Because I’ve been asked so many times in my life, I have the
cadence down.
”
CAM-PO-DO-NICO
”
I can repeat in a spelling-friendly kind of harmony. That’s my
mother’s maiden name
– I’m half Italian – and it’s remarkable the number of times you
have to spell it out to answer a question about your identity.
Because I’ve been asked so many times in my life, I have the cadence down. “CAM-PO-DO-NICO” I can repeat in a spelling-friendly kind of harmony. That’s my mother’s maiden name – I’m half Italian – and it’s remarkable the number of times you have to spell it out to answer a question about your identity.
My mother’s father came from a little town north of Genoa in the steeply terraced hills.
My wife Jenny and I visited a few years back. We drove the twisty roads higher and higher amazed at the terraced agriculture on our way up to the village of Campodonico. Upon arrival, there was a chapel, the town cemetery and not a whole lot of activity. Camera in hand, we headed for the cemetery and I began to take pictures of Campodonicos – until I realized they were everywhere. Hundreds of my “relatives.”
In the Italian tradition, many of the headstones featured the deceased Campodonico’s picture. So we wandered around and I looked at many pictures trying to discern some likeness to my mother, grandfather and even great grandfather who I knew for a short while.
It’s important to know where you came from. Seeing the farming village, I had a sense of why my grandfather and mother liked to grow things. It came from their roots, it’s an integral part of their heritage.
Back in the day, I’d help my grandfather, Angelo – that’s a great Italian name by the way – out back in the garden. There were always tomatoes – had to have those for the sauce – beans, carrots, lettuce, corn and a variety of other fresh herbs and vegetables. When I stop by the Bonino’s LJB Farms in the summer and pick up a bag of Italian tomatoes, it reminds me of being out back with my grandfather. I called him Ang.
He was a strapping fellow, very vibrant, a good business and people person, but not just a back slapper. He was as genuine as the flavor in the Bolognese sauce he made in huge pots on the stove a few times each year.
That sauce saved my mother’s bacon all the time. Ang and Garm, that’s what I called my grandmother, stored the extra sauce in the freezer. And, of course, la familia members were welcome to come by and snag a quart or two in a paper container whenever needed. Mom would simmer a pot of water and gently place the frozen sauce, container and all, inside. By the time she boiled up the spaghetti noodles and rinsed them, the sauce was ready and the family could be fed and her duty done.
Ang and Garm’s freezer always had a few ice cream treats in there, too. I’m not sure if that’s an Italian tradition, but I am sure that it’s an Italian tradition to love the grandkids. That’s one I’m going to continue in a few months when our oldest daughter, Shannon, gives birth to “junior.”
Now “junior’s” Italian blood will be thinned some, so we’ll have to work a little with him in the garden, teach him about tomatoes and rose gardens and, of course, the sumptuous meals with the family.
Italians excel at that. The afternoon meal at my grandparent’s house on Christmas was always to die for … ravioli smothered in Bolognese sauce, a juicy roast beast to follow and freshly baked bread that you could smell a block away. Ravioli topped my list and as teenager, I would eat them in droves. Ravioli dreams the week before Christmas weren’t uncommon. They were that homemade, they were that good.
Fortunately, though we never could track down a written-down recipe, wife Jenny spoke with my grandmother, who lived well into her 90s– numerous times about how the Bolognese sauce was made. It took her a number of attempts, but Jenny has the recipe down – and written down – now. It amazes me how ingrained in my memory that taste is. When Jenny got it just right, there wasn’t a doubt. Now we can pass it on to our children and, hopefully, they to theirs.
Part of what’s wonderful about Gilroy is that there are so many Italians here. It really adds a lot of flavor to life, not to mention the wonderful dishes which anchor Gourmet Alley at the Garlic Festival and the great wine within a few miles drive.
My Italian side isn’t just about food, of course. Food is just a real-life metaphor for Italians. It’s representative of what we culturally hold so dear – it’s a means of enjoying life, of sharing with each other, of appreciating what the good Earth can yield and, most importantly, it’s a path that keeps the family together.
How many times have we heard how important it is for a family to sit down and share a meal. My Italian ancestors would shrug at that and say, with their body language, “of course.” This they understood intrinsically.
A few years ago, our neighbors invited us over for Christmas Eve festivities. John is Sicilian, and though some of the food traditions are different from the south, the same “vibe” exists in the house and the food is delicious.
It’s like being back at Ang and Garm’s … memories of prosciutto and breadsticks, salami and crackers and plenty of smiling family members sharing in the good spirit of Christmas.
What can you say? Life is good, eh, enjoy it, that’s Italian. So, leave the world behind this season and relish the meal with your family and friends. Buon Natale! And, of course, mangia!
