We ate them, cooked them and jarred them. We had gardens, not just flower gardens, but gardens where we grew tomatoes, tomatoes, and more tomatoes. There was another difference between US anthems. I truly believe Italians live a romance with food. But, the good part was, we knew when we got home we would find hot meatballs frying, and nothing tastes better than newly fried meatballs and fresh crisp Italian bread dipped into a pot of gravy. Of course you couldn't eat before Mass, because you had to fast before receiving Holy Communion.
(The "MEDI-GANS" called it sauce and pasta.) Sunday would not be Sunday without going to Mass. Sunday was truly the big day of the week! That was the day you would wake up to the smell of garlic and onions frying in olive oil, as it dropped into the pan.
#Joy of growing up italian carlo anzelmo how to#
how to handle hot chestnuts and put tangerine wedges in red wine. This is you learned to eat a seven-course meal between noon and 4 PM. No holiday was complete without some homemade baking. Someone walked in who didn't like turkey, and was followed by an assortment of fruits, nuts, pastries, and of course homemade cakes. Now we ITALIANS, we also had turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce, but, only after we had finished the Antipasto, Chicken Soup with Escarole, Cheese Squares & Little Meatballs, Lasagna, Meatballs, Braciola, Salad and whatever else Mama thought might be appropriate for that particular holiday.Īlso, our turkey was accompanied by a roast of some kind, just in case Or rather, they only ate turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce. And instead of being able to climb up on back of the peddler’s wagon or truck a couple of times a week, just to hitch a ride, most of my "MEDI-GAN" friends had to be satisfied going to the A&P.Īlas, when it came to food, it always amazed me that my American friends and classmates only ate turkey on Thanksgiving or Christmas. They never knew the pleasure of waking up every morning to find a hot, crisp loaf of Italian Bread waiting behind the screen door. Americans went to the store for most of their foods. We knew them by their names, and they knew us. We could wait for their call, their yell, and their individual distinctive sound. They were the many peddlers who plied their trades in the Italian Neighborhoods. For instance, we had a bread man, a coal & ice man, a fruit & vegetable man (which we call the "HUCKSTER"), a watermelon man, a javela-water man and a fish man we even hadĪ man who sharpened knives and scissors and a man who fixed umbrellas, who came right to our homes, or at least just outside our homes. It was just well we were sure ours was the better way. There was no animosity involved in that distinction, no prejudice, and no hard feelings. Everybody else, the Irish, English, German, Polish, Jewish, they were "MEDI-GANS". To me, as I am sure for most second generation Italian/American children who had grown up in the 1930's, 1940’s,and 1950's, there was a definite distinction between US and THEM. Americans were people who ate peanut butter on mushy white bread that came out of plastic packages. Somehow never occurred to me that just being a citizen of the United States meant that I was an American. OfĬourse I had been born in America, and lived here all of my life, but it I was well into adulthood before I realized that I was an American. and I would like to share it with all of you. I am not the author of this but this is the way it was when I was growing up in Norristown, Pa.
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