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LJ Idol, Week 6: Food Memory
Nov. 30th, 2011 08:03 pmGoing to Nonna's house was always a big deal.
Part of the reason was that I didn't do it that often - when I only saw Daddy every other weekend, it meant that the "little" celebrations went unnoticed - it was rare for me, as a kid, to be there for birthdays (except for my dad's, which also meant my aunt's since they were born two days apart), so dinner at Nonna's meant Easter (maybe) and Boxing Day (always).
Not only that, but the food at Nonna's was special. Not just because she was a fantastic cook - which she was (she and my great-aunt used to cook for my parents' high school, and the lasagne was so good that the school decided to devote Thursdays to Italian food!), but also because it was different from what I usually ate (which more often than not came in a box - my parents are not the greatest cooks).
I hear from my mother that what we have now is the "scaled down" version - her first time joining them for Christmas involved over ten dishes and more than thirty people crammed into Nonno and Nonna's half of the semi-detached (the other half shared by his brother and her sister, who were married to each other).
But every Christmas, I look forward to the same things.
It starts at one o'clock, more or less. We always start out with vermouth - sweet white - to toast, to bring sweetness to the holidays. After that, we'd open gifts - mostly so the wine that EVERYONE got each other would be available for dinner! Then Nonna would scold us all until we were seated at the table; Daddy and my uncle at one end, Nonna and my aunt at the other, and the spouses and cousins all down the sides. Nonna and my aunt would disappear into the kitchen momentarily, and then the feast would really start...
First the antipasti - pickles, marinated artichoke hearts, olives, and crusty rolls with tender insides... and of course the cold-cuts to go on them: salty prosciutto, which I didn't appreciate until a year or two ago; pink, sweet mortadella, with its fat marbled perfectly through it; and spicy salami.
Then the soup, which was usually a simple affair designed to be a vehicle for the parmesan cheese! My favorite was the stelline, little star-shaped pasta filling up the bowl in a simple chicken broth like a night sky. This was when the wine would start flowing, to young and old alike! And then the bowls would be gone, like magic, and the plates below would be filled with lasagne or cannelloni, which Nonna will never give up the recipes for.
The conversation dies down for a few seconds as everyone digs in, but it's a momentary peace at best; this is when the arguments really get going! It all starts with making fun of Uncle Elio for his American politicians, and from there swerves off into the economy, the prime minister (doesn't matter who it is), the exorbitant price of gasoline, who's getting married next, and stories about how my dad, uncle, and aunt are lucky to be alive given their crazy antics as children in Italy!
By the time the meat comes out (we're expending all this energy on conversation, you see, so we're not full yet!), the argument has gone into half-Italian, half-English because someone's forgotten a word in one language and flipped to the other. Since I can't participate in those conversations - my Italian is worse than a 3-year-old's - I get the best pick of the breaded veal cutlets (my favorite), the ham with pineapple and cherries, and the turkey with stuffing and gravy (probably not an Old World custom!).
And, of course, the vitello tonnato.
What the hell is vitello tonnato, I hear you asking? Even most other Italians I talk to have never heard of it! (I think this is because most Italians I meet are from the central or southern regions, whereas my family is practically Swiss they're so far north.)
Vitello tonnato is veal in a cold, creamy tuna sauce.
Don't run for the hills! It's actually REALLY good, although, like prosciutto and olives, it took me a while to appreciate it. (Daddy hated it until he turned 40.) Traditionally it's a summer dish, but there aren't a lot of opportunities for Nonna to cook for a big crowd in summer, so we get it at Christmas! The meat is served in a deep dish, floating in the sauce; the taste is creamy and thick and not quite veal, not quite tuna - the true meaning of surf 'n' turf!
And somewhere in there, we do remember to eat our vegetables - brussels sprouts cooked with mushrooms, insalata russa ("Russian salad"; chopped carrots, potatoes, and peas in what amounts to mayonnaise, topped with slices of hard-boiled eggs and a little paprika), and a little salad with a simple vinagrette to cleanse the palate.
Are your arteries hardened yet? Are you begging, "No more! I can't eat another bite!"
Why, we haven't even gotten to the first of the dessert courses!
I suppose first dessert can't really be called "dessert", because in truth it's cheese. Delicious, delicious cheese. Hard, soft, with rind, without, blue, in those little red packages - all kinds of cheese just waiting to be eaten. You might think you're totally stuffed at this point, but you're actually wrong, because that cheese is just so creamily tempting you to eat it.
