Ma’s Frittata – You can eat it without your teeth in.

The idea behind this meal is to use all your leftovers. So, if was good last night as the side dish, it’s perfect for this meal. All you need to avoid is mixing flavour profiles that perhaps don’t necessarily taste their best together. For example, if you had a beautiful lamb rogan josh for lunch, and an amazing side of roasted potatoes with Italian seasonings, you might want to NOT put these together in a frittata. Having said that, I am not the boss of you. I just want you to cook something, and if this is it, then I am happy.

Ingredients

Any cooked vegetable like zucchini, squash, roasted tomato, cooked potato, grilled eggplant, onion, spinach, rapini, escarole, peppers etc.

OR

Any raw vegetable – cook whatever you have left over in the storage bin or fridge – sautée them in order of the longest cooking time to the shortest. I start with onion, and garlic. How much is too much vegetable? There should be slightly less vegetable to eggs. But it’s personal. Do what you want – whatever suits. You can do all Indian, or Chinese, or Korean vegetables with a back up of seasonings from this culture. It is all awesome. TIP: Easiest way to refresh leftovers is to cook something fresh, and add it. Just know that for this recipe, all the vegetables must be cooked before adding the egg, or you will end up with a wet, sloppy mess.

8 to 10 eggs serves 4 people for a dinner with a small portion for lunch next day – it all depends on how many people you are feeding, or what mealtime you’re servicing. I always cook more than I need because (a) I’m part Italian, and we always cook for twenty people even if 2 are coming over. (b) Anything I don’t eat for lunch, or dinner, I have for breakfast.

Herbs – your favourite – match them accordingly to what the vegetables suit – I almost always use parsley in the mix and then topped my frittata with finely torn fresh basil leaves

Cheese – again, tail ends, or go straight to that lovely hunk of parmesan – about ½ cup will do

Cold cuts – that leftover slice of ham, or roast beef you couldn’t cram inside that overstuffed Sammie – cut it fine.

Olive oil

Directions

1. Pre-heat your oven to 375 F.

2. Beat the eggs with a whisk – get some air in there. Leave to one side.

3. In a large sauté pan, or non-stick fry pan with at least 4 inch depth, heat up the cooked vegetable in 2 tbsp of olive oil on medium heat. Stir those vegetables to reach uniform temperature. By doing this you avoid introducing cold into a hot oven. Also,this doesn’t mess up your bake time. If starting with raw vegetables, cook them first. Set element to med-high, and start with onion and garlic, and 1 tsp. of salt. Stir and cook for ten minutes or until soft. Reduce heat, and then add your next vegetable. TIP: If you are using really dense vegetables like raw potatoes or raw squash, dice them small, and add some water to cook them almost through. If you don’t add the water, they will not cook. In fact things might burn, or worse, you will serve a dish with raw potato, and squash. Not good.  Follow this by items like peppers, etc saving any leafy vegetable like spinach for the end. Idea here is to get as much water out, and let the flavours layer. Add your herbs. Add any meat. Don’t cook the herbs or meat for longer than 5 more minutes. Spread, and arrange this mixture into an even layer that covers the bottom of your pan. 

4. Briefly beat those eggs again. Pour them right over all the ingredients slowly. Sprinkle the cheese on the top.

5. Pop the pan into the oven, and check on it visually after twenty minutes. It should rise – mine does, and always unevenly. But once out, it will deflate as quickly as it rose, so don’t worry about it. Total cook time is about 25-30 mins. – you’re looking for cooked egg at the surface – firm as it should not be runny in the centre. But it should also not be hard to the touch.  

6. Wait five minutes, and pour a little finishing olive oil on it and top with basil.

7. Serve it with some nice bread, and salad.

All this from my heart to yours.

Racism. WOP’s. Jodi-the-two-fingered-*itch. Cathie’s Most Excellent Mungi-Cake Salad Dressing

     My older sister came to Canada with my parents in 1965. They emigrated from the north of Italy – not the south where the majority of Italians immigrants came from. To a born, and bred Canadian, this means very little. But to an Italian, where your family comes from is either the beginning of a lifelong friendship, or an instant dismissal. Fact is people from the north have a very specific opinion about people from the south. And, people from the south have a very specific opinion about people from the north. To repeat what each says about the other is to perpetuate stereotypes, and bigotry that only exist to make one group feel falsely superior over the other. Just know that the north-versus-south-south-versus-north is only the outer layer of the onion.

     Peeling this back reveals more exacting dispersions cast over the people who live in the next town over, and at this level, it’s complicated because it also involves your family’s reputation for at least three generations back. Now, none of this matters when Italians are faced with an outside foe. Boundaries? Erased. Regional pride takes a backseat to national honour. They are all Italian. Period.  

     During the fifties, when a large wave of Italians immigrated to Canada, they entered into a predominately white, Anglo-Saxon English-speaking society. One culture dropping into another culture, works adding vinegar to oil. Nothing blends unless a constant and rigorous shake is applied. During this shake-up though, cultural elements from the birth country are irreversibly damaged, irradiated, or stolen and/or appropriated by the other culture. It’s a painful process for all. Immigrants weigh what is to be lost but they aren’t the only ones who mourn.

     As recently as six months ago, my neighbour said, “Canada just isn’t the same now with all those Chinese coming in, and sleeping fifteen to a bachelor apartment – you know, out on the water front. Immigrants are changing this country.”

     Or, “The bank teller didn’t even speak English.” Sceptical, I asked, “No English? As in not ONE word of English?”

     “There was an accent. I couldn’t understand them. You can’t even get people to speak English at the bank, or the hospital. You have to deal with them everywhere now. ”

     Two comments on top of the thousands I’ve heard over the last fifty years. Do I say anything? Deliver a lecture? Try and change their mind? It’s tricky.

     Being a Selvaggi means when I am deeply offended, I say so. In my twenties, it was a fight. There was name calling, pointing, definitely yelling, and perhaps even some crying in frustration over the fact that you obviously didn’t get the meaning of my emotional jumble of words. Now, it’s a lot more dry, and cutting. I will state my opinion of your opinion. I may refer to some facts. I will wait, and if you say something that is equally offensive to what you said to start this, I think, Lost cause. I don’t bother.

     Now, if in passing, I’m hit by a racist comment, here are the stages of my thoughts.

