Month: December 2019

THE BATTLE OF THE SEXISTS

The Sicilian Storyteller

“Debonair, sophisticated and charming” sighed Alice Carter. “Cary Grant and David Niven are so good in that movie. I always loved ‘The Bishop’s Wife’. They don’t make classy movies like that anymore, you know?” 

“And that Loretta Young is some beauty, too” replied Alice’s husband Ralph. “Those high cheekbones, full lips, tiny waist and long legs – a real looker, that one.” 

“And so chic, too, Ralph. You always knew a real lady when you saw one. Well, I better start dinner. I’m making your favorite – sausage and potato casserole.” 

“I hope you made a lemon meringue pie for dessert.” 

“Of course! I know what you like, Ralph.” 

Returning to the den after starting dinner, Alice found Ralph was watching the news. 

“Why aren’t there more delightful men on the news, men like Peter Jennings?” 

“Because he’s dead” replied Ralph.

“How about Mike Wallace?”

“Also dead” Ralph reminded Alice. 

“Look at this clown, Glenn Beck, wearing jeans and sneakers on a news program! Give him a beanie and he’d look just like one of those little rascal kids. What ever happened to that nice Matt Lauer?” 

“Fired for sexual misconduct” replied Ralph.

“Good Lord! I don’t believe it! Well, what about Bill O’Reilly, Eric Bolling and Charlie Rose?” 

“Fired, fired and, oh yeah … fired. Alice, can I please have a moment of peace and quiet to watch the news?” 

“Well, pardon me for living!” she sniffed. “I’m going to check on the sausage casserole.” 

When she returned Alice stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh my God, Ralph! What on earth are you watching now?” 

“It’s still the news, Alice. In fact, it’s called ‘The News Channel’. I didn’t change the station.” 

“The ‘X Rated News Channel’, you mean! No wonder those poor men got fired. What red-blooded guy could resist floozies like that showing off their goods on national tv? They look like hookers! And look at you sitting there in your underwear all bug-eyed. I’m sure as soon as my back is turned you’ll be jacking off to these little twats. Disgusting!” Alice harrumphed. 

“Talk about disgusting! Since when do you talk like that, Alice? Just be quiet. You don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about. I bet you didn’t even know Russia has topless newscasters? These women are professionals. They’re lawyers, professors and judges, not bimbos with sketchy unspecified qualifications who just walked in off the street.” 

“Yeah, they’re highly qualified alright … as teasers and flirts!” Alice snapped. “Take that one on the end with the blonde hair, fishnet stockings and spike heels. Look at how skimpy her dress is. Did they run out of fabric? Her boobs are straining to break loose from her top and the bottom is so short – if she uncrosses her legs we’ll all find out if she’s a real blonde or not! Her other job is probably pole dancing!” 

“Woah, woah, woah! That’s enough, Alice. Look, this here is Megyn Kelly. She has a law degree, is a journalist, an author and a world-famous political commentator as well as a news anchor. The dark-haired one on the end is Kimberly Guilfoyle. She’s a political analyst, an attorney and former First Lady of San Francisco. Now she’s engaged to Donald Trump, Jr. I’m sure their families are very proud. Besides being absolutely stunning, they’re brilliant. Why don’t you just run back into the kitchen like a good girl and let me enjoy my one indulgence.” 

“Indulgence??” Alice countered. “So you admit it’s all about cheap thrills and nothing to do with the news. You’re such a pig, Ralph!” 

“Whatever. How’s that sausage coming, anyway? I’m hungry.”

Alice saw red. “Here’s an idea for you, Ralph. Get Kimberly whats-her-name to heat up your sausage. I’m sure she’s highly qualified!”

NAR © 2019

Reposted for Fandango’s #FOWC  http://fivedotoh.com/2023/01/31/fowc-with-fandango-loose/

THE HEART OF COOKING

The Sicilian Storyteller

It was an ordinary Sunday morning when ten year old Marianna was roused from her sleep – not by the sound of icy pellets of sleet hitting the window nor by her pesky cat nuzzling her neck with his downy face, purring loudly in her ear. Nothing that mundane could disturb her peaceful slumber; it was something much more tantalizing and enticing.

Gradually the hint of a delectable aroma wafted into her room like wispy smoke, encircled her head and tickled her nose with ethereal fingers. Sleepy eyes blinked open and Marianna grinned as the realization hit her – Mama’s making meatballs! 

Slipping on fuzzy socks Marianna ran to the kitchen – the queen’s domain where Mama reigned supreme. She was standing guard over her gleaming Autumn Gold Amana stove, all the burners dutifully at work. The rear burners held two large stainless steel pots containing simmering tomato sauce, a slowly bubbling brew of crimson ambrosia. The front burners held the culinary Holy Grail – Mama’s treasured cast iron pans which had one purpose and one purpose only – frying meatballs. The expertly formed golfball-sized orbs of pure perfection sizzled in Mama’s special mixture of olive oil and butter turning the meatballs a delicious golden brown. The butter and oil combination was one of her many secrets – “a kiss from the cook” she would say.

