![]() ![]() We ate with ours, and God forbid we didn’t see him at least once a day. It’s not that they didn’t have grandfathers it’s just that they didn’t live in the same house, or on the same block. Of course, those gardens thrived so because we also had something else it seemed our American friends didn’t seem to have. Everybody had a grapevine and a fig tree, and in the fall everyone made homemade wine, lots of it. Of course, we also grew peppers, basil, lettuce and squash. We had gardens, not just flower gardens, but huge gardens where we grew tomatoes, tomatoes, and more tomatoes. There was another difference between US and THEM. But, the good part was we knew that when we got home, we’d find hot meatballs frying, and nothing tastes better than newly-fried meatballs and crisp bread dipped in a pot of gravy. Of course, you couldn’t eat before Mass because you had to fast before receiving Communion. Sunday would not be Sunday without going to Mass. ![]() As you lay in bed, you could hear the hiss as tomatoes were dropped into the pan. That was the day you’d wake up to the smell of garlic and onions frying in olive oil. Speaking of food – Sunday was truly the big day of the week. I truly believe Italians live a romance with food. This is where you learned to eat a seven-course meal between noon and 4 p.m., how to handle hot chestnuts and put peach wedges in red wine. No holiday was complete without some home baking none of that store-bought stuff for us. This turkey was usually accompanied by a roast of some kind (just in case somebody walked in who didn’t like turkey) and was followed by an assortment of fruits, nuts, pastries, cakes and, of course, homemade cookies. Now we Italians – we also had turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce – but only after we had finished the antipasto, soup, lasagna, meatballs, salad and whatever else Mamma thought might be appropriate for that particular holiday. Or rather, that they only ate turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce. When it came to food, it always amazed me that my American friends or 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.Īnd instead of being able to climb on back of the peddler’s truck a couple of times a week just to hitch a ride, most of my “MED-E-GONE” friends had to be satisfied going to the A&P. ![]() Americans went to the stores for most of their foods – what a waste. We would wait for their call, their yell, their individual distinctive sound. They were the many peddlers who plied the Italian neighborhoods. Of course, I had been born in America and had lived there all of my life, but somehow it never occurred to me that just being a citizen of the United States meant I was an American.Īmericans were people who ate peanut butter and jelly on mushy white bread that came out of plastic packages.įor me, as I am sure for most second-generation Italian-American children who grew up in the 40s or 50s, there was a definite distinction drawn between US and THEM.Įverybody else – the Irish, German, Polish, Jewish – they were the “MED-E-GONES.” There were no hard feelings, just – well – we were sure ours was the better way.įor instance, we had a bread man, a coal man, an ice man, a fruit and vegetable man, a watermelon man, and a fish man we even had a man who sharpened knives and scissors who came right to our homes, or at least right outside our homes. I was well into adulthood before I realized that I was an American. ![]()
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