     Stage One: Wow. You are a racist. I’m disgusted…but also shocked. (three seconds)

     Stage Two: Racism is a taught behaviour. Who taught you? Parents? Family? Friends? Community? Fear? (four seconds)

     Stage Three: Is your age a factor? There was a time, not so long ago when saying shitty things was acceptable…so?

     Stage Four: I’m out. You, and I will never be friends. I will never care enough about you to ever use my allotted time on this earth to convince you that your racism will negative affect every single part of your life – nevermind the damage you cause. But I will not fight you – verbal or otherwise. I cannot be bothered.

      There are problems with this. Perhaps you’ll call me a coward – a person who has a lot of opinions on racism but when faced with a racist, does nothing. Through my experience with being at the receiving end of racism, and after confronting a few racists, I’ve come to understand that racism has wart-like roots. They run deep, and only a deep freeze will kill this hate. A chance encounter, and lecture from me will never change someone’s fundamental racist perspective and I don’t have any time to spend on you.

     I struggle with my stance on this because the world today is tiny. Any action born of hatred causes local catastrophes but circles the world in seconds of being reported, or posted. Some times I wonder – what if I invested time in a person who was racist. Got them to change their mind? Prevented one of these catastrophes? Romantic twaddle that borders on nepotism. To think that one individual has the power, and allure over someone’s hateful behaviour is unrealistic. Living hate is a sharper existence than living love, and peace. We are so fine tuned to feeling an immediate bump in adrenaline when interacting with each other. Make someone smile – well, that was nice. Hurt someone, and the reaction is visceral. You feel something akin perhaps to victory. You exerted superiority over this strange person who is different from you…so different and foreign that perhaps they scared you a little.

     Who me? I’m not scared.

     Well then, how did this whole thing start?

     Fear. Fear kills all humanity.

      How did we get from “Dino is lazy. You know he’s an Italian, right?” to “All Italians are lazy.”

     We got here because of our fear of Dino, and his differences. I mean really – WTF are they all about?

     Wait. “Ever speak to Dino?”

     “No – he barely speaks English plus that accent. Plus he’s got all this weird stuff going on.”

     “What weird stuff?”

     By the time my parents, and older sister arrived here, enough time had passed for fears, and suspicion to solidify into opinion. On the most innocent level, Italians were Eye-talians, and Canadians were those mungi-cakes.  

     On a more sinister level, Eye-talians were all mafia, greasy uneducated Catholics, stinky garlic eaters, and WOP’s.

     To prise the facts from the ugly descriptors leaves you with this.

     The Italian Mafia: it exists, but to think that everyone from one country belongs to their namesake mafia is idiotic. I bet that if you met someone from an organized crime family in passing, you wouldn’t know it unless they told you, and that would only happen if you’ve caused yourself to be noticed. Same thing would happen if you broke into a Hell’s Angels clubhouse…you know them – the NOT Eye-talian organization? Never once did I think that every Canadian-born person I’ve ever known belongs to that club. They too have rules for admission…pretty sure no one I know would make their grade.

     The physical devastation of Italy after WWII caused many of its citizens to seek opportunity elsewhere. Canada, Australia, and Argentina, were popular choices as the United States of America was more difficult to get into. Applicants offered skilled labour – skills learned on the work site, not in the classroom, and it might surprise you to know that many of these immigrants were sponsored by companies building our Canadian city centres. So, uneducated? Yes, formally uneducated. But not stupid, or unaware. All three of us were expected to attend a post secondary educational institute. This was something not offered to my father, and my mother had to cut her apprenticeship short due to illness. But not-going was never an option. 

     The Roman Catholic Church provided Italian immigrants an instant community. Services were held in Italian as were the social events. Friendships formed. The church provided solace in a foreign land, a safe place to worship as they did back in Italy, and weekly structure. But at no point did the Roman Catholic Italian immigrants want to covert Protestant Canadians. That would have interfered with getting home on time for Sunday lunch. Food trumps conversion.

     Garlic is a key ingredient used all over the world for very specific recipes. Not every Italian recipe has garlic in it, and when it does, hardly ever does it call for raw garlic that when consumed does impart a rather pungent odour when perspiring. I love the smell of sautéed garlic, and maybe it was this that many Canadians referred to with this comment. Personally, I think this label is cheap and lazy, and says more about an insecure person who is easily shaken by things unfamiliar. Because I was raised to eat everything put in front of you – at home, and as a guest, out of respect for the person who took time out of their day to make something for you, I ate a lot of strange things. The strangest was ‘Canadian’ food that according to my palate lacked any depth of flavour. Marconi and cheese is pretty one note unless you add sautéed onions, or bacon, or sharpen it with aged Canadian cheddar.

     Now, Italians did label Canadians as mungi-cakes. They were perplexed with the dessert after both lunch and dinner. My friend, Darcy, had awesome ice cream sundaes studded with leftover cake bits, and topped with marshmallow fluff, Smarties, and chocolate syrup. When I tried to sell this idea to my mother, she handed me the regular piece of fruit. “Eat that.” Pastries arrived on the weekend with guests.

     WOP. Heard this so much growing up. Dirty *ucking WOP. The term implies that as an Italian immigrant, you arrived in Canada illegally: With Out Papers. The term is transferable to the children of Italian immigrants. Growing up, I was a WOP, or a daigo. What I wasn’t was a Canadian which is exactly what I am. Being called WOP would make me wish my parents weren’t Italians, would frustrate me, make me feel defeated, and ultimately bring me to tears. Not my older sister though.

     She arrived in Canada at the age of four. By the time I was six, ‘O’ had learned how to navigate WOP for six years.

     Talking about it recently, ‘O’ said “I was the same then as I am now. I’m vocal. I will never let someone say awful things to me, or bully me without hearing it right back.”

     When ‘O’ arrived in Canada, my parents had recently moved back to Italy from Switzerland. Work permits in Switzerland prohibited them from taking ‘O’ with them. Instead, she was raised by my paternal grandparents, great-uncle, and uncle. They doted on her – her being everything to them. She wanted for nothing. She was their joy. When my parents went back every three months to see ‘O’, she didn’t listen to them. According to my mother, “Getting your sister to understand that your father and I were her actual parents was tough.” To be expected, and then they immigrated to Canada.

     Like my parents, ‘O’ didn’t speak any English. In kindergarten, being misunderstood, or not understood at all, turned her into a force, and while over the years she’s smoothed out some of the edges, ‘O’ has essentially stayed the same vocally. She doesn’t raise her voice. But make her mad, and you WILL hear what she has to say. She doesn’t expect to be right. She just wants you to know that you are wrong. Coming at her- or someone physically near her – with malice brings all this to the surface.