The conversation has subsided a little bit as digestion makes arguments seem like too much effort. Now we've settled into the storytelling about the past, like the time my uncle and father were supposed to be taking care of my aunt and instead decided they were going to play on the hill... and all of a sudden the carriage started rolling away. We're lucky I have an aunt! Or the time they were sent to pick up groceries, and Daddy dropped the money into the Piave River and, trying to save it, nearly dropped himself and my uncle in too. I'm lucky I'M around.
Following the cheese is what most people would consider 'actual' dessert - coffee, champagne, and sweets - panettone with raisins, Nonna's pineapple upside-down cake, torrone (both chocolate and the traditional nougat), and roasted chestnuts. Probably at this time Zia Ines, my great-aunt, will call from Italy, and we will have our traditional conversation:
Alessandra! Com'e stai?
Sto bene, Zia.
[How is your mother?]
Bene, bene.
[Give everyone hugs and kisses for me!]
OK, Zia. Buon Natale. Ciao.
(This is about the limit of my conversational Italian. Sometimes she asks me about my boyfriend. Last year she asked if I was getting married. Those questions are way too complicated for me to answer, so usually I pass it on to my cousin so she can answer for me. This is shameful.)
Keep in mind that this still isn't the end of the food. There's a brief pause as the phone is passed around, but we're not done yet.
By this point, between the vermouth, the wine, and the champagne, everyone is well-drunk, and that means it is time for the assorted nuts and fruit.
And that means it is time for the annual Picchetti Men Walnut-Cracking Contest, wherein the men of my family prove that when they say they're hard-headed, they mean it literally.
My uncle, as the eldest, goes first. He's mostly bald at this point, so the giant red welts created by cracking a walnut on your head shows. (My aunt says he was once asked about it at a New Year's party they went to! Ouch.) My dad is next, and then all down the line. My cousin's now-husband wasn't truly accepted into the family until he had cracked a walnut with his forehead. My brother became a man when he managed to crack his. (I can't quite get up the speed, or my forehead is too soft, or something. Yes, I too have participated in this insanity.)
This is my Christmas, every year. And I would not miss it for the world.
Part of the reason was that I didn't do it that often - when I only saw Daddy every other weekend, it meant that the "little" celebrations went unnoticed - it was rare for me, as a kid, to be there for birthdays (except for my dad's, which also meant my aunt's since they were born two days apart), so dinner at Nonna's meant Easter (maybe) and Boxing Day (always).
Not only that, but the food at Nonna's was special. Not just because she was a fantastic cook - which she was (she and my great-aunt used to cook for my parents' high school, and the lasagne was so good that the school decided to devote Thursdays to Italian food!), but also because it was different from what I usually ate (which more often than not came in a box - my parents are not the greatest cooks).
I hear from my mother that what we have now is the "scaled down" version - her first time joining them for Christmas involved over ten dishes and more than thirty people crammed into Nonno and Nonna's half of the semi-detached (the other half shared by his brother and her sister, who were married to each other).
But every Christmas, I look forward to the same things.
It starts at one o'clock, more or less. We always start out with vermouth - sweet white - to toast, to bring sweetness to the holidays. After that, we'd open gifts - mostly so the wine that EVERYONE got each other would be available for dinner! Then Nonna would scold us all until we were seated at the table; Daddy and my uncle at one end, Nonna and my aunt at the other, and the spouses and cousins all down the sides. Nonna and my aunt would disappear into the kitchen momentarily, and then the feast would really start...
First the antipasti - pickles, marinated artichoke hearts, olives, and crusty rolls with tender insides... and of course the cold-cuts to go on them: salty prosciutto, which I didn't appreciate until a year or two ago; pink, sweet mortadella, with its fat marbled perfectly through it; and spicy salami.
Then the soup, which was usually a simple affair designed to be a vehicle for the parmesan cheese! My favorite was the stelline, little star-shaped pasta filling up the bowl in a simple chicken broth like a night sky. This was when the wine would start flowing, to young and old alike! And then the bowls would be gone, like magic, and the plates below would be filled with lasagne or cannelloni, which Nonna will never give up the recipes for.
