Going back to the beginning...

1.

I don’t know if there was just one reason that made my parents want to move from the two-flat on Cortland Street. Thinking back, it was probably a combination of things. Cortland Street was in an active neighborhood with lots of kids and our “house,” as all kids called their buildings, was on a double lot on the corner where Cortland met Long Avenue - about 1900 north and 5400 west in Chicago, just inside the border of the Austin community of the city.

We moved there in the late summer of 1955 after a few years in the suburb of Elmhurst. Our family was actually returning to this part of the city. My parents started their marriage in a small apartment behind the restaurant/tavern/banquet hall that my grandparents ran just a couple miles north at Austin and Grand. They moved to Elmhurst before I was two and moved back before I was five. The property taxes were killing them and they simply couldn’t afford to stay in that cute little ranch home. No doubt my grandfather had a lot to do with finding the two-flat; it was near his own apartment building and with an extra flat to rent out for additional income, it was the answer to my parents’ financial straits. Still, I know my mother had loved that little house, her neighbors and living in the suburbs.

Maybe the white picket fence helped a bit. It was the only fence on the block and surrounded the Courtland property. During the early summer, blue irises grew along the walk up to the front door, which was painted a bright turquoise. Three white diamond shaped designs decorated the door, the top one with a glass insert which I could only look out of if I stood on the landing inside, next to the door of the first floor apartment. The brick of the building was dark brown and the very top, in the front, had a castle-like design that you didn’t really notice unless you were at least half a block away.

It was on the front walk, behind the fence, that I set up my first business endeavor: a petting zoo of stuffed animals in milk crates made to look like cages. I was perhaps six years old and collected anything in the house that vaguely resembled an animal, including my favorite stuffed monkey that my aunt and uncle had brought back from their honeymoon in Cuba.

“Mom, look, I made six cents!” I yelled as I ran up the stairs.

“Where did you get that?”

“From my zoo on the front walk. You have to pay a penny to see it.”

She looked out the window to see my handiwork. To her, collecting money for such a thing was pretty close to shaking down unsuspecting kids - not the best in neighborliness as far as she was concerned.

“Well, you can march right down the block and give everyone their money back. You don’t take money from people for something like that! What were you thinking??”

I would have willingly handed over every penny to her, and then some (if I had it) to avoid facing the six kids I had charged. The embarrassment of payback prevented me from ever setting up a KoolAid stand and, as anyone in my family will attest, I’m still pretty lousy at bargaining, haggling or any kind of retail. Still, I brought the pennies back, mumbling my reasons and quickly darting back down the street.

Bah, Humbug!

There's nothing like missing the morning train to put me in a foul mood. It has only happened a few times, but when my timing is right, it really ticks me off. And since I'm a regular train commuter - not someone who usually drives but then decides to take the train when the weather is bad, I feel even more outraged.

I aimed for the 7:29 and I will admit my commute to the station was a little tight, allowing 14 minutes when I usually allow 20. I pulled into the station lot at 7:27 and had to park at the far end. As I was getting out of the car, the train arrived. It's hard to sprint the block-long distance to the platform when you are carrying a purse, briefcase, lunch, keys, hat and wearing a long, down coat and Ugg boots, but I tried. Just as I got even with the doors to the first car, they closed and the train pulled away. It was only 7:28.

I wasn't alone. There were other commuters who missed it by seconds as well and we were all fuming. The conductors had to have seen us.

I smoldered in the train station to wait for the next train which arrived 20 minutes later to an even larger than usual group of passengers. Still mad, I took my seat and read the paper. Emerging from Union Station to walk to the office, the snow began in earnest. But the walk actually helped and by the time I arrived, I felt better. It's amazing how a cup of coffee always has a way of improving any situation with that first sip.

I should do commercials for Dunkin' Donuts - their coffee, that is.

Mrs. Buffet's Pumpkin Bread

This is a recipe from my sons' kindergarten teacher at St. A's, Pam Buffet. The pumpkin bread was part of their Thanksgiving Feast. I make it every year and have tried a number of variations, like adding chocolate chips. I also have made a low fat version by cutting the oil in half (canola) and using 2/3 cup applesauce; and 2 eggs plus 1/2 cup of egg beaters instead of 4 eggs. If you make 2 large loaves instead of 4 small ones, they will take longer to bake.

3-1/3 cups flour, 3 cups sugar
2 tsp. baking soda, 1 cup of oil
1-1/2 tsp. salt, 4 eggs
1 tsp. cinnamon, 2/3 cup water
1 tsp. nutmeg, 2 cups pumpkin (not pumpkin pie mix)

Mix dry ingredients in bowl. Blend in oil, eggs, water and pumpkin. Bake for 1 hour at 350 degrees. Makes 4 small loaves.

No Jolly Ranchers, Thank you...

I never know how much candy to get for Halloween. I panic at the thought of running out, but hate to think I may have bags of tempting treats tipping me off the scale. In the past, I've brought leftover candy to work, where it disappears very quickly, but not before I've stashed away some of the good stuff. And the good stuff has to be some kind of chocolate - none of the sour, tart or gummy treats.

I've always thought that the Milky Way is the perfect candy bar. As a Brownie in third grade, our troop visted the Mars Candy Company and at the end of the tour we each received a box of samples. Unfortunately, it was during Lent and on the bus ride home, I managed to refrain from eating any of the samples, even though my public school troop mates dug right in. The box stayed on a shelf until the following Sunday, but then of course, I had to share my booty with Mom and my sisters.

In recent years, though, I've become more enamored of Butterfingers and Reese's peanut butter cups. The peanut butter-chocolate combo is tempting enough to forsake all the weight watcher's points for lunch and just eat a couple pieces of candy. Not very nutritious, but satisfying - and there has to be some fiber in that peanut butter, right?