     Example?

     When I was six, and ‘O’ ten, Jodi moved into the neighbourhood. She was Canadian, with blonde shoulder-length hair. Her hard face gave no comfort – all angles – lines for lips, sharp peaky nose, and chin that could shave paper. Jodi also had seven digits between her two hands: a full five on one, and a thumb, and pinkie on the other. This fact still makes me feel for her. It was the seventies, and as a child of this decade, trust me when I say we had no sensitivity training in the public school. The Board of Education also failed to address racism.  

     Jodi, and my sister were in grade five while I was in afternoon kindergarten. This gave me no visibility on what exactly ‘O’ or Jodi were up to which apparently was not good.

     Within the month of Jodi arriving, classmates buzzed about Jodi…in particular, her questioning of my sister’s social standing. “I mean, how can you guys be friends with a WOP?”

     In response, ‘O’ said, “How can you guys be friends with a two-fingered bitch?”

     Within days, things escalated, and landed at our front door in a stand-off: my mother, and ‘O’ facing Jodi and her mother, and me behind the door. The conversation went like this.

     “I hear your daughter has been calling my daughter a two-finger-bitch?”

     “I hear that your daughter has been calling my daughter a WOP.”

     “Well you guys are WOP’s”

     “Well, your daughter does has two-fingers, but I think that you are the bitch.”

     Door slammed. Case closed.

     Jodi and ‘O’ became friends after that but neither got into the other’s house. There was no cultural exchange, no below the surface diving, just two kids getting along.  

     For me, it was a missed opportunity for everyone but some things can’t be unsaid. Two-fingered bitch, or WOP. Take your pick.

     ‘O’ said recently that Ma never should have defended her, that she was wrong to call Jodi that name. I agree. The amount of hurt and pain Jodi probably felt everytime someone commented on her hand, that can’t be quantified.

     But neither can being called a WOP.  

Cathie’s Most Excellent Salad Dressing

In the spirit of shaking up some vinegar, and oil and making something extra tasty, here is my mother-in-law’s salad dressing recipe. It is perfect for coleslaw, iceberg lettuce, or dense vegetable salad like beans, or shaved carrot, cold-water soaked slivered onion, cucumber and tomato salad. I’d also brush some on vegetables before they hit the BBQ. I have added some Italian options, but if Cathie was still alive, I would stick to her original out of respect.

Actually, I wouldn’t.

I think she would have loved, and appreciated the alterations. From all accounts, Cathie was an all encompassing, beautiful woman who’s curiosity about everything drove her to explore, ask questions, and appreciate answers. Visible in her son, my husband, is this constant belief: What we share as people is far greater than our differences. 

Ingredients – put everything into a 500 ml. mason jar

3 Tbsp. sugar – I have used both brown, and white – I prefer the deeper flavour of brown

1 tsp salt

3 grinds of black pepper

2 tsp dry mustard

2 tsp of your favourite herb mix – I have use oregano, and thyme. I have also used Za’tar, or poppy seeds, or chilli flakes.

2 tsp. Worcestershire Sauce

1 cup of oil – use either vegetable oil (will solidify a bit in fridge when stored), or olive oil (which will solidify a lot when stored. If using olive oil, cut the recipe in half to avoid the repetitive coming-to-room-temp-solidifying-again-in-the fridge. This will happen with each use.)

1/3 cup vinegar – for a light dressing, white wine. For EYE-talian, use balsamic.

Directions: Shake that jar until it looks creamy. Store in the fridge and use within ten days.

My heart to yours.

The Garden. The *ssholes. The Tomato.

     The Garden: Within a few years of emigrating from Italy to Canada, my parents bought their first house. It was small – two bedrooms, but the lot is still considered spacious by today’s standards. The garden went in immediately, and was comprised of six cleared rectangular plots separated by cemented walkways. It was only a few summers ago that my brother-in-law, ‘F’ cleared the whole area for a beautiful fire pit, and lounging area. When F started, he was full of excitement. But when he finished, there was a lot of head shaking. Apparently those walkways were constructed with nuclear war in mind – the cement being at least five feet deep, and ‘F’, who is never shy of working hard, just couldn’t dig them out without renting heavy equipment. ‘F’ has found this same anchoring system beneath the patio, the decorative well, and the other walkway directly behind the house. My father was committed to build-everlasting, amen with no half measures ever, as demonstrated by this garden.   

     This space provided food for my family throughout the summer, and fall, plus anything we pickled, and froze fed us throughout the winter. The last produce eaten was at the end of December – radicchio burrowed beneath layers of burlap. The outer layers of this salad would be frozen, but once cut away, burgundy, and white speckled leaves of the radicchio were revealed. While I grew to appreciate and like it, I hated radicchio back then. All of one taste – salty, or sweet, sour, or umami, or, bitterness – for me, isn’t ideal, and by dressing the radicchio with a simple salt, pepper, red wine vinegar, and olive oil Ma failed balance out the bitterness. It landed on my plate as the last thing I ate, and in my house, you ate whatever was on your plate.

     The *ssholes. Full transparency: I’ve never been blessed with children, and as a woman, I always keep my mouth shut when it comes hearing discussions about ‘mothering’, or other people’s children. If asked though, I do offer whatever I can, and in the past here is how some mothers have responded: ‘Thanks, but you can’t possibly know what I’m talking about because you don’t have children.’  This statement is fact.

     But here are a couple more facts.  

1. I had parents.   

2. I was a child.

3. I am part of that whole ‘mythological’ village that raises children. I deal with other people’s parenting choices everyday. But be assured: when I witness a child behaving exactly the way they, or he, or she, wants  to, and by doing so, negatively affects me, it’s never the child, but the parent I wonder about. I don’t do it with malice. I willingly help when asked as there is might be a lot going on behind closed doors that I know nothing about. Understandably, very little of this is exposed by way of explanation. Mostly, I hear about ‘how ‘precious’ needs to be a child, and don’t you remember doing this when you were young?’ ‘Not really’ is my response because while I was no angel, my parents’ rules informed my behaviour. If I acted out in public, the lecture would happen in private, when we got home. It was my mother that would remind me, softly, and with a tense smile that I should look forward to the future. “Wait until you get home,” was the refrain. While parenting has changed over the last fifty years, what has not is the need to provide boundaries for children, to gently let them know what is expected.