“Come, Marianna. Mangia! I put some aside for you. Eat them before they get cold.” 

Marianna scampered to the side of the stove where Mama had placed three glorious meatballs on a little plate. Her immediate reaction was to gobble them up as fast as possible but they would be gone too soon.

There’s a process for eating fried meatballs fresh from the pan. First you select one, gingerly picking it up with your fingers. No respectable Italian would eat a fried meatball with a knife and fork; it’s a ritual and you don’t mess with rituals. Next you inhale the fragrance which in itself is a religious experience. Bringing the meatball to your mouth, you pause for one second, lips barely touching the crunchy crispy outer shell. Now for the best part – that first small bite revealing the exquisitely cooked succulent interior of the meatball.

The sensation of flavors bursting in your mouth cannot be adequately described. Like a wine connoisseur savoring the bouquet of a fine Montepulciano d’Abruzzo, so must the sublime piquancy of the noble meatball be appreciated. The combination of the outer crust and tender succulent inside blended with Pecorino Romano cheese, oregano and seasoned breadcrumbs makes for the ideal culinary marriage.

Marianna brought her now empty and licked clean plate to the sink and watched as Mama carefully placed the meatballs into the sauce where they would lovingly simmer and soften for several hours.

“Mama” Marianna began timidly, “may I have your recipes when I grow up? I want to learn to cook just like you.”

“My recipes?” Mama asked incredulously. “There are no recipes written in some fancy cookbook. The recipes are in here and in here” she said touching her head and her heart.

“But how will I learn to cook without a recipe?” Marianna asked.

“My angel Marianna. Cooking is like breathing – don’t think about it. You watch. I will teach you. Your hands and heart will know when the texture is right – a little water, some cheese, a few eggs, a handful of seasonings. You’ll know. As long as you add the most important ingredient, you’ll never need a recipe.” 

“What’s the most important ingredient, Mama?”

“Love, my angel” Mama said as she kissed the top of Marianna’s head. “Love.”

NAR © 2019

TI VOGLIO TANTO BENE

The Sicilian Storyteller

There are five boroughs in the city of New York – Manhattan, The Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens and Staten Island – each with a unique character and charm of its own. That was true back in the 1930s and it’s still true today.

Every family has a story and mine was no different as I’ve been told numerous times. My parents were both from Manhattan. They met in 1937, got married two years later, moving into the family’s triplex apartment in Manhattan with my mother’s immediate relatives – 19 aunts, uncles and cousins plus her parents and grandparents.

World War II had begun and countless men were being drafted – but only men without children. My mother’s uncles all had several kids making them exempt from the draft. My father was also safe for my mother had a baby just ten months after getting married – a breathtakingly beautiful boy with rosy cheeks and auburn curls. He was named Gaetano after my paternal grandfather. Then the unspeakable happened. My parent’s world came crashing down just two short years later when they endured the devastating loss of their beloved baby Gaetano on New Year’s Eve. “Nephritis” the doctors said. “There’s no cure.”

Given no time to grieve, the army snatched my childless father and shipped him off to Europe to battle the enemy, leaving my mother with no husband and no baby. My father returned home in July of 1945 and somehow they managed to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives and begin again. Their daughter Francesca was born in 1947; I followed four years later, born on Francesca’s birthday. I was named Sophia. Francesca still hasn’t forgiven me for ruining her birthday party!

When I was six months old my parents decided the city was no place to raise a family and started looking for houses in The Bronx. In 1951 The Bronx was a lot different than it is now; it was like a village in the countryside with farms where people raised sheep, goats and chickens and grew fresh vegetables. They got milk from the animals and made their own cream, butter and cheese. It was a far cry from Manhattan and it was idyllic.

My parents bought a nice two family house just big enough for the four of us and my grandparents. There was also a large backyard perfect for my grandfather’s grapevines and fig trees and my mother’s vegetable garden. My grandmother was always sickly. I recall my mother telling us how much my grandmother loved being away from Manhattan. She relished sitting in the backyard watching my grandfather picking grapes and feeling the warmth of the sun on her frail body.

On a beautiful warm day I was taking a nap in my baby carriage in the backyard while my grandmother sat in a chair gently rocking the carriage. I started to stir and opened my eyes. I saw my grandmother’s smiling face looking down at me, her doe-like eyes twinkling as she sweetly sang an Italian folk song, “Ti Voglio Tanto Bene” (“I Love You So Much”):

“I love you so much and I’ll be here for you. You will feel in your heart a love that is true. I love you so much and I’ll cherish you with my voice sweetly singing only to you.”

At 11 months of age my earliest memory was seeing my grandmother’s adoring face smiling at me. It was her twinkling brown eyes and sweet voice that calmed me. She passed away three years later but the special bond we shared would never die.

“Ti voglio tanto bene, nonna.”

NAR © 2019