TITLE: Mangia! By darlene pistocchi 09/11/08 |
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Always diligently cooking in her little kitchen, above the streets of Brooklyn, my grandma made the best ravioli in the world. I remember every Sunday dad would pick up my sister and I. He'd get on the Belt Parkway and head west to 52nd Street. We were able to park right out front, by the fire hydrant, the one all the kids on the block used to open in the heat of the summer. How fun it all was. You could smell the tomato sauce stewing the minute you drove up the block. Sunday dinner was cooking in everyone's home.
After our laborious journey up three, steep flights of stairs, we were greeted by Grandma and Grandpa. Millie was a little thing, 4 foot 10, but boy was she spicy! The minute the door opened, it smelled like home sweet home in Sicily. Dad and Grandpa would talk about who the best handicap was at the track in the living room while grandma, myself and my sister busied ourselves in the kitchen.
Grandma already had the dough spread over the kitchen table, she knew how my sister and I loved to flour and roll. Once the dough was all stretched out, we would drop spoonfuls of fresh ricotta about an inch apart, in rows of tne across and ten down. It was a big table, long and narrow. Then we would add spinach to some and meat to others. All the while, we would be taking in the sweet smell of basil, garlic and oregano simmering in the sauce.
Sometimes, the steam from the pot would lead me to the window just to the right beside the stove. It was the only way out in case of a fire. I was always fascinated looking out at that escape - scary yet daring and fascinating all at the same time. Down below, I could hear the cars drive by, the neighborhood kids playing stick-ball and parents calling them in to wash up for dinner. Lots of Anthony's, Johnnie's and Jimmy's - or Jim-ootz as they used to say. That was Grandpa's name too.
Once the dough was ready with filling, the three of us would carefully lay the second sheet of rolled out dough on top of it all. Then we would take turns using the crimper, until we had one hundred neat little squares ready to drop in the boiling water, about twenty at a time. When they floated to the top, grandma would ladle them out. Even though Millie was tiny, that pot just always seemed to big for my sister or I to mess with. Millie was surely a pro.
After the ravioli was done, everyone washed up for dinner. Then we'd help set the table. Dinner plate, salad plate, then a bowl. Two forks and a knife to the right, 2 spoons to the left. There was always a big hunk of parmesan cheese, a grater, saucers filled with tomato sauce and a fresh loaf of bread from the bakery around the corner in the center of the table. We would all sit and say our prayers. All the while I would be drooling for the feast to begin.
Grandma would get up and start ladling the ravioli in everyone's bowl. My mouth would water as she made her way around the table. Being the youngest, I was always last. My turn came. Oh boy, was my tail wagging! The squares slid into my bowl like silk, one after the other. After everyone's bowl was full, Grandma blessed the table with a “Mangia!” and it was a mad dash for the sauce, parmesan and fresh bread.
Biting into that first soft blurb of dough was magnificent - the oozing center of fresh ricotta cheese melting in my mouth as I lopped up the sauce with a chunk of fresh, warm bread. After a few bouts of second helpings and a frenzy of grating, pouring sauce, ripping bread and flying utensils came a round of tummy rubs and a few hearty belches - even though we hadn't even gotten to the salad, sausage, pastry or nuts.
I could feel my gut starting to spill over my jeans, but it didn't matter. I was always ready for more at Grandma and Grandpa's.
Family memories sure to do start in the kitchen.
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