     I live in a busy city centre. I see a lot of tired parents – coupled, or singled adults, who, I imagine, after working a full day – sometime a day, and half, perhaps dread coming home to a lively, push-back discussion about what is placed on the table as a meal. To avoid the arguments, whining, and crying, some parents will make their children separate, special meals; the funny-face sandwich, the vegetable cut into animal shapes, and the smiley-spaghetti with meatball eyes, and lips. Other parents acquiesce to the ketchup-on-everything request because to have their child eat something is better than them not eating at all. And, let me be clear – I am a fan of ketchup on my burger. I also appreciate the tomato, and high sugar content as many homemade BBQ sauces call for just this. But ketchup on everything?  For any parent to make both an adult, and child meal per night is unreasonable, and I would go as far as to say, this is a no-win situation. How does this foster a child’s recognition of how hard parents work to provide meals for their children?   

     In my home, I ate everything because there was no discussion of other options. That isn’t to say I didn’t try it on though. There were two rebellions at age eight. I spearheaded the first one by stuffing the offensive meal into my mouth before being excused to go to the bathroom where I spit it into the toilet. I returned victorious only to find a replenished plate. As my mother did the dishes, I sat. I cried some fake tears. I truly believed this defined torture. My mother laughed, not at me but by my dramatic efforts. “Vania. Some people have nothing to eat. Food is expensive, and we work very hard to feed you three. Eat it. And stop acting like a spoilt brat.”

     So, I ate it – probably tripe, or giblets. But her message sat on the surface.    

     A few months later, my older sister, ‘O,’ staged the second rebellion. It started before my father got home from work. A melodious effort with us chanting “We’re not eating this for nobody,” while we banged the ends of our cutlery to the beat, which ended abruptly when my father entered the kitchen. He had heard enough. My mother rose from the table, and went downstairs, and back to work while Pa hit the roof.  

     There was yelling, descriptors like ‘awful,’ ‘ungrateful,’ ‘no-good-children-of-mine,’ and ‘spoiled.’ Before he left to go to the garden shed for some peace, he said, “I expect you to eat your dinner, do the dishes, and if you ever try this again, you will find yourselves without food. You should be ashamed of yourselves, the way your mother works, and you pull this stunt. First apologize to your mother.” No one had the guts. We ate even though we weren’t hungry, and then we cleaned the kitchen. Only then did we slither downstairs for the apology. But my mother cut it off. She said, “I’m so upset with you three, I can’t even look at you.” Away we went to bed. (Note; to be fair, my younger sister ‘Y’ went along with the rebellion because she wanted to stand alongside her sisters. I’m fairly certain that she really had no idea what was going on.)  But “O” and I never ever did this again.

     Now, some of you will say, “child abuse,” – to yell at your children like that, to make them eat something they don’t like. I say, bullshit to both counts. We were acting like assholes, and got called on it. That is a parent’s prerogative. No one got hurt, except for my mother ironically enough. Sometimes parents don’t have the time to negotiate, and explain what is for dinner. Some parents negotiate and explain for a living, so doing it at home isn’t ideal. Perhaps some parents dream about one meal for all, and a table shared by loved ones. This can be a reality but to achieve it, you may have to sit at a table of children acting like exactly the way want to.   

     From my experience, I was never in doubt about who was in charge. I could ask as many questions as I desired – one of them being, ‘Do we really have to eat this?” The answer was always, “Yes” with a look. The look harkened back to a number of facts that haven’t changed at all, namely: ingredients are still expensive; most parents work hard to earn money to feed their children; feeding their children sometimes requires cooking which requires time; time is a limited commodity. Getting your children to understand that eating what is put in front of them is at base level recognition of the genuine effort most parents make while raising a family. I had to learn this twice in a very direct manner. But there are more fun avenues to take.

     Today, with so many children unable to identify the most basic produce, I would encourage parents to shop with their children, involve them in the buying for the week’s meals. Encourage them to assist in preparing simple elements of a meal is essential. Even more instructional is the seed-to-plant-to-produce journey, where children nurture portions of their future meals. My sisters and I spent a lot of time in the garden, planting, picking out weeds, picking off produce while talking to our parents about our day, or complaining about each other.

     The Tomato; In our garden the best produce was the tomato. For two months, we’d eat them with a sprinkle of salt, right off the vine. Living in an apartment with no balcony eliminates these two months of gradual enjoyment, leaving me with two weeks to purchase fresh tomatoes that sometimes lack the sharp green scent of summer. So what do I do to get the best of out of my tomatoes year round? I slow roast them in the oven.

Slow Roasted Tomatoes – 2 hours cooking – largely unattended

Ingredients

Plum tomatoes – about ten, firm tomatoes – cut roughly into chunks. Using your thumb, scoop out the seeds. Tip: Leave them to drain on a paper towel for about a half hour after clearing them out.

½ tsp. black pepper

Olive oil – 3 tbsp. or to coat

2 tbsp. of either balsamic vinegar, or Worcestershire sauce.  Tip: either of these will deepen the flavour of the tomatoes without overriding their goodness

Steps:

1. Pre-heat the oven to 250 F.

2. With the exception of the oil, put all the ingredients into a baking dish. If they are touching, that is perfectly fine. It just might mean you’ll have to cook them for slightly longer. As they cook, they will shrink as their moisture evaporates. Using your HANDS gently mix them to coat. Add the olive oil, and mix again before placing them into the oven.

3. Over the next few hours, they will cook very, very slowly. They will shrink but keep their shape. Every half-hour use a spatula to move them around the pan gently. In the second hour, you might notice a brown residue coating the bottom of the pan. Lift this up by using your spatula, or place the tomatoes pieces over this to loosen it, and then lift the residue. You want all this goodness. 

4. Once all the moisture has left the bottom of the pan, take them out. Again gently turn them, removing all the brown flavour. Let them cool. Store them in the fridge.

These are part of my fridge staples. Note; they do not have any salt so you need to salt them as you use them. I use them the following ways:

  • add some to a salad
  • on a charcuterie board – tastes especially delicious on a crisp cracker with an Italian salty black pitted olive, and chevre
  • add a few to a jar along with more balsamic, and olive oil, salt and pepper, and blitz them smooth into a tomato dressing for any dense salad of beans, canned, avocado-corn, etc: they are also great over boiled eggs, or any sandwich or packed lunch
  • topping on pizza, or pasta, or polenta as a side dish
  • my ultimate favourite – home made ricotta with these tomatoes dotted onto of an open face Sammie. Add a few torn basil leaves, a sprinkle of salt and pepper, zest a bit of lemon, and this alongside a salad in the summer is a wonderful light dinner – it’s also a little taste of Italian sun shine in the cold months.

