Part One-Side One: (My mother's side) of my La Familia is almost pure Sicilian (Palermo). Yes, the Mafia capital of Italy--more on that another time. My grandfather--Nanu...Jimmy Balzano, a feather-weight boxing champion in his day, reigned over his four daughters and their families. We numbered: 24. He reigned 'supreme' (the undisputed Godfather) at ALL Italian Feasts of La Familia. It goes without saying, that our Italian Feasts (which went on for hours) rivaled "Big Night" and I think whoever wrote "Like Water For Chocolate" must have, at some time, come under one of the frequent 'culinary spells' cast on guests at one of our over-the-top-dramatic and deliriously divine dinners.... My grandmother--Ma--Rose Balzano, was also Sicilian but with just enough of a dash of Romanian Gypsy, bequeathed us with a wonderful addition to our already inherited, exotic and we would all agree (fortuitous), mixed-and hot-blooded veins. Ma Balzano had the proverbial light black feathered mustache that always puzzled me as a child. Her simmered and Mason jar-bottled italian plum tomatoes (for homemade sauce at a moment's notice) were carefully put on shelves in their downstairs cellar. At any one time, there were enough jars to feed Mussolini's army or the Mafioso, if they dropped in.
All Christmas Eve's (at Nanu's) have Ma and her four daughters cooking and preparing in every corner of the kitchen. The live lobsters and crab could be found swimming in the bathtub until they were ceremoniously thrown into a huge pot awaiting their demise. With the lobsters, once submerged, you could hear their high-pitched squealing "to death." Their plaintiff cries engulfed the kitchen. My Irish friend recently told me that if you throw a lobster into boiling water (head-first), they die instantly....Nanu threw them in more like a 'hit' from the mafia (the full body plunge). I never did hear the crabs make any death knoll sounds but, then again, I probably missed their immersion. I always ran from the kitchen once the lobsters started their thrashing. Helplessly, in way over their heads, they roiled among the bay leaves.
Any time of day or night, you could walk into my grandparent's home and be hit with the very pungent smell of freshly grated (only the imported kind), very sharp Pecorino cheese. I loved the way the scent of that cheese permeated everything in their home. The first time I was old enough to answer their telephone, I picked it up and even the mouth-piece had the strong lingering aroma of this same cheese...still, just to think about it, makes me want to consume a pound of linguine. I always marveled as a child, when I was invited to a friend's home for dinner, for something they called: spaghetti. I had no idea what they were talking about. We only ate 'pasta.' To my astonishment, the mother (especially if she was the scandinavian-looking type) would throw in about a quarter pound of 'spaghetti' to feed six people!! Six people? I didn't know any Italians that didn't eat at least a quarter of a pound of pasta by themselves....To be fair, my friends had their own surprises when coming to our home for dinner. They had never eaten escargot with lots of garlic butter, octopus or raw oysters and all in copious amounts. Most of them never returned a second time to try the mussels or soft-shell crabs.
Nana Tanina, Nanu's mother, from whom I inherited my name, (Tanina, not Gracie Garp) lived with my grandparents. Always dressed in widow's black, she scared the bejesus out of anyone of my friends who had never seen a 'live' version of the 'black widow.' I adored her and she me. As her 'namesake', I always got preferential treatment. When she died, I was 7 years old and my preferential treatment extended to her funeral. Out of my fourteen cousins, I was the only child permitted at her funeral. The only child that got to see her Italian aunts wailing; (each one competing with the other) to be the first to hurl themselves into the casket to show their devotion. My mother, Tanina Rose, Nana's first namesake, seemed much more refined and contained. I nervously wondered if she and I would be required to take a more regal and dignified stance (befitting a Tanina) before being entombed with my Nana. I wondered how we would both fit, especially with what seemed like a million red roses beside her and those gracefully laid over her crossed hands that held her favorite rosary.
The last notes of Ave Maria are being played. The weeping and gnashing of teeth has escalated. (Really, if you have never attended an old-Italian style funeral, you haven't lived)...Something feels like it is nearing the end of the service. My father moves comfortingly close to me. The next thing I know, he has picked me up and is walking toward the open casket. Unbeknownst to me, it is tradition for me (as a namesake) to kiss my Nana goodbye. Nothing is being said to me as we approach her casket. My father, teary-eyed, tenderly hoists me over her body. He whispers, "kiss your Nana goodbye." The only way Italians kiss is on the lips...it was considered very disrespectful to do otherwise. I am now in mid-flight and in my father's strong arms hovering over her ( I feel like a butterfly). It feels like forever as I am being lowered closer and closer to her mouth. As I continue the descent, the aroma of roses is overpowering. When I kiss her, her lips are ice cold and I can smell the embalming chemicals. The feel and smell of her lips is that of the red clay that I used in grade school for modeling my first sculptures. I never again smell roses without the beatific butterfly memory floating back.
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Nanu, Ma, Nana Tanina and my mother, Tanina Rose, are all now in some kind of heaven...hopefully a Sicilian heaven where they are perpetually in a state of eating. Those deeply and natively cultural Italian
experiences have informed much of who I am today. I can always be counted on to consume more pasta, at one sitting, than individuals twice my size. I am frequently counted on to cast "Sicilian-Gypsy Spells" on any situation crying out for 'good outcomes.' I do not throw myself into open caskets. I do relish my good fortune of being born into this particular aromatic Tribe.
In closing, let me extend an open invitation to anyone wanting or (craving) a seat at my feasting table...my pantry and kitchen are open 24 hours a day. Laughter, screaming, over-abundant dishes of pasta and cheese always await your arrival.
(Gracie Garp)
Tanina III
Thursday, February 25, 2010
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You are a wonderful story teller. I can hardly wait until you write again. I just called you because I realized I don't know your middle name. Love you. Puddha
ReplyDeleteTanina I am enjoying the stories it brings back so many memories. Love you Brother Jimmy
ReplyDeleteOH WOW!!! of course i have had the good fortune of being a part of your amazing feasts my whole life and reading this helps me understand where they originated...i never realized that you had the memory of roses in that way...such a powerful memory. I of course, will be there anytime for your food and will always try to eat more than my share...imagine my horror one day as a kid going to a friends whose mom put ketchup on very over done "spaghetti"...i just about feinted...oh how i love pasta....
ReplyDeleteI love this story momma!!!