Love Thursday: A Grandmother’s Influence
Today would’ve been my grandmother’s 83rd birthday, and in her honor, I dedicate this post to Mam Mam.
I’ll never miss the smell of cigarette smoke. With my sincerest apologies to the late, great Dr. Seuss:
I cannot stand it in a car.
I cannot stand it in a bar.
I cannot stand it in the air.
I cannot stand it anywhere.
If there is one scent that I would associate with my late grandmother, it would be that–the stale, bitter, choking smell of cigarette smoke. Well, that and the rich, tomatoey aroma of her gravy (spaghetti sauce to many people) cooking on the stove. But that one I do miss.
Stereotypical but true, this was a Sunday tradition in our house–chairs borrowed from every other room and a table so full it asked for help from the nearby counter. Gravy, macaroni (spaghetti to many), meatballs, pork spare ribs, breaded veal cutlets, and tomatoes and onions in olive oil, all mixing with chatter and clanking silverware and plates to form my weekly sensory overload.
And then, after the sights, smells, and sounds had just about disappeared (although, let’s be honest, garlic sure does hover), my grandmother’s cigarette to celebrate.
An intoxicating aroma of food and love snuffed by one puff.
Mam Mam was a small Italian lady with a raspy voice perfected by decades of her favorite pastime: smoking. It drove me crazy. No matter what I did to show my disgust, it didn’t matter. Coughing violently. Swishing the air around with force. Hiding the cancer sticks. Nothing made a difference.
She had smoked since I could remember, and indeed, as she later told me, since she was thirteen years old, but I never did adjust.
She said her smoking was a favor to me; by stirring up my hatred for the dirty habit, she was ensuring that I’d never light up myself. A tricky card to play, it seemed, but maybe she was right, because I’ve never even been tempted to try it.
Whenever I saw my friends light up, I was transported back to a time when I couldn’t get far enough away from that smell, that burning in my eyes, that restricting of my throat. And I know I’ll never try it, because, quite simply, I *hate* it.
But my favorite little smokestack also gave me something far more essential to who I am: my love for the written word. No, my grandmother wasn’t a writer, and honestly, she wasn’t much of a reader either. I don’t know that I could have convinced her to read a novel if there were a carton of cigarettes in it for her.
Her first love was sewing, which she did for both a living and a hobby for most of her life. When she was young, her cat always had the latest gear, and when I was young, my dolls were beyond stylish; our dogs, to their relief, were spared.
So if she was neither a reader nor a writer, then how did she inspire my desire and need to write? Like many of my best and most influential childhood memories, the answer was found on Sundays.
The Sunday crossword.
If you put a crossword puzzle in front of my grandmother, you’d see the blank spaces reflected in the gleam of her eyes. I believe she was personally offended by the open squares, because she had already coffee brewed and pencils sharpened by the “good sharpener” in the basement by the time the paperboy delivered her weekly mission.
In any event, those strategically placed blocks and cleverly worded clues nourished her fascination with words and began a hunger in me that still continues. And Sunday was the best day to sate both our physical and mental appetites with its gluttonous Italian dinners and the paper’s perpetually perplexing puzzles.
Yeah, I still like me some alliteration.
Even when I was young and had no chance of knowing any answers, my grandmother let me poke around the puzzles. I read the clues and her answers, filing away that okapi fills the blank for “elk” and Edam is cheese. And of course I asked a lot of questions.
Eventually, when Mam Mam would hand me the mostly filled-in grid, I could offer a tidbit here and there–sports, pop culture, music, typical teenage topics were my specialties. And then as I learned more history and literature in school, I started to feel like I actually contributed.
Finally one magical Sunday, we finished a puzzle together, each of us filling in a few letters before handing it back. But that one Sunday soon blurred with many others because this happened frequently thereafter. We grew bored without a challenge.
And so, to up the ante (another crossword word!), Mam Mam asked me if I could find puzzle books–the hard kind, New York Times–in the bookstore in Philadelphia where I lived. So whenever I went home, I toted tomes of Times teasers, and they’d keep her busy for a few weeks.
Unfortunately, though, I was never home long enough to really play the old back-and-forth game. As a result, Mam Mam compiled an impressive collection of partially-completed crosswords before she died in 2001. I inherited those mindbenders, but they’ve lost something without my partner, the one to whom I could hand back the real stumpers.
