This is one of our favorites Italian story.
Send to me from my cousin.


I was well into adulthood before I realized that I was an American. Ofcourse I had been born in America and had lived here all of my life, butsomehow it never occurred to me that just being a citizen of the UnitedStates meant that I was an American. Americans were people who atepeanut butter and jelly on mushy white bread that came out of plasticbags. Me? I was Italian. For me, as I am sure for most second generation Italian-Americanchildren who grew up in the 40's and 50's, there was a definitedistinction to draw between us and them. We were Italians. Everybodyelse, the Irish, Germans, Poles, they were the "mericans". There was noanimosity involved in that distinction, no prejudice, no hard feelings,just...well...we were sure that ours was a better way. For instance, wehad a bread man, a fruit and vegetable man, a chicken man, we even had aman who sharpened knives and scissors right outside our homes. They werepart of the many peddlers who sold their wares in the Italianneighborhoods. We would wait for the call, their yell, their individualdistinctive sounds. We knew them all and they knew us. TheAmericans..they went to the A & P for most of their foods..what a waste. Truly, I pitied their loss. They never knew the pleasure of waking upevery morning to find a hot, crisp loaf of Italian bread waiting behindthe screen door. And, instead of being able to climb up the back of thepeddler's truck a couple of times a week just to hitch a ride, most ofmy "merican friends had to be satisfied by walking with their mamas tothe store. When it came to food, it always amazed me that my friends and classmatesonly ate turkey on Thandsgiving Day or Christmas. Or rather, that theyonly ate turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce. Now, weItalians, we also had turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and cranberrysauce, but only after we had finished the antipasto, soup, lasagna,meatballs, salad and whatever else mama thought might be appropriate forthat particular holiday. The turkey was usually accompanied by a roastof some kind (this was just in case somebody walked in who didn't liketurkey) and it was followed by an assortment of fruits, nuts, pastries,cakes and of course the homemade cookies sprinkled with little coloredthings. No holiday was complete without some home baking; none of thatstore bought stuff for us. This was where you learned to eat a 7 coursemeal between noon and 4 pm; how to handle hot chestnuts and puttangerine wedges in red wine. My friends ate cornmeal mush, we did too, but only after Mama covered itwith gravy, sausage and meatballs. We called it polenta..now it is agourmet food..Mama must have known it all the time. I truly believe Italians live a romance with food. Sunday was the bigday of the week. That was the day you'd wake up to the smell of garlicand onions frying in olive oil, as it dropped into the pan. Sunday wealways had gravy and macaroni. Sunday would not be Sunday without goingto Mass. Of course, you couldn't eat before Mass because you had to fastbefore receiving communion. But, the good part was that we knew when wegot home we'd find hot meatballs frying, and nothing tasted better thannewly fried meatballs and crisp bread dipped into a pot of hot gravy. There was another difference between us and them. We had gardens, notjust flower gardens, but huge gardens where we grew tomatoes, tomatoesand more tomatoes. We at them, cooked them, jarred them. Of course wealso grew peppers, basil, lettuce and squash. Everybody had a grapevineand a fig tree, and in the fall everybody made homemade wine. Then, whenthe kegs were opened everyone argued over whose wine tasted the best.Those gardens thrived because we also had something that our Americanfriends didn't seem to have. We had grandparents. Of course, it's notthat they didn't have grandparents; it's just that they didn't live inthe same house or on the same block..Their presence wasn't thatnoticeable. We ate with our grandparents, and God forbid we didn't visitthem at least 6 times a week. I can still remember my grandfathertelling us about how he came to America as a young man, on a "Boat". Howthe family lived in a tenament and took in boarders in order to makeends meet. How he decided that he didn't want his children, five sonsand two daughters, to grow up in that environment. All of this, ofcourse, in his own version of Italian/English which I learned tounderstand quite well. So, when they saved enough money, and I never still can figure out how,they bought a house. That house served as the family headquarters forthe next 40 years. I remember how they hated to leave the house for anyreason. They would rather sit on the back porch and watch their gardengrow. When they did leave for some special occasion, they had to returnas quickly as possible..after all, "nobody is watching the house". I also remember the holidays when all the relatives would gather at mygrandparent's house and there would be tables of food and homemade wine.The women in the kitchen, the men in the living room and the kids..kidseverywhere. I must have a thousand cousins, first cousins, and secondand some friends who just became cousins, but it didn't matter. Then mygrandfather, sitting in the middle of it all, his pipe in his mouth hisfine mustache trimmed, would smile, his dark eyes would twinkle as hesurveyed his domain, proud of his family and how well his children haddone. One was a cop, one was a fireman, the others had their trades andof course there was always a rogue about whom nothing was said. Thegirls? They had all married well and had fine husbands, although mygrandfather secretly seemed to suspect the one son-in-law who wasn'tItalian. But out of all of this the one thing that we all had foreach other was RESPECT. They had achieved their goal in coming to America; to Boston, New York,Chicago, or Philadelphia. Now their children and their children'schildren were achieving the same goals that were available to them inthis great country. When my grandparents died a few years ago, thingsbegan to change. Family gatherings were fewer and something seemed to bemissing. Although, when we did get together, usually at my mother'shouse, I always had a feeling that they were there. It is understandable that things change. Everyone now has families oftheir own and grandchildren of their own. Today we vist once or twice ayear or we meet at wakes or weddings. Other things have also changed.That old house my grandparents bought now is covered with aluminumsiding. A green lawn covers the soil that grew the tomatoes. There wasno one to cover the fig tree so it died. The holidays have changed. yes, we still make the family "rounds" butsomehow things have become formal. The great quantity of food we onceconsumed without any ill effects is no good for us anymore. Too muchstarch, too much cholesterol, too many calories in the pastries. Andnobody bothers to bake anymore..too busy; it's easier to buy it...andanyway ...too much is not good for you. The differences between "us" and "them" aren't so easily definedanymore, and I guess that's good. My grandparents were Italian-Italians,my parents were Italian-Americans, I'm an American, and proud of it.Just as my grandparents would want me to be. We are all Americansnow..the Irish, Germans, the Poles,..US citizens all. But, somehow, Istill feel a little bit Italian. Call it culture, call it roots, I'm notsure what it is. All I do know is that my children, my nieces andnephews have been cheated out of a wonderful piece of heritage..theynever knew my grandparents. AUTHOR UNKNOWN....>>


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