I make these tomatoes while doing other things. But it doesn’t matter when, or how you enjoy it. I just hope that you consume it in health, and happiness.

From my heart to yours, people.

How to Remedy a Pain in the Lamb Neck

     When growing up, Ma purchased from the grocery store, or butchers’ off-cuts, and value-for-money selections. I’d like to say Ma elevated chicken wings, or chicken drumettes, minute steaks, liver, and giblets into culinary marvels, but achieving this required interest, and time, both of which she lacked but only during the work week.

     Weekend meals were different. Pa – a skilled hunter, filled our freezer with proteins like woodcock, pheasant, duck, and traded portions of these for venison, and moose. She transformed this game meat into beauty mainly through marinating in simple aromatics, plus vinegar, wine and water. Cooking it was routine. She’d drain the meat, and discarded the liquid while the Italian trinity of finely chopped onion, celery, and carrot cooked until it stuck to the bottom of a pot. Rosemary was introduced along with tomato paste – a few minutes only, and then all was lifted by a splash of red wine. Only then was the meat put in along with tomatoes – either crushed or whole – both canned. There it cooked all Sunday afternoon. Did it over cook? Occasionally – maybe. Should she have browned all her meat first? Sure – maybe. But, for me, the key to this memory doesn’t involve revisionist history  but appreciating what she taught me through this repetitive method of cooking game.  

     Last week, I bought two lamb necks. I’ve never eaten neck of anything nevermind cook it, but I was up for the challenge. I just needed a little direction, or inspiration. As soon as the butcher suggested cutting them lengthwise – in half, to expose all the marrow, I immediately thought “lamb ragu…cook it Ma’s way.”

     So – here is what I did – more or less:

Lamb Neck Ragu – this takes two days, but largely unattended

Ingredients

2 lamb necks cut lengthwise – ask the butcher to do this. (If they refuse, you are spending your money in an establishment that cares very little about the skills of butchery. They also don’t give a fig about you – the customer. Take your purchasing power elsewhere.) Tip: Leave the lamb necks out until they reach room temperature. Why? Because you will need to brown them in hot oil. Putting something fridge-cold into hot oil will cause a significant temperature drop in the pot. Instead of brown, you will get grey. Plus you’ll coat your lamb with oil. Cold lamb in hot oil will also prevent any tasty bits of lamb sticking to the bottom of the pan. You need this to enhance the flavour.

Vegetable oil – has a higher tolerance to heat so you will not burn your oil. Use enough to coat the bottom plus a little extra like maybe 2 tbsp. Don’t worry about too much oil because you can always remove it before adding the other ingredients. But, also keep in mind that you are not frying, so avoid a vat.

2 or 3 carrots, 2 celery stalks, 1 large onion and 2 garlic cloves – either finely chop by hand, OR if using a food processor, finely chop one vegetable at a time, removing each to a bowl before starting the next. Tip: Carrots are hard. Onions – not so much. If you put them in all at the same time, the blades will work to chop the former, and decimate the latter into mush. Celery – being the middle sister will try, and be friends with both but not after a serious beating from each.   

2 rosemary springs, tbsp. of fennel seeds, black ground pepper

2 lrg. tins of plum tomatoes

jar of passata

½ cup wine – all alcohol should cook off, but you can leave it out, and use water instead

4 cups of either vegetable, chicken or lamb broth: avoid beef stock. He’ll fight to be the star at the party leaving all the guests with a bad taste in their mouths, and yours eventually..   

salt – is a necessary yet mysterious thing. I put salt in as I cook the vegetables, but not on the meat as apparently it makes it tough. I say apparently because chefs are divided, and as a home cook this whole salt-no-salt-on-meat-thing is a great discussion starter. Depending on who’s at the table, it can also end conversation.

Steps, and tips(some helpful…some are worthless. Kidding. Maybe):

1. I always use a cast iron pot when doing any braising. It heats evenly on a medium temperature, but any large pot with a wide bottom, and lid will do. Put the oil in, and let it heat up. Two at a time, brown those halved necks. Tip: When you put them in, leave them for at least three minutes. Don’t wait a minute, then turn them, only to wait a second, and turn, and turn again after thirty seconds. Stop interrupting. It’s rude. Leave them alone, and let the pot, and heat, and oil work for you. You are the boss of them, so be the boss, and let them do the work. Brown them on all sides, and at the ends. This might mean you prop them against the side of the pot – ends down. But once they are all done, plate them off to the side. Tip: You may have to add a little more oil between the two batches because the oil is leaving along with the removal of each neck half. Add it. Remember, at this point what goes in can come out.

(Aside for Olive Oil Lovers: Did you stray from the group, and use olive oil instead of vegetable oil? Is your meat scorched now? Your oil smoking? It’s bad but there is still hope…of sorts. Remove the necks, and take the pot off the burner. Swear, collect yourself. Turn the temperature down. You need to free the pot of your bitter, nasty oil. But for goodness sake, use your common sense, and don’t pour hot oil down the drain (see blog about burning the house down). I put all my discarded hot oils into a tempered glass jar now, and dispose of them according to all federal, provincial, and my younger sister’s green laws. Wipe out the pot, and start again with fresh oil. Examine your lamb – is it burnt black? If so, the last remaining necks halves will have to do. Cut the quantity of ingredients list above in half, turn the heat down and prepare for a longer browning. It can be done but it’s longer. Also, be comforted in the fact that at least you didn’t burn the kitchen out.)

2. So now you might have a lot of oil at the bottom of the pot, and who wants that? Not you. Lamb is fatty, and neck fat is hidden between the bones, and tucked deep beneath the muscle structure. Leave a couple of tablespoons in the bottom of the pot, but drain the rest – IN THE JAR.