Beyond that, I’ve noticed another interesting phenomenon–I am hesitant to change what may be her miscues (and to think in my youthful arrogance I had been proud to point them out!).
Now I have learned that when you’re left with a finite number of tangible memories of someone, it’s hard to erase them. Quite literally.
I know my Mam Mam, however, and I know that she would privilege the right answers over my odd sentimentality about the flag of her “E” that never touched the vertical line, the peculiar arch of her A, or even her O that had just the tiniest curl of hair hanging inside it. So I take eraser to paper gently now, and only when I am sure of what I am changing.
I do these crosswords with the reluctant but utter awareness that there is no one to double check my answers.
But I hold the intangible memories–yes, even the now-nostalgic smell of cigarette smoke–in my heart, where they have been written indelibly.
Happy Love Thursday everyone!
What’s Cooking Wednesday: Rigatoni with Tuna
Welcome to What’s Cooking Wednesday!
It’s pasta again, folks, but I swear one of these weeks, we’ll go carb-free. I’ve been dying to slip a dessert in here, so perhaps next week. But there will probably still be flour. Oh well.
If you have been searching for recipes for tuna, search no more…rigatoni with tuna is a super-easy, super-fast recipe so it’s perfect when you get home late but still want something homemade.
I’ve been trying to convince P to let me make this for about a year and a half now as this was a staple of mine when I was single and cooking just for me.
Well, apparently it was also his go-to dish, because he kept refusing the offer. He finally agreed to the tuna last week, and we’ve now had it two more times since then.
Three notes before we get to the recipe:
(1) I serve rigatoni with this because I like the way the grooves catch the sauce and the holes catch the tuna and tomato chunks. Most recipes I’ve seen, though, do this with regular old spaghetti; obviously that works too.
(2) Many recipes for pasta with tuna don’t use onions. I don’t know why because I love tuna and onions together (especially on pizza!), and I think they work well together here as well. That said, if you don’t happen to have an onion, feel free to do this recipe without it and double the garlic. Because many of you will have garlic and not onion, I’m sure.
(3) This is a great recipe to switch up and add other ingredients you like–basil, black olives, and capers come to mind, but the possibilities are endless.
Rigatoni al tonno
(Rigatoni with tuna)
2 tablespoons of olive oil
1/2 red onion, finely chopped
1 clove garlic, finely chopped
2 small cans tuna (if yours is packed in olive oil, use that for part of the oil above)
1 tablespoon chopped parsley
1 can peeled tomatoes, run through grinder or coarsely chopped
salt and peperoncino to taste
First, put on the water for the pasta. By the time it’s boiling, your sauce should be about 10 minutes away from ready–perfect for rigatoni cooking time.
Put olive oil in skillet and sauté onions on medium heat until translucent. Add garlic and peperoncino and cook for a few minutes, being careful not to burn the garlic.
Add tuna and let cook a few minutes, mixing them well with the onions, garlic, and oil.
Add tomatoes, parsley, and salt (at least a hefty pinch will be necessary), lower heat, and let simmer for about 20 minutes or until the tomatoes are cooked to your satisfaction.
When your pasta is cooked and drained, mix well with the sauce.
Serve hot and with grated Parmesan cheese if you like (even though purists would say no cheese with tuna).
Buon appetito!
quantifying weirdness
Shelley of At Home in Rome modified the famous “Six Weird Things About You” meme into the “Six Weird Things About Your City” meme. I’m an overachiever, so I’ll tag myself with both. Anyone who would like to play along, feel free and then come back and leave a link in my comments so I can find you in all your weirdness.
Let’s start with me:
1. I have neither set foot in a Starbucks nor drunk their coffee. Ever. I don’t have anything against them, but we just never crossed paths before I left the U.S. Now I’m quite proud of this, so I will spend the rest of my life purposefully avoiding that caffeine-pushing Siren out of sheer stubbornness. Lucky for me, in southern Italy, this is quite easy to accomplish. I crack easily when it comes to coffee.
