Meliollos Italian Delights

THE JOY OF GROWING UP ITALIAN

I was well into adulthood before I realized that I was an American. Of course, I was born in American and had lived here all my life, but somehow it never occurred to me that just by being a citizen of the United States meant I was an American. Americans were people who ate peanut butter and jelly on mushy white bread that came out of plastic packages. Me? I was Italian. For me, as I am sure for most second-generation Italian American children, there was a definite distinction between THEM and US. We were Italians. Everyone else- the Irish, German, Polish, Jewish- they were the AMERE-CANES. There were no hard feelings. Just, well, we were sure ours was the better way. For instance, we had a bread man, a coal and ice man, a fruit and vegetable man, a watermelon man, a fish man; we even had a man who sharpened knives and scissors in our homes. They were the many peddles who piled the Italian neighborhoods. We would wait for their call, their yell, and their individual distinctive sound.

We knew them and they knew us. Americans went to the stores for most of their food. They never knew the pleasure of waking up every morning to find a hot, crisp loaf of Italian bread waiting behind the screen door. And, instead of being able to climb up on back to hitch a ride on the bread truck, most of my AMERE-CANE friends went to the A & P. When it came to food, it always amazed me that my American friends only ate Turkey on Thanksgiving or Christmas. Or rather, that they ONLY ate turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce. Now, we Italians- we also had…turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce, but only after we had finished the antipasto, soup, lasagna, meatballs, salad and whatever else Mama thought might be appropriate for that holiday. The meal was always followed by an assortment of fruits, nuts, pastries, cakes, and of course, homemade cookies. No holiday was complete without homemade baking; none of that store-bought stuff for us. This is where you learned to eat a seven-course meal between noon and 4 pm, how to handle hot chestnuts, and put peaches in red wine. I truly believe Italians live a romance with food. Speaking of food- Sunday was truly the big day of the week. That was the day you’d wake up to the smell of garlic and onions frying in olive oil. As you lay in bed, you could hear the hiss as tomatoes were dropped into a pan. Sunday we always had gravy. AMERE-CANES called it sauce. Sunday would not be Sunday without going to Mass. Of course, you couldn’t eat before Mass because you had to fast before receiving Communion. But, the good part was we knew when we got home, we’d find hot meatballs frying and nothing tastes better than newly fried meatballs and crisp bread dipped into a pot of gravy.

There was another difference between THEM and US. We had a garden, not just flower gardens, but huge gardens where we grew tomatoes, tomatoes, and more tomatoes. We ate them…cooked them…jarred them. Of course we also grew peppers and basil. Everybody had a grapevine and a fig tree and in the fall, everyone made homemade wine, lots of it. Of course, those gardens thrived so because we also had something else it seemed our American friends didn’t seem to have. We had a Grandfather! It’s not that they didn’t have a Grandfather. It’s just that they didn’t live in the same house, or on the same block. They visited their Grandfathers. We ate with ours and God forbid we didn’t see them at least once a day. I can still remember my Grandfather telling me about how he came to America, a young man, “on the boat.” How the family lived in a rented tenement and took in boarders in order to help make ends meet, how the family decided he didn’t want his children, five sons and two daughters, to grow up in that environment. All of this, of course, in his own version of Italian/English which I had learned to understand quite well. So, when he saved enough, and I could never figure out how, he bought a house. That house served as the family headquarters for the next 40 years. I remember how he hated to leave; he would rather sit on the back porch and watch his garden grow. When he did leave for some special occasion, he had to return as quickly as possible. After all, “nobody’s watching the house.” I also remember the holidays when all the relatives would gather at my grandfather’s house and there would be tables full of food and homemade wine and music. Women in the kitchen, men in the living room, and kids, kids everywhere. I must have half a million cousins, first, second, and some who aren’t even related. But, what did it matter!? And my grandfather would sit in the middle of it all grinning his mischievous smile, his eyes twinkling, surveying his domain, proud of his family and how well his children have done. He had achieved his goal in coming to America and now the children were achieving the same goals that were available to them in this great country because they were Americans.

When my grandfather died, things changed. The old house he bought is now covered with aluminum siding, although my uncle still lives there. Of course, my grandfather’s garden is gone. The lost of the homemade wine has long since been drunk and nobody covers the fig trees in the fall anymore. For a while, we would make the rounds on the holidays, visiting family. Now, we visit the cemetery. A lot of them are there, grandparents, uncles, aunts, even my own father. The holidays have changed too. The great quality of food we consumed without any ill effects is no good for us anymore. Too much starch, too much cholesterol, too many calories. And nobody bothers to bake anymore, too busy-and it’s easier to buy it and too much is no good for you. We meet at my house now, at least my family does; but it’s not the same.

The differences between THEM and US aren’t so easily defined anymore, and I guess that’s good. My grandparents were Italian Italians. My parents were Italian Americans. I am an American Italian and my children are American Americans. Oh! I’m American all right and proud of it. Just as my Grandfather would want me to be. We are all Americans now- the Irish, Germans, Polish and Jewish. U.S. Citizens all- but somehow I still feel a little bit Italian. Call it culture, call it tradition, call it roots. I’m not sure what it is. All I do know is that my children have been cheated out of a wonderful piece of their heritage. They never knew my Grandfather.

Author Unknown
Changed slightly to fit our family story