MOM'S RED SAUCE

Good thing Nonna doesn't understand the concept of the internet, because if there was any remote possibility that she could read what I am about to write I would think twice. My mom Marcy, who my father Rocco calls the "American woman," because she is the one who lended the normal non-Sicilain half of my DNA, makes sauce at the same level if not better than Nonna's time honored red tomato sauce. What? How can this be? Apparently you don't need to have Sicilian blood to make a killer tomato sauce. For a while I couldn't seem to get it right. But I called Mom at work and in about 5 minutes she gave me all the secrets. It turned out to be the best sauce I ever made. Aside from eating it with pasta, I used it to poach farm eggs for brunch, topped with a little cheese. It was fantastic!

Marcy's Red Tomato Sauce
1-1/1/2 large onions, roughly chopped
2 cans of peeled whole tomatoes
1-2 TBSP sugar
Salt
5-6 whole cloves of garlic
Bunch of fresh basil

Sautee the onions in olive oil. Add the tomatoes and season with salt and sugar. Bring to a boil then simmer for about a half an hour. Pass the sauce through a food mill and transfer to another pot. Addthe garlic and a generous bunch of basil leaves. Bring to a boil, then a simmer for about another 20-30 minutes. Take out the garlic and basil (optional). 

BUON COMPLEANO NONNA! Some more Sicilian craziness...

Happy 89th Birthday, Nonna! And another one, and another one, and another one...

Last year at this time, Nonna was in bad shape, in the hospital and we weren't sure she was going to make it through the holidays. But she has that Sicilian fight in her, and she is alive and spunky today and we are truly grateful, even though she doesn't exactly share that sentiment.

We took Nonna out to London Lennies, the best seafood restaurant in NYC which happens to be in the Queens hood. Top notch meal and top notch service.

It was a lot of crazy Galatioto Family fun, which culminated in the entire restaurant singing "Happy Birthday" to Nonna over a giant piece of cheese cake. Nonna's wish after she blew out the candles: "Natrannu un vulissi esseri essei 'cca" or "Next year I don't want to be here."

"Don't worry, Mama," Uncle Sal screamed across the table, "next year, we'll take you to Joe Abbraciamento's," (That's an all Italian joint up the block.) He knew full well she wasn't talking about the restaurant.

Claire, my bestest friend and our waitress was concerned.

"Was the service bad?" she asked.

"No, Claire, next year Nonna wants to be dead," I said.

And this is why Sicilians are insane. I rest my case.

Its 10pm (and snowing) do you know where your mutandine are?

You may be asking yourself WTF is mutandine? If you are asking this question, I am guessing you don't have a Sicilian Nonna. Mutandine or as I pronounce (moo-tun-dee-nee), is basically any undershirt and if you're from any of the outer boroughs you may refer to it as a stickball shirt or a wife beater.

As a child you did not go to Sunday dinner at Nonna's, even during a heat wave, without your mutandine. It was as if the mutandine possessed some magical powers that fought off the common cold and the evil eye.

Nonna had a keen sense about the mutandine. If I wore it, she subtly nodded in approval. But if not she gave me a horrified look then grab at my torso, rustling my clothes hysterically.

"Jane, you notta wear you mutandine? Jane, you goin' to catch cold."

Working up a sweat in the middle of the summer I would try to assure her that I would be okay.

"No! Jane you needa the mutandine."

So she would fish out one of Nonno's (that's my grandpa's) mutandine, a great big mutandine that fit me like a dress, so I looked like one of the chipmunks and I'd put my smaller outside shirt over it.

Looking like a fool, Nonna would calm down. Better to look like a fool than be struck with a fever in the middle of July. Satisfied, she would bring me to the table for a nice big bowl of my favorite pasta, which was plain with some olive oil.

The Other Brooklyn

     I am from Queens, (let this be clear) but when my grandparents came here from Sicily, they first settled in Brooklyn, in Bushwick to be exact. And Rocco went to Bushwick High School when it wasn't cool to live in Bushwick. Very not cool. I remember this awesome orange Bushwick HS Reunion T Shirt he used to have. Beacon's Closet would pay big bucks for that one these days.

    Back in the day there was a funny phrase that distinguished two different areas of Brooklyn. If you lived in the northern area, where Knickerbocker Avenue is, where a lot of Italian immigrants lived, you lived in "Brooklyn." Then there was, "The Other Brooklyn," way over in the South part of the borough, which referred to Italian neighborhoods like Bensonhurst and Bay Ridge. Nonna still says, "He lives in l'altro Brukulino." On the other hand, if you lived in Bensonhurst, you considered that to be "Brooklyn" and you called Bushwick, "The Other Brooklyn." Its all a matter of one's perspective.

