REMEMBERING SUNDAY MORNINGS AT HOME

From the time I was old enough to eat table food, until I left home at the age of 18, we ate macaroni (it was always macaroni, or spaghetti...we never used the term pasta until much later in my adult life) every Sunday, Tuesday, Thursday, and before all the other dishes on every holiday.  On special occasions my mother would make ravioli, lasagna, manicotti, or stuffed shells.

Before going any further with this, let me explain another Italian-American twist on culinary language; our macaroni or spaghetti was served with “gravy”, not sauce.  That is another one of those words that did not find their way into my vocabulary until I began eating “pasta”.  But not all Italian-Americans agree on what should be called gravy.  Some believe if meat is used, it is gravy, and without meat, it’s sauce.  I’m in the camp that it is all gravy, or all sauce,

During the week the macaroni was served any number of ways...with cheese and butter, with marinara (a loose, almost soupy tomato gravy cooked at the time of the meal), with beans or peas, with clams, or with only oil and garlic.  But on Sundays and every holiday except Christmas eve (that's another story) it was served with a deep, rich gravy made with a variety of meats (chicken, beef, meatballs, sausage, or a combination of two or more) that only my mother could make.  And she did this every

There is no recipe for making gravy, its done intuitively, and or course everyone's intuition is just a little different, so it follows that everyone’s gravy will be just a little different.  Thus, I could tell without difficulty my mother’s gravy from aunt Dolly’s, aunt Era’s, and uncle Fatty’s, all of which were wonderful.  Of course my mother’s was the best.

Sunday morning was my favorite morning of the week while I was growing up.  The kitchen would be filled with the aroma from the large pot on the stove filled with the tomatoes, spices, garlic and meat in the process of being transformed into my mother’s delicious gravy.  A late breakfast, we didn’t know about brunch at that time, would consist of a thick slice of bread covered with the gravy in process and a piece of the gravy meat.  If I close my eyes and concentrate real hard I can see my mother standing by the stove and smell the cooking as it fills the room.  

I couldn't find a photo of my mother making Sunday gravy, but did find one of grand-mom Rondinelli in our kitchen in 1956...making gravy of course.

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THE GRAPES

I am walking through the flat south Jersey fields of my childhood, into the land that once was the Renzulli farm.  To the south I can see the Goffredi homestead and the fields where we played so many baseball games.  To the north, beyond Siciliano’s farm is the silhouette of the cannery; I close my eyes and see the trucks overflowing with ripe tomatoes lined up during the glorious late summer days, the air heavy with the sweet smell of tomatoes being processed.

I am explaining all of these images to whoever might be with me on this dreamy journey as we enter the overgrown field where a lifetime ago grapes so proudly thrived.  It was a small vineyard, perhaps 15-20 rows of grapes about 500 ft long.  But to me it was a magical playground, where the large leafy plants shielded the sun and offered so many intimate hiding places, encouraging the fantasies and dreams of a young boy playing his games.  And the best part?  At any time you could pick a handful of large grapes, white, blue, or red, and squeeze the skin, popping the pulpy, juicy fruit directly into your mouth.  Once I am in the field, I am alone, and my only thought is to look for signs of the long ago grapes, hoping there might be one or more small shoots that have survived after all these years.  I begin to dig and scrape away some of the surface soil, and to my amazement and delight, find several old, thick, gnarled roots, one of which has a small green shoot trying to extend upward.  I continue digging and I’m rewarded with several more roots with signs of tender life. There are no words to describe the joy and elation at this discovery; it was overwhelming.

Before attempting to remove them I know I must do two things, first, get permission from the current owners, and do some research on how to safely remove and transplant the roots. I want to resurrect the grapes of my grandfather and father, and see the Renzulli vineyard, producers of Father & Son Claret, thrive, one more time.

I do not want to wake up.