3. Add your carrots, onions, celery, garlic, rosemary, fennel seeds, and black pepper. Stir it up so that you are moving all that raw vegetable around. As you do this, water is releasing, and lifting all the flavours off the bottom of the pot. At about the five minute mark, it will start to stick again. Keep buzzing that spoon around though for another minute. Once it’s cooked onto the bottom, add half a cup of wine. It will immediately bubble, and let it until you smell no alcohol vapour. Follow this with the plum tomatoes, passata, and broth. Then drown those lamb necks, pushing them under the liquid. Not enough liquid? Add some boiling water – same rule about adding cold to hot applies here. Lid it, and wait for a boil. Tip: when I say wait, I don’t mean leave the pot unattended for fifteen minutes to darn some socks, or throw a load of laundry in, or talk to your children about life, or that crap decision they made yesterday, or the one you made. The mixture will boil over to create a holy mess, and unless your child did do something wrong, you will have no one, but yourself to clean it up.

4. Once boiling, turn the temperature down to medium low-low, put the lid on askew, and there it will sit for six to eight hours. Make sure it is not actively boiling. You want a simmer with an occasion bubble.

5. Stir it once in a while. Move that meat around. Make sure it’s not sticking, and the liquid isn’t evaporating quickly. If either of these is happening, your temperature is still too high. Turn it down. 

6. Check at six hours. If the meat isn’t falling off the bone, continue to cook until it does. Then remove it from the heat, and let it cool. As soon as it hits room temperature, pop it into the fridge. NEVER put anything hot into the fridge to cool overnight. That is bad news for everything in the fridge, for the fridge itself, and real bad for the thing that sits in your pot. Also, never leave the sauce on the counter overnight. Bacteria loves warm, moist environments.  

7. Next morning, after coffee, yoga and a fruit plate, or alternatively, after some scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and a large mimosa, clear a nice space where the pot will sit. Beside/in front of it, you will place two medium bowls: one for your meat; one for bones, sinew, extra fat, and general stuff you will not eat. If you haven’t already, wash those hands, and leave some soap out beside the sink. You’ll need to wash them again.

8. Use a large spoon to fish those necks out.

9. Now, take half a neck in hand – YES, you will have to touch it, and using your finger, clear the sauce away. (TIP: touching your food is a must if you really want to cook. You need to know how textures should feel at different stages of preparation, and also after the cooking process. Just take your rings off, adjust your cap, and get on with it.)

10. Once the sauce is cleared free from the neck so that its texture is visible, pick the meat out. Know that I’m watching you – don’t be tempted to toss the thing out after a few plucked morsels. Lamb gave it up for you. Pay some respect. Be methodical, and do it nicely. Once all four are done, and you have your bowl of meat, get another bowl, and scoop out the sauce ladle by ladleful. Make sure you catch any stray bones that may have detached during the cook.. Because I actively avoid all law suits connected to teeth breakage, or accidental bone-choking death, I do this step with my hands, and feel for the bones. But if you’re squeamish, careful ladling will do. And for those rush ladlers, I’ll send you some sauce in prison.

11. Wash your hands with lots of soap. Get the wand blender, and mulch half of your sauce leaving you with two different consistencies. Texture is awesome. Put the pot back on the stove – bring to boil, then turn the heat down to simmer, and re-introduced the meat.  Heat it through for an hour. Take it off, and leave it.

     You can eat it now – tonight with dried or homemade pasta. You can spoon it over polenta (still yellow polenta, Pa! – see polenta blog). You can put some in a saucepan, and poach some lovely, runny eggs over it (my favourite.) But regardless, I always top mine with grated lemon zest, and chopped parsley. The lemon just cut the richness, and parsley adds a fresh note.

     You can also wait until it hits room temperature, and freeze it. 

     But most of all, enjoy it. Thanks Ma!

From my heart to yours, people.

Burning Down the House. Okay. Maybe just the Kitchen

     My parents did not go to university. My mother went through some high school before going to Milano on a seamstress apprenticeship, but she came back almost immediately due to illness. My father began work right after grade eight. Embarrassing facts? No. Not in the least. What my parents lacked in formal education, they made up for in common sense, and exceptionally hard work. They worked in Italy. They moved to Switzerland to get work when work wasn’t available in Italy leaving my older sister with my father’s family – a big sacrifice for all three of them. Then, when my aunt, and uncle moved to Canada, they followed – my father reluctantly. But, a better life with more opportunity was the only option for a growing family. Within six hours of arriving in Canada, my father went to work, and worked hard he did until my mother got cancer. He retired after she died. My mother was a seamstress creating clothing from sight for a roster of clients. They owned their own house, plus a cottage, paid for things like my braces, and certainly contributed to their children’s education. Bills were paid in full, and on time. They budgeted for ‘wants.’ No credit card until much later. Always saving. Always squirreling away. I got my first job when I was twelve. Part-time retail. All the money went into my bank account, and never came out. The suggestion of buying the latest anything displayed a definite lack of common sense, and this, more than any university degree is what – according to my parents, was required in order to move forward in life. Common sense.

     Still, when I got accepted into university – Queens, Western, and Waterloo, my parents were so proud. I was the first daughter to go to university, to attend away, to move out, to have this ultra-Canadian experience. I chose Western, and lived in London, Ontario for the school year, moving back home for the summers, and the first summer back was glorious because I missed them all so much.

     We were a tight family of five back then. Our family home had two bedrooms: one for my parents, one for their three daughters. Were there fights? Yes – occasional brawls even. The house also had one bathroom, meaning one sister washed her face as another took a shower as the last one wedged herself in over the toilet using the tail-end of the mirror to put make up on.

     Complaining about any of this meant you lacked ‘common sense.” The house suited. It taught us to be flexible, and proved to us that life is better when shared with those you love. Maybe this last bit isn’t true for some people, but it is for me. I love being with my sisters, still. We are all so different which provides for interesting conversations, and life experiences, but we’re bonded in core values, and a fundamental understanding of what living common sense means. But just because I understand it, doesn’t mean I live it all the time. I try, but I still mess up.  

     According to my father, one of my biggest flubs occurred two weeks into my first summer at home from university. One night, my youngest sister (Y), my mother, and I were watching television in the basement late at night. I can’t remember what Y was doing, but I was assisting my mother. I often sewed hems, or pulled out basting thread from her handmade garments – anything to make her sewing business more efficient. I had just finished one task, and left to visit the bathroom upstairs when my mother called after me to ‘put on a tea.” Boil the water in the metal kettle is what she meant – which is what I did, no problem.

     Then I went to the bathroom. While sitting, I thought I heard a crinkling of a wrapper, and thought it very odd that Y would be eating a chocolate bar this late at night. Y was fit, a dancer at the time. So, the idea of her, and a chocolate bar at eleven p.m. confused me. I thought about it for another few seconds until opening the door only to see an amber lightshow reflected on the hallway wall. Weird, I thought to myself. So, I got up, walked five steps into the kitchen, and there on the stovetop, behind the metal kettle, and engulfed in flames was the plastic coffee maker. I watched as the kitchen curtains caught on fire, and as the cupboards began to smoulder, I shouted down the stairs to my mother, and sister, “Kitchen’s on fire.”