The conversation dies down for a few seconds as everyone digs in, but it's a momentary peace at best; this is when the arguments really get going! It all starts with making fun of Uncle Elio for his American politicians, and from there swerves off into the economy, the prime minister (doesn't matter who it is), the exorbitant price of gasoline, who's getting married next, and stories about how my dad, uncle, and aunt are lucky to be alive given their crazy antics as children in Italy!
By the time the meat comes out (we're expending all this energy on conversation, you see, so we're not full yet!), the argument has gone into half-Italian, half-English because someone's forgotten a word in one language and flipped to the other. Since I can't participate in those conversations - my Italian is worse than a 3-year-old's - I get the best pick of the breaded veal cutlets (my favorite), the ham with pineapple and cherries, and the turkey with stuffing and gravy (probably not an Old World custom!).
And, of course, the vitello tonnato.
What the hell is vitello tonnato, I hear you asking? Even most other Italians I talk to have never heard of it! (I think this is because most Italians I meet are from the central or southern regions, whereas my family is practically Swiss they're so far north.)
Vitello tonnato is veal in a cold, creamy tuna sauce.
Don't run for the hills! It's actually REALLY good, although, like prosciutto and olives, it took me a while to appreciate it. (Daddy hated it until he turned 40.) Traditionally it's a summer dish, but there aren't a lot of opportunities for Nonna to cook for a big crowd in summer, so we get it at Christmas! The meat is served in a deep dish, floating in the sauce; the taste is creamy and thick and not quite veal, not quite tuna - the true meaning of surf 'n' turf!
And somewhere in there, we do remember to eat our vegetables - brussels sprouts cooked with mushrooms, insalata russa ("Russian salad"; chopped carrots, potatoes, and peas in what amounts to mayonnaise, topped with slices of hard-boiled eggs and a little paprika), and a little salad with a simple vinagrette to cleanse the palate.
Are your arteries hardened yet? Are you begging, "No more! I can't eat another bite!"
Why, we haven't even gotten to the first of the dessert courses!
I suppose first dessert can't really be called "dessert", because in truth it's cheese. Delicious, delicious cheese. Hard, soft, with rind, without, blue, in those little red packages - all kinds of cheese just waiting to be eaten. You might think you're totally stuffed at this point, but you're actually wrong, because that cheese is just so creamily tempting you to eat it.
The conversation has subsided a little bit as digestion makes arguments seem like too much effort. Now we've settled into the storytelling about the past, like the time my uncle and father were supposed to be taking care of my aunt and instead decided they were going to play on the hill... and all of a sudden the carriage started rolling away. We're lucky I have an aunt! Or the time they were sent to pick up groceries, and Daddy dropped the money into the Piave River and, trying to save it, nearly dropped himself and my uncle in too. I'm lucky I'M around.
Following the cheese is what most people would consider 'actual' dessert - coffee, champagne, and sweets - panettone with raisins, Nonna's pineapple upside-down cake, torrone (both chocolate and the traditional nougat), and roasted chestnuts. Probably at this time Zia Ines, my great-aunt, will call from Italy, and we will have our traditional conversation:
Alessandra! Com'e stai?
Sto bene, Zia.
[How is your mother?]
Bene, bene.
[Give everyone hugs and kisses for me!]
OK, Zia. Buon Natale. Ciao.
(This is about the limit of my conversational Italian. Sometimes she asks me about my boyfriend. Last year she asked if I was getting married. Those questions are way too complicated for me to answer, so usually I pass it on to my cousin so she can answer for me. This is shameful.)
Keep in mind that this still isn't the end of the food. There's a brief pause as the phone is passed around, but we're not done yet.
By this point, between the vermouth, the wine, and the champagne, everyone is well-drunk, and that means it is time for the assorted nuts and fruit.
And that means it is time for the annual Picchetti Men Walnut-Cracking Contest, wherein the men of my family prove that when they say they're hard-headed, they mean it literally.
My uncle, as the eldest, goes first. He's mostly bald at this point, so the giant red welts created by cracking a walnut on your head shows. (My aunt says he was once asked about it at a New Year's party they went to! Ouch.) My dad is next, and then all down the line. My cousin's now-husband wasn't truly accepted into the family until he had cracked a walnut with his forehead. My brother became a man when he managed to crack his. (I can't quite get up the speed, or my forehead is too soft, or something. Yes, I too have participated in this insanity.)
This is my Christmas, every year. And I would not miss it for the world.