2. I arrange my silverware drawer in a very particular way and get upset if someone goes in there and moves things around. Of course all like items are together in slots, but the most important rule is that the bigger ones face up and the smaller ones face down (talking mostly forks and spoons here). And they are stacked, not willy nilly all over the place. Sharp knives all together *in their sheaths* as I don’t need to be slicing myself reaching into the drawer. The rest of the knives congregate in another slot and wallow in their dullness. Don’t worry, if you’re ever a house guest, I won’t ask you to put away silverware. In fact, I’ll probably ask you not to.
3. I can recite all of the Presidents of the United States in order. Wanna hear? Washington, John Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, John Quincy Adams….OK, I’ll stop. We had to learn this when I was in 11th grade to recite every week to our teacher as a quiz, and what can I say? Some things in my brain just won’t give up their prized positions. On that note, sorry if I forget your name. There’s only so much room up there.
4. I can tie a cherry stem into a knot using only my tongue. This has more value in the real world than most scholastic accomplishments, so, kids, get practicing!
5. I used to have an intense fear of fire, as in fear that my house/apartment would burn down. I can’t say it was irrational because my family’s house did burn down in 1971 (before I was born) and so THE FIRE was always part of our lore. On the other hand, seven years of college and apartment building 3 a.m. fire alarms only fanned the flames, so to speak. I’m getting past it now that I live in a stone house, but the fact that people burn off their land still freaks me out. A lot.
6. I have two different sets of 4 cups each.
The narrow, flowered ones are for coffee and the wider ones are for tea. In the morning, first I choose coffee or tea (usually coffee), then I pick the mug to match my mood and/or my outfit. Yes, my doggie is the only one who sees my morning routine, but this process grounds me. Get it? Coffee? Grounds? I’m here all week folks!
Moving on to the second half, which I’ll call “Six Weird Things About Southern Italy (although some may apply to the entire country).” Now, to be clear, I’m not necessarily complaining, just observing. And remember, this is all from my experience, so if yours differs, do share in the comments:
1. The whole wedding process. This includes but is not limited to: (1) hand-delivering all invitations; (2) inviting 500 of your closest friends; (3) the fact that only women actually enter the church except for the groom, best man, fathers (maybe), altar boys, and priest; (4) as a guest, being expected to give an envelope full of money–anywhere from 150 euro per person on up is the norm; and (5) having to get married in the comune even if you have a church wedding. This last one might or might not be Italy-wide although I’m not sure.
2. Another general Italian thing–milk in boxes, unrefrigerated and on normal shelves. I’m used to it now, but it’s just an odd concept to get used to when you’re used to a big ole plastic container in the refrigerated dairy section.
3. Southern Italians’ proficiency with knives. I don’t know if this is country-wide or not, but man, down here, even children are adept with knives. Maybe part of it is because they peel all their fruit, and I’m not just talking about oranges and lemons (which, incidentally, is also done with a knife). Apples, pears, really anything with a skin. Even potatoes get peeled with a knife as opposed to a potato-peeler.
And if you’re ever in southern Italy up in someone’s campagna, you’re bound to see each and every man pull out his own pocket knife to cut up bread, salami, and cheese. Seriously, this is the go-to utensil, and when it comes right down to it, it is rather hard to argue with the logic; you can poke things/hold them in place like you would with a fork, scoop things like you would with a spoon, and of course cut. Weird but kinda genius.
4. The fascination with the wind. Shelley wrote about how people are always concerning with taking in the wind, you know, getting sick, and yes, this is true here as well, but I’m talking about the actual wind. The scirocco and tramontana are the biggies. At any given moment, someone is ready to tell me that the weather is all due to whatever type of wind blowing, and, for instance, whether or not I should take my laundry off the line because the scirocco is blowing up odd pink ash from Mount Etna that I’ll never get out of my clothes no matter what I try. Weird but kinda cool, actually. I love the wind.
5. Female friendships. I’ll probably get some flack for this one, but I’m going to say it: it’s difficult to form friendships with many Italian women. Some are closed off to the possibility, others have far different interests than your average Western woman, still others are just worried we foreigners are just man-stealers. In their defense on that last one–show of hands! How many expat bloggers are with Italian men? Uh huh.
Anyway, it seems to me that many Italian women just have a different mentality regarding female friendships–that they are formed very early on in life, and after that, it’s tough to break into the circle. Not impossible, especially where there are open-minded, curious Italian women, but difficult nonetheless. Weird and sad.