    Like when I was a kid on the block in Queens I had a friend named Jen. I called her "Jennifer Down the Block," to distinguish her from myself who was "Jennifer Up the Block." When I called her "Jennifer Down the Block" one day she said, "No, you are Jennifer Down the Block!"

We  still have not resolved that one.

Nonna's feeding tactics trait

    Lately I have noticed myself making a concerted effort to hold back on my force feeding tactics. I am the type of person who hates feeling like I am making someone do something they don't want to do, but when I ask, "Would you like a peach?" and the answer is "No," I can't help but want to come back with, "Are you sure?" In my mind I can't understand how someone could say no to a precious peach, and its my DNA (that Sicilian strand) that compels me to not take no for an answer. It takes everything I have to stop myself. No means no, thought and I can't be a food pusher.

     While I was at Nonna's the other day I figured out where I get it from.

     "You hungry Jane (my name is Jen)? You want something to eat?"

     "No thanks, Nonna. I just ate."

     "Jane, you sure?"

     "I'm okay."

     There she pauses. She is not satisfied with my responses. By the furrow in her brow I can tell she is thinking, planning her next move. She figures it out; her faces brightens up. She thinks she's slick.

     "Jane, you wanna just one meatball?"

      One meatball! She knows once you have one the next step is an entire bowl of pasta. And in Nonna's mind there is no turning down meatballs, plus just one cannot hurt. 

     "I'm fine, Nonna."

     "Jane, are you okay?"

     Its trip to the hospital worthy to turn down a meatball. That old Sicilian woman is just too much! I know where I get it from. I am going to really try hard not to be a food nagger. Its so hard though! One meatball!

SWISS CHARD FROM THE YARD AND MORE PANELLE

    The swiss chard I got as an infant plant from Rooftop Farms was really ready to go. The last chard recipe I made was simply sauteed with a runny egg on top. The chard itself is not how I remember eating chard, so I referred to Rocco, who is the only person who ever prepared chard for me, and I cooked it the way he does. It came out just as I wanted it to. 

    While I was rinsing the chard, I get a call from Nonna, who has her own cell phone by the way.

    "Jane (my name is Jen) I gotta the panelle, you want it?" 

    Faster than you can say mala figura I was at Nonna's house, ringing the door bell. And as usual she was buzzing me in, but the outer door was locked, so I couldn't get in. No problem. "Nonna!" I screamed up to her apartment. After a few moments, Nonna comes out onto her balcony. No true Sicilian doesn't have a balcony. I think they just shrivel up and die without one. 

    "Jane, you don't gotta the keys?" If I had the keys I would have already been up eating panelle, "Okay, Jane I come down." After a few falls and trips to the hospital, Nonna should not under any circumstances be climbing down the stairs, so I tell her to just throw the panelle down. Usually she then will go into the house and get a little rope and tie whatever it is it and reel it down, which is what I thought was taking so long. Before I know it she's at the front door and walks out carrying her cane, like its an accessory.

    "Jane, why you no gotta the key?" I haven't lived there in like 5 years.

    "Nonna, you shouldn't be walking down the stairs by yourself!"

    "Jane, I can walka downa the stair bya myself. I go out alla the time bya myself." She's a live one. I tried to calmly take the panelle from her, but it was more like ripping it out of her hands and shoving it into my mouth, while thinking, just one, you need to photograph this. It was so perfect, and Rocco was right, good panelle is a little greasy, which I have to admit my panelle was lacking. It had the right flavor but not enough grease seeped into it and all over my hands and the upholstery of the Jeep like this one. There are sometimes casualties involved in good panelle. Its a fact of life. 

    "Nonna, who made this?" 

    "Jane, you like? I getta the recipe. My friend-eh make-eh." The hunt to find this person is on. When I trap her, I will let you know. 

    I suspected it had eggs in it, but when I mentioned this to Rocco, after teasing me that I didn't leave him any, he literally had a fit that I even mention eggs in panelle. That would be a real mala figura according to him.     

Rocco's Swiss Chard

1-2 cloves of garlic sliced

peperoncino

extra virgin olive oil

1 fresh tomato, chopped

bunch of swiss chard, whole or chopped (give swiss chard a good soak, its gritty)

salt and pepper

Sautee the garlic and peroncino in extra virgin olive oil. Add the tomato and cook down a bit. Salt and Pepper. Add the swiss chard and sautee a few minutes. Salt and pepper. Cover and steam until soft.