I haven't had to run the pre-Halloween costume-creating obstacle course for quite a few years since my sons have grown. The continuous changing of minds up until the week before Halloween would drive me crazy. One year the boys wanted to be Thundercats, specifically, Lion-O and Tigra. I found patterns for lion and tiger costumes and painstakingly sewed them on my trusty Kenmore, even stuffing the ears and tails so they were nice and stiff. My sons watched as I struggled with the costumes and as they were almost completed, they critically commented that they weren't "Thundercat enough." My husband saw the look of dread on my face and quickly shuttled the boys far away from me and my sewing machine. We managed to improve the look with face paint and, of course, cool swords.

My one son still talks about a costume we created together when he was about six.

He was the grim reaper and I found the simple instructions in a Good Housekeeping magazine. The best part was creating the darkened eyes and skeletal mouth with black and grey paint. I knew it was a success when he was reluctant to take it off after trick or treating and it was time for bed. He still enjoys dressing up for Halloween parties and last year was quite a hit as Paulie Walnuts from the Sopranos - complete with velveteen running suit, gold chains and graying at the temples.

I'll probably make a trip out to Costco today for another bag of candy. Since Halloween is on a Saturday, the number of tricksters may be a lot more than last year - and the people at my office can always take care of the leftovers, but not before a few Butterfingers find their way into the freezer.

Sempere fedele

September 11, 2009

Today, family and friends said good-bye to a hero.

Lino “Leon” Roggi of DesPlaines was laid to rest at Ft. Sheridan after a funeral Mass at St. Mary’s. He was 84 years old and was buried in his US Marine’s uniform with full military honors. He leaves behind his beautiful wife Marina, four children, grandchildren, a large family and many friends.

In 1944, Lino, Leon – or just “Roggi” as many called him, was a 19 year old Marine in Guam. His accomplishments in combat earned him a Silver Star and Purple Heart – as well as near-fatal wounds that left shards of shrapnel throughout his body. He carried those reminders of his war experiences for a lifetime; pain was a constant companion and memories of battle were never too far away.

Like many of his generation, Roggi spoke little of those events in the Pacific so long ago. We did know his actions saved the lives of other Americans before he was hit by machine gun fire. Despite the fact that he was given little chance of survival he was sent home to recuperate, or die, at Great Lakes. Perhaps it was his Italian hard-headedness, or simply knowing that nothing he had yet to face could compare with the horror he had already experienced, but he fooled them all.

He returned to Chicago, married Marina and started a family. One of my earliest memories of Roggi was when I was five or six and my parents were setting up for a party in our apartment in the Austin neighborhood. As the couples arrived, all dressed up, my sister and I were in our pajamas, ready for bed. Marina and Roggi walked in and I can remember turning to my mother and saying, “Mommy, he’s sooo handsome!” And he was. He had a wonderful laugh, dark hair and big brown eyes that held a mischievious glint, a sparkle that never faded over the years.

Roggi loved his friends, his cigarettes and the lotto, but most of all, he loved Marina and his family. He was a good friend to my parents, always there to celebrate, support, share, and return love. He was firm in his convictions, often not quietly expressed, but he had a soft side, especially where kids were concerned. His laugh was loud and genuine and his tears were real and heartfelt. He looked you in the eye when he spoke to you. You knew from the moment you met him, there was nothing phony about Leon.

Like my father, he was born in Italy and came to the US as a child. More than once, his naturalized citizenship caused confusion with local bureaucrats and during the 1950s, it was questioned by an election judge as he attempted to cast his vote. When Leon explained he had been born in Italy but naturalized through his parents, the judge insisted he couldn’t be a citizen. Frustrated, he opened his shirt, displaying his scars and saying “I wish I knew that before I got this!” The judge called the police and tried to have this decorated veteran arrested. I don’t know if he ever voted again.

Leon was proud of his service to his country but he scoffed at being called a hero. “The guys who didn’t make it home – those are the heroes,” he would often say. But in the eyes of all who knew him, he truly was a hero. It wasn’t only because of his brave actions as a young Marine, but how he shouldered that experience, never letting it go, and allowing it to forge him into the strong and loving man his family and friends came to know and hold very dear.

Semper Fi.

Ma's Home Cooking...or is she?

The first time I ever encountered polenta on a menu in a restaurant, I almost laughed out loud. It was listed as part of an entree, and the description made it appear as if the polenta was a gourmet delicacy from northern Italy.

Give me a break.

Growing up, polenta was often my nonna's answer to potatoes. One of her tastiest dishes was what we kids called "chicken with the red gravy" - a chicken cacciatore - (to most Italians, 'gravy' is our word for 'sauce'). A nice serving of polenta topped with chicken with the red gravy -mmmm - it doesn't get much better.

Polenta is one of the simplest of dishes. It consists of water, salt and corn meal. Period. Its simplicity is what makes it so versatile - it is improved and elevated to greater heights by what you put on top, usually something with a tomato base. Also, you can punch it up by adding grated cheese as it nearly cooked, but a nice sprinkle of asiago, parmesan or romano on top will do just fine.

I've learned that there are a few tricks to making good polenta. You want it to be firm but not dry. Too soupy and it is useless. I vaguely remember it took a while for Nonna's polenta to cook, but she was usually making enough to feed a small army. My recipe - from start to finish - is for a smaller portion and takes about 15 minutes tops.

It's interesting how some things become popular or in demand. Anything to do with Tuscany has been the rage since Under the Tuscan Sun. When we were young, few Americans used olive oil in cