Growing Up Italian

The neighborhood of my early youth on Chicago’s west side was a neighborhood of immigrants, kind of.

Although I certainly don’t recall every neighbor from fifty to sixty-plus years ago, it is safe to say that my boyhood friends all had at least one grandparent who had come to America from Europe–mostly eastern Europe–to our little enclave.

Our neighborhood was solidly middle class and our neighbors were factory workers, shop owners, teachers and office clerks, cops and firemen, I suppose; most of the men were veterans of World War Two. A dentist and his family lived across the street from us on 18th Avenue, a lawyer around the corner, a bodyguard for Sam Giancana (how did we know that?) two blocks over, just off the alley. There was another guy who drove a truck for a concessions company and he would show up at our baseball games and hand out free snacks. Our next-door neighbor was a retired man, though he didn’t seem any older than any of the other men. Mr. Bush, who every winter would sculpt a snowman that looked like Abraham Lincoln, walked around the neighborhood a lot on his private patrol and he seemed to know everything that went on in our little corner of the world and reported dutifully to our parents of any errant activities.

My parents proudly believed that our neighborhood was the very embodiment of the melting pot that defined America and celebrated its great diversity. It wasn’t, of course. Although there were a few black families in our community, there were no Asians, Arabs or Hispanics. There was a bad Chinese restaurant but I don’t recall the owners being local residents. We all lived in tidy brick bungalows on tiny lots that had once been part of the hunting grounds for the Indians of the Pottawatomie, Chippewa and Ottawa Nations. I don’t recall any Native Americans in our midst, however.

Our melting pot was primarily made up of white Europeans, mostly Slavic, with more than a handful of Germans, Poles, Irish and Italians tossed in. The guy who drove the snack truck was French.

In those days, most of my friends’ mothers did not work outside of the home. And most of us had a grandparent or two who either lived with us, near to us or came to visit us on a somewhat-regular schedule. While my mother’s parents lived two states away in western Nebraska, my father’s parents, who had found their ways to American soil from what had been the Austro-Hungarian Empire, lived only a short bus ride away and the visits were at least weekly. My grandmother’s visits became even more frequent after my grandfather died.

There were a handful of pervasive odors in our part of town: bus fumes, garlic and vinegar, along with those distinctive hints of caraway and dill or fennel and oregano. Everybody’s kitchen revealed an ethnicity.

The Slavs, Poles and Germans were in the majority and nothing short of a ripe Limburger cheese could mask the pungency of sauerkraut and pickles. I have no specific food memories of our Irish neighbors though I’d hazard a guess that fish probably played a role on Fridays.

My Bohemian grandmother was a wonderful cook who made soups, bread dumplings and pickled beef, baked breads and simple pastries, and made a roast duck that rivals that of anything else I have ever eaten. Whenever she came to visit, she filled our house with the alluring aromas of her youth and heritage.

I SPENT MANY WEEKENDS of my youth being raised as an Italian.

My father’s best friend in those days was a Sicilian physician whose storefront medical practice, sandwiched between a music shop and a dry cleaners, was just across Roosevelt Road from my father’s hardware store. Uncle Joe (in the fifties children weren’t allowed to call an adult by a first name unless there was an “aunt” or “uncle” placed before it) and his wife, Aunt Grace, had seven children and had moved to a farmhouse in Addison, Illinois, a town about 10 miles away. It seemed to take most of a day to get there.

The Interlandi famiglia seemed more like family than my own.

My mother was an only child and there were no cousins. My father had an older sister and a younger brother, but they were not close and I remember only being with any of those cousins (there were only five) on our grandmother’s birthday each November. I’ve neither seen nor heard from any of them since our grandmother’s death in 1979.

Weekends with my Italian cousins were spent doing kid things outdoors on the four acres of their property, and then moving into the vast and noisy kitchen where Grandma Interlandi presided over a stove and chopping block where she turned out massive amounts of Italian-American food for the hordes of family and friends that gathered there each weekend. Those of us who were interested were encouraged to chop onions and garlic, shape meatballs, fry sausages, and stir the sauces, dipping chunks of fresh bread into each one as they simmered. We stole cookies and pieces of the dessert pastries and dashed back outside to work up more appetite.

I visited my cousin John and his wife, Beth, about a year ago at their home in Nashville. As we ate Beth’s wonderful cuisine that weekend, we talked a lot about food and it seemed like just about every memory we shared about growing up had some connection to a dish we had enjoyed as kids. We waxed nostalgic about the sauces, butters and pies our mothers made each fall from the fruits we kids would pick from the orchards; the horrible wine we helped Uncle Joe make one year; the car trips we made to Maxwell Street to buy exotic ingredients, at least 10 of us crammed into an 8-passenger Ford Country Squire station wagon singing our very own “Meat, Meat, Forgot Your Meat” song all the way there and back.

John sent me some recipes recently that his mother had written down many years ago as she watched Grandma Interlandi make them. He said she made some adjustments and improvements.

I’ve had a lot of fun recreating some of the recipes over the last few weeks. They’ve stirred some long-dormant memories. I’d give almost anything to share them once again with my cousins.

Spinaci Quatratini

The name is nonsensical (although it might have some specific meaning in a Sicilian dialect), but this simple dish is one of the greatest pasta dishes I’ve ever eaten. I had forgotten all about it.

For two generous servings, slowly saute 3 oz. of prosciutto, thinly sliced and then minced, in butter. Add one finely chopped medium onion, a clove of garlic, a cup of diced tomatoes, and “small amounts” of fresh basil, oregano and black pepper. Cook at a medium-low temperature for 15 minutes or so and add a teaspoon of chicken base (I like the Better Than Bouillon brand) and a cup of water. Add one 10-oz. package of frozen chopped spinach and cook until the spinach is thawed and the sauce is hot.

In the meantime, cook 1/2 pound of dried orecchiette or farfalle pasta (I prefer Di Martino), following the package instructions. Drain and mix the pasta and sauce. Serve with grated Pecorino Romano cheese.

An old-world style Montepulciano would be an excellent wine pairing.

Sicilian Tonno Insalata

This salad, along with some warm focaccia and a glass or two of a good Lambrusco emilia or a lively prosecco from the Veneto, makes a perfect summertime lunch.

Drain two small cans of solid white tuna and mix with 3-4 green onions (sliced thinly on the diagonal), an orange separated into sections, Italian Cerignola black olives, lots of black pepper, a couple of pinches of dried oregano and lots of extra-virgin olive oil. Serve on a bed of bitter greens.

Foccacia

This is my own recipe for the bread I served at each of my restaurants.

1 Tbs. active dry yeast
1 Tbs. sugar
2-1/2 cups warm water
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
2 tsp. granulated garlic
1 Tbs. kosher salt
8-1/2 cups (2#, 4 oz.) flour

Mix yeast, sugar and water; let stand for 10 minutes. Add oil.
Mix flour, garlic and salt, then add to the yeast mixture.
Mix until dough forms. Knead on a floured board 5-8 minutes.
Place dough in a greased bowl; cover and let rise for 1 hour.
Spread dough onto a well-oiled sheet pan or,
divide by four and place in 4, 8″ deep-dish pizza pans.
Dimple surface(s), brush on oil and sprinkle with salt.
Let rise, covered, 30-45 minutes.
Bake at 475º for 14-15 minutes. Serve warm.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska