IT’S THE STUFF THAT STUFFING IS MADE OF

Thanksgiving to me is a very tradition oriented day, filled with the old time recipes that fill my memories so sweetly. It is the day that I can relate to dating back to the 1940’s and early 1950’s! It is the day that Mom outdid herself, with the exception of Christmas Eve, when we had a traditional dinner of seven fishes and then some.

I can recall the excitement of those long gone Brooklyn days, when Mom wore her flowered apron with the bib, dressed and stirring the taste buds for the day ahead.

Grandma Frances, my Dad’s mom, would come over, or we would go to her house, witnessing the miracle of the little Old Italian lady who knew how to cook. The problem with Grandma Frances was, she didn’t like turkey, so she made turkey for everyone, and capon for herself. A capon is a castrated rooster. Capons are considered by many people to be a boutique and an old fashioned food, and it tends to have more tender, flavorful flesh as well as a higher fat content. The markedly different flavor profile of a capon is distinctive to consumers once they taste it, especially when the capon has been conscientiously raised.

The city as we called it, was always a special place for a holiday. It seemed to have each holiday spelled out in style, festiveness, and flavor. You dressed for a holiday, usually by going first to church, then visiting friends and neighbors and/or relatives. The relatives lived in your proximity so you never spent a holiday alone.

It was a time to see cousins who you usually never saw, and they seemed like strangers, yet they were blood!

Food was the central theme throughout the day, with the abundance of vegetables, nuts and meats, not to mention pasta. There were always visitors just as we were visitors to someone’s home. Pisano’s o Pisana’s, they came in flocks and left with the ring of a smile on their face from a glass of wine or a shot of booze.

They spoke of the hometown they left, a cousin or relative, or someone who they had a disagreement with. They spoke loudly and with their hands, but always joyously, almost singing their thoughts.

While grandma orchestrated the discussions, grandpa would listen, every now and then throwing in some thought of his own, while grandma told him he was crazy!

There was always a white tablecloth thrown across three tables that ran lengthwise to fit all the diners. The noise level was so loud, and the hands waving as they spoke, yet they managed to integrate dishes and glasses of wine into the flow of words.

The little kids sat at a separate table, just for then. They were served first so Mom’s could get a break, and eat in peace. Peace is what they called it, noisy is what I remember!

Dad would sit next to me and tell me who that one was, or who this one was. He would explain a word in Italian to me: what it meant, and why I should NEVER use it.

Then, once the pasta was gone, the meatballs and braziola consumed, the turkey and Italian stuffing meted out, the pastry and nuts, with bowls of fruit came out, placed in front of you, and sometimes, grandma would take out her cache of candied nuts she got from some wedding, the men would retreat to a smaller table, with coffee or the black strong coffee with anisette, and play poker, the smoke from cigars and cigarettes, turning the air blue. In the background, we could hear the distant nattering of the Philco TV, and the chattering in Italian by the aunts and mothers , sisters and cousins.

By the time things were wearing down, so too were the kids, all sleeping on chairs, laying across them, the constant ditter of Italian penetrating their sleepy brains, as they each fought off the sleep.

Then finally, Dad would pick us up, Mom would put on our coats, and Dad would carry us home, two blocks away, in the cold chill of the black night.

Ringraziamento felice a voi tutto!
Happy Thanksgiving to you all!