6. The strict adherence to the coffee routine. By this I mean the fact that coffee may be drunk in the morning, around 10, after lunch, and possibly after dinner. A cappuccino may only be drunk sometime before 10 a.m. as far as I can glean, and never, ever after meals. I know many of us expats have written about this one, but it’s so weird and so prevalent that it bears mentioning yet again.
Come on, share your weirdosity with the world!
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[tags]weird things meme, memes, calabria, italy, life in italy, life in calabria[/tags]
recovering, regrouping
Had another round of the Hiring Process: Italian Style this morning. Amazing how three weeks have passed and yet so little has changed. It’s nothing too awful or discouraging, but I’m still mentally recovering.
The regrouping time isn’t helped by the thought of two entirely different bureaucratic experiences that I have to face tomorrow–one in the morning and one in the afternoon for a full day of fun!
So I may get around to writing something coherent (wouldn’t that be fun for a change?) later today, but for right now, I’m turning to Old Faithful:
She feels my pain.
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[tags]dogs, italian bureaucracy[/tags]
a considerable amount of nothing
Busy morning today without accomplishing anything whatsoever.
First P pointed out to me that “la tempesta perfetta“ just might be brewing over the Ionian Sea.
Those clouds looked more ominous in person, I swear. If only I had a more powerful camera! I know. I’m never satisfied.
Then, sporadically throughout the morning, one of my neighbors (who normally lives in Hawaii) and her visiting friend delivered many perishable food items, and I’m not complaining. They’re off for Rome, so all that good stuff would’ve only gone to waste/be thrown away.
I think we’ll be eating a lot of cheese today and tomorrow. And again, I’m not complaining. I love me some cheese.
In addition, I also received some beautiful pink and white gigli. Of course since I’m oh-so-cultured, they are now in a big ole glass jar that I’m quite sure is meant for salami or something else to be submerged in olive oil.
In a past life in my house, though, the jar also temporarily housed a lizard that P brought home for me.
And you thought that he only brings me flowers. Hah! Clearly P knows that nothing says love like lizard.
Here are the lilies:
Also during this action-packed a.m., my full-time neighbor you all know and love stopped by to ask me to check on whether her Coca-Cola has expired. Her eyes aren’t as good as they used to be, so she has trouble seeing those little numbers. So do I many times, truth be told, especially when they’re coded in with other numbers and letters. These manufacturers sure can get tricky when they want to.
Anyway, I’m sure Anna Maria actually does want to know this information, but mostly it’s a ploy to give me a bottle of Coca-Cola. Or a bag of coffee. Or a container of milk. Or a can of tuna. You get the picture.
It all works out well because now I’ll pass along to her some of the goodies I received this morning.
Circle of Life–southern Italian style!
And then came P’s mom bearing the bread that P likes. Yes, they sell bread up here in the village, but it’s not baked in a wood-fired oven or by his friend in the Marina–two facts that make said bread inedible (according to P). So every few days, Mamma brings up a kilo of the good stuff just for her baby.
Mammone you say? Actually he’s not at all, but, you know, an Italian’s bread is not something you want to mess with. It could get ugly.
In other exciting news, I received my law school transcripts in the mail today. Those translation job people keep asking me for proof of my degrees, so I figure this will have to do for now since I don’t have my diplomas with me.
They’re big on this proof thing here, by the way. Guess a lot of Italians would (gasp!) lie about their credentials if they didn’t have to prove them. Or this could simply be the Italians’ love of documents rearing its (with any luck) paper-cutted head again.
The transcripts also have little stamps and seals, so that should even further satisfy them. Italians *love* stamps and seals, you know (although they prefer the kind you have to pay for).
I graduated law school 6 years ago (oh my goodness, I’m old) and, um, there are classes listed that I honestly don’t remember taking–and I did well in them! I’m talking about you, Trusts and Estates. I scored an A, which means it must’ve been an easy exam because right now I’d struggle to define even the most basic concepts about a trust or an estate.
Probably a good thing that I don’t practice, eh?
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[tags]law school transcripts, weather, stormy weather, clouds, lilies, flowers[/tags]
Michelle Kaminsky is an American attorney-turned-freelance writer who lived in her family's ancestral village in Calabria, Italy for 15 years. This blog is now archived.
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