ZUCCHINI AND MORE ZUCCHINI

     I have been eating a lot of zucchini, and its just the start of the season, so I need to start getting creative. My go to is either Zucchini Stew or Pasta with Zucchini. Yesterday, I had the most unbelievable Zucchini Puree from a little cafe in the West Village which I am going to try to recreate. It was outrageous. Here, I made a combination Rocco Nonna Zucchini Pasta. 

    Rocco will usually slice the zucchini really thin, then fry it and serve it over pasta in a spicy garlic and oil sauce. Its superb. 

    Nonna simply stews the zucchini with garlic for a lighter pasta dish. So I took the best of both worlds. 

     I made the stew as the base of the sauce, then combined it with a garlic sauteed in oil and peperoncino. The I topped it with some fried zucchini slices and ended up with a remarkably delicious zucchini pasta that is really nice topped with fresh grated romano cheese. It seems like more steps but in the end it was easier because frying 50 zucchini slices is time consuming. So while the stew is going you just fry up say 1/4 of the zucchini in slices and you still get that nice friedness with less frying toil.

SICILIAN HAND GESTURES: PART 2

    After this "series" of photographs, I am convinced that my Nonna is a cartoon character. I really have to give Mommy credit for getting Nonna on a crazy rant about Josephine, her daily caretaker. Josephine is a really nice, middle aged, round and a bit pushy Sicilian woman (that explains the pushiness) who probably doesn't have a lot of game. But in Nonna's mind, which doesn't always line up with reality, Josephine is in fact a big time player. I should note that Josephine deserves sainthood for putting up with Nonna's antics. Nonna thinks that Mr. Columbo, the old fruit man, who has the personality of a zucchini has a thing for Josephine, whom Nonna has personally witnessed flaunting it while browsing his produce. That last statement can be read lewdly, so I am leaving it just how it is. Nonna has nothing to do all day but stew about every single thing that Josephine says and does and she has no problem telling you these stories over and over, even when there is a likelihood Josephine can hear, which is very uncomfortable. Its like her own living soap opera, episodes replaying in Nonna's head. She also thinks that Josephine has the hots for the doctor, whose name is, not kidding, Dr. Stallone. Now Nonna has become very secretive about her calls and visits to the doctor to prevent Josephine from getting her hands on him. 

    Mommy and I can't quite remember exactly what Nonna was on a tirade about during this sequence, but it was definitely one of the two forbidden love affairs she created in her Sicilian brain about Josephine. Next time I will make sure to get sound bites. 

     Here, Nonna is doing a 2 part hand gesture. The first obvious, "to the moon" or hitler impersonation, is Nonna expressing "get out of here with your crazy self" because she is outraged by Josephine's seemingly loose behavior. The second more subtle aspect of this Sicilian hand gesture is, if you look closely, Nonna is giving the horns or "fare le corna." 

    Giving the horns has two meanings. First it wards off bad luck.  When someone dies you give the horns. Rocco can be seen giving the horns while riding by cemeteries, which are plentiful in Queens. Makes sense. Giving the horns is also an insult to a man who is being cuckolded, and that man is called a "cornuto." You do not want to be called a cornuto; its very embarassing. Maybe here Nonna is referring to Josephine's boyfriend, whom Josephine is "cheating on" in Nonna's mind with either the fruit man or the doctor.

I GOTTA THE SUGAH...

Nonna always tells me, "Jen, I gotta the sugah." She is saying she has "the sugar," pronounced shoo-guh, meaning she has diabetes. Nonna doesn't have diabetes, but in her off-kilter Sicilian mind filled with hypochondriac worry she does have "the sugar," among other Sicilian conditions like "the pressure" (high blood pressure) pronounced pre-sha and everyone knows this one, "the agida" (heartburn) pronounced ah-gee-duh. Nonna was so convinced she had the sugar that she demanded the doctor give her a skin prick diabetes sugar testing kit, which can only be obtained with a prescription. The doctor, knowing she didn't have diabetes refused, so Nonna threatened to go to another doctor, and he caved and gave it to her. This is why our healthcare is so screwed up!  Now Nonna follows cannoli eating with sugar monitoring and she is very pleased. She is also convinced that other people have the sugar, like my father, who doesn't have the sugar. But her friend across the street, Mrs. Lombardo, who is the strongest most hearty old woman I have ever met, (Ex. She is ninety and moved my refrigerator when I lived downstairs from Nonna.), according to Nonna, "Mrs. Lomardo really has gotta the sugah." And Mrs. Lombardo is in fact diabetic but it does not stop her from eating cannolis, either. I guess there is a difference between having the sugar and really having the sugar.  "I gotta the sugah," just means you are worried you might get the sugar.