     My mother laughed. “Vania – are you trying to scare us?”

     I yelled again, “The kitchen is on fire. I’m not kidding around.”

     I picked up the phone, called the fire department, and as I reported the fire, my mother and sister arrived. Ma accessed the situation, and ran back down to cut the electric power while Y began smothering the flames. I, being a woman of action, stood there thinking, “Oh *uck. My father is going to kick my ass.”

     When the firemen arrived, I hid in the backyard. Not proud, but all I kept thinking was, What kind of idiot sets the kitchen on fire?…followed by, And runs away? .

     The firemen left. I crept back inside. The house stunk. Black, sticky soot covered our faces, hair, the ceiling, the floor, everything.

     My mother said, “Get the grappa,” and we drank while cleaning, or rather smearing the plastic soot from the white walls onto the white ceiling onto the tilesfloor. At one a.m., my mother sent us to bed, and after leaving the screen door locked but the inner door ajar, she too retired. All the main floor lights remained on.

     During this time, my father worked at Dartington Power Plant, and he finished work around midnight. When he arrived home around one-thirty a.m., he panicked at the sight of the light flooding from the door, and windows. I’m not sure how this lead him to think that all three of us had been murdered, but that’s where he went. He ran into the house, shouting my mother’s name, and raced up the stairs into their bedroom, skipping the kitchen.

     My mother reassured him. “Gianni. We’re fine. The kitchen is not.”

     Apparently, that’s when he saw it for the first time.  

     The next morning, around seven a.m., everyone but me was up. I laid in bed for an extra minutes mustering up some courage. I would have to face him, and soon. Anticipate yelling for maybe an hour…and for some reason, maybe nerves, I started to laugh. My reaction shocked me a little. Now you’re laughing? I pinched myself hard enough to cause a little pain, and walked down the stairs to face him. I made it to the bottom landing before spying Y’s face in the sliver of view I had into the kitchen. She sat at the very end of the table, and she covered her smile. I started to laugh again, but tried my best to stop. I needed to get a grip. Then I heard my father.

     “Vania?” His tone fixed my wagon. The laughing stopped.  

     I walked in. Facing him, I said, “Look, I’m really, really sorry. I must have turned on the wrong burner.”

      He raised his eyebrows.

     “I know I turned on the wrong burner. I guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

     He cocked his head.

     “ I know I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

     Pa just stared at me.

     “I…I’m so sorry to both of you.” My mother stood silently by the sink.  

     He took a sip of his coffee, and surveyed me over the lip of his mug.

     “Pa, I-”

     “So,” he started. “You spend this whole year in university, and you come home more stupid than when you left. I don’t get it.” He got up, and now stood in front of me, tapping his temple. “Use your brain. Pay attention to what you are doing. Remember. Common sense.”

     “It was a mistake. Besides, university has nothing to do with it.”

     He looked at me. “Really? University has nothing to do with using your brain?” We stared at each other but in my periphery, I saw his foot, pivoting on its heel. It went from left to right, back and forth until I finally looked down to see what exactly he was doing. That’s when he tapped my forehead. My head snapped back up.

     “In this life, don’t get distracted by things around you. Always pay attention to what you are doing. Think. Use your brain. Got it?”

     I nodded.

     “Call the insurance company. Take care of it all. I don’t want your mother bothered.”

     He then left to see his plants in the garden.

     Thirty years later and it’s obvious that I still think about this episode. I think about it mostly when I’m undergoing, or have just exhibited a lack-of-common-sense.

     For example, I thought about it a few years back, right after frying Pa some breaded olives, and pouring the hot oil down the kitchen drain in my apartment. Yes, I thought about it right after seeing his disgust, and horror at the smoke funnelling up from the drain. The thought was in my head as he shouted, ‘WHAT are you doing pouring hot oil down the drain? Into a plastic pipe?”

     I thought about briefly but then thought, Stupid is as stupid does, doorknob.  Then I said, “Pa, all I was thinking was that I need this pan for my next recipe.”

     “You were distracted. Vania – think! Use your brain. Common sense says you don’t ever throw anything down the drain, ever.”

     “I know – I know. I’m sorry.”

     He got up to check the pipe, and make sure I hadn’t burned a hole right through it. I hadn’t. Planted in front of me, he began to move his left foot back, and forth. This time though I held tight to his gaze. I can learn.

     Not fast enough though. He still tapped me on the forehead.

Polenta. I spit right back at you – you darling dish, YOU!

     My father hated polenta. After WWII, being as poor as most of Europe was, that’s all he ate. During his lifetime, he never wavered away from this opinion. Remember that nineties restaurant all-the-rage over polenta? That rage gave birth to a real one in my father – Pa. “Stupid people. Who would pay to eat that?”

     “I would because it’s good,” I said.

     “Vania. Stop.” Then, the look. (My father took great pains over our time together to get the foolish out of me, and I can tell you with great certainty that he didn’t fully succeed. I still do, and say dumb things. But, this is another topic best illustrated by the story of when I set fire to the kitchen. What can I say? I like cooking…all sorts of things.

     Anyway, Pa’s stance on polenta didn’t discourage anyone from serving it to him, and if you put it in front him, he would eat it. I know because once I moved out of the house, I served it to him occasionally when over for dinner. But, to be clear, my polenta wasn’t my mother’s.

     Mine was fancy polenta. I began this journey-to-nowhere-good by replacing the water with either chicken, or vegetable broth. Yum, I thought. Different, but not enough. So, I moved on to adding ingredients like black olives, or reconstituted dried mushrooms, or sundried tomatoes, or more, or more and more. But, when I ran out of options to add in, I added over. I smoothed my loaded polenta onto a wooden board, and hid that hump beneath all sorts of sauces like marinara, or butter and sage, or roasted red pepper, and onion. My polenta was no post-war disaster zone. That thing was dressed up like an over-zealous party-goer, flush with money, but no taste.  

     Pa’s reaction: “At least it’s not white cornmeal.”

     White? Where could I get some of that! I searched, found, and bought it. Only then did I begin to wonder about what purpose polenta serves.   

