Recipe For Love

My family is Italian, we love to mangia (eat)!  As a little girl my grandpa would rise at four o’clock in the morning to start cooking. The first aroma that tickled my nose was coffee. I would crawl out of bed and into grandpa's ample lap as he read the morning paper. After he finished he would hoist me onto a nearby vinyl and metal stool while he pounded veal paper thin, breaded it in his own special mix and fried it up in obscene amounts of butter and olive oil.  A giant pot of meat sauce simmered nearby.  Grandpa let me throw in the various herbs and enjoy little tastes. But most of all he made me feel that none of it could happen without my invaluable help.

My Aunt Rena made everything from scratch, from homemade ravioli to polenta dulce, (sweet lemon polenta). These polenta mounds were my favorite. As they came out of the oven she would sprinkle sugar over the tops.  I was just the right height to snatch one.  Aunt Rena would always give me samples and winks.

My great grandfather made red wine down in his cement basement. It was so strong it corroded the bottles! The basement was off limits to women, but once in a blue moon he let me slip down and watch the goings on in their male retreat and he would whisper something in Italian and let me sip from his thick glass. I never knew what it was he said, but I think it was, 'don't tell your mama'.

My father introduced me to little toasted rounds of Italian bread hollowed out with rolled up hot Cappicola (Italian ham) and a dab of his special mayo mix.  He made it whenever it stormed outside to take my mind off the scary thunder...my mouth was so much on fire from the hot ham that I quickly forgot the lightening bolts and loud booms.

I can never decide what I love more today...cooking or eating.  I may not remember all the details of the wonderful dishes they made but the recipe for love they each shared will be with me forever.