     Polenta is ground cornmeal that when cooked in liquid exists on the plate very much like bread exists on the table. That is it. At its base level, it provides some filling nourishment. Elevated, it can stand alone as small accompaniment to the main star of your meal.

     What I was doing to my polenta was pushing it beyond its natural ability. I was stage mom to my polenta child. Instead of embracing its delicate flavour, and enhancing it gently, I was making it drink the juice, layering on the make-up, and adorning it with the most outlandish outfits. Polenta abuse; I was guilty of this, but more importantly, I had forgotten how my mother made it. It was a skin-on-fire event for two.

     First, salted water needed to be at a rolling boil, and only then would she whisk this liquid into a frenzied whirlpool. Positioned directly over the funnel in the centre, was my little fist of dried cornmeal. I’d let it trickle down into the boiling, spinning water while she continued to stir. The steam scalded my hand but if I ever dumped the cornmeal into the water, giving birth to those thick, slimy lumps, Ma would lose her calm in a fit of sotto-voce swearing. And let’s get this right: my mother wasn’t unreasonable, or impatient. She just really didn’t like cooking. Any reason that caused her to spend more time in the kitchen was unwelcome. She endured, so you endured. Fistful by fistful, the cornmeal went it. Eventually, the mixture would become so thick that a polenta stick would replace the whisk. Still stirring with heat lowered, the mixture now resembled sputtering molten lava that somehow would always hit our arms, or faces. Her swearing now was audible. But it needed another half hour. When done, Ma would take it off the heat, and pour it on to a large wooden cutting board. While it cooled, she’d peel away a thick layer of crunch from the bottom of the pot, and after we ate it, she covered the polenta with a dishcloth. At dinner, wedges of it sat around the platter filled with venison stew.  It worked perfectly served this way.

      Alternatively, in my father’s home town of Alvisopoli, during a festa, alongside their homemade sausages, they served slices of white polenta grilled over an open fire. I also love it this way – smoky, with a crisp snap and soft inside.   

     The manner I cook my polenta now is in salted water. I find broth too heavy a flavour for the cornmeal. ALL of the cornmeal is poured into the water from a large measuring cup but slowly. I whisk it briskly to avoid lumps, and trade the whisk for a wooden spoon once it becomes thick. Then I dare my polenta to spit. Bring it! And it does. I swear a little, or a lot depending on its attitude, and mine. Once done, finish it with butter, and grated parmesan. Depending on what I’m serving with it, it either goes to the table immediately, or I repeat my mother’s cutting board routine. And while I lost my mother a very long time ago, Ma is always with me, especially when I’m making polenta.  

     Am I ever tempted to add stuff to it? No. But I might put a little something over it. At least it’s not white polenta, Pa.

     Suggestion: An elevated recipe for formed polenta comes from the late, but-will-always-be- great Antonio Carluccio. In his book, co-written with Gennaro Contaldo (another huge, culinary hero of mine) Two Greedy Italians, Chef Carluccio offers up his ‘Gnocchi alla Romana’ or, Semolina Dumplings Roman Style. Semolina is cornmeal ground very fine. I’ve made this dish many times as a side but always find myself eating any leftovers later. It’s simple, and gloriously Italian. It’s also available online.

‘Lifestyle’

     A long time ago, while I was attending Western, one of my professors’s opened his English class with this: “People. Listen to me because I will say this once. If you ever use the word “lifestyle,’ in any context, in any essay, exam, presentation, or conversation where I am included, you will get an F.”

     (Being a good student, I wrote this down, and underlined it twice.)

     He went to say, “This word is pure hogwash. It is a garbage word, a word born of marketing. It insinuates that everyone should know what it means, but no one can define it without using it, or, life, or style. People, you cannot define a word by using it in its very definition. It renders it false….unless, of course, someone here can define it. Anyone? ”

     Someone (not me) answered: “Lifestyle is a word that means how you live in areas of style. Um, it’s like how you decorate. Or, how you do things. Or, just like the choices you make when buying stuff for your home, and life in general. Like everyone has a specific lifestyle, and some people share common elements of trends.”

     He looked at the student. “Thank-you. In closing, I will remind you now to please never, ever use this ridiculous word in my presence, or in any submissions to me. Also, please do a quick survey of any like-words, and omit those as well. Now, moving forward…”

     In 1985, there might have been a definition of this word…somewhere. I never bothered to look it up, because it was clear that this circumstance did not call for rebuttal, but a follow-the-leader-in-order-to-avoid-an-F. Then, like now, I save my fire for things I am passionate about. Plus, I saw his rigidity on this word as well earned. In my estimation, a senior tenured professor should be able to have at least one, or two rules. I mean all those teaching years with people like me? Besides, the grade meant a lot to me; the word, ‘lifestyle,’ not at all.

     Until now.

     In the Oxford Dictionary, the word lifestyle is defined as such: “1. the particular way of life of a person or group; a way or style of living 2. of or relating to a particular way of living, esp. designating advertising, products, etc. designed to appeal to a consumer by association with a particular desirable lifestyle.”

     So, the student was not way off. But, he too was accurate. I agree though that lifestyle is a lazy word, perhaps even silly in its broad appeal to an undefined concept.

     But for this blog, lifestyle is fitting. For as long as I can, in this blog, I hope to write about home – how my living in a city centre, in an apartment informs such related topics like decorating, cooking, planting and growing, neighbourly relations, food shopping , hobbies – all those elements that influence, and inform my particular way of life. Sometimes, I will come at such topics head-on, but more often, they will be approached through a side door – probably a past experience, a memory of my mother, or my father, or a sister-story (that has been fully vetted by each/both before showing up here.) And friends (and they too will be approached before publication.) But to be clear, these are my stories, and I take full responsibility for them. Sometimes, the blog will be short, a mere observance, or perhaps something that picks at my last nerve.

     Like this: just because you use a spiralizer when cutting your squash, or zucchini, boil it, and cover it with tomato sauce, does NOT make it pasta. At the basic level, pasta is flour, water, eggs, and salt in varied measurements. It’s not easy to make. It takes some skill. Also, please avoid the slide over into defining this as a noodle dish. Noodles require an apprenticeship to master, so stop. Simply put, vegetables cut into a spiral shape are vegetables cut into a spiral shape. And I have no issue with those people who don’t eat carbs. Medical, or dietary – I’m fine with that. But, please don’t bullshit me into believing that one tastes like the other, or that they are interchangeable. They are not.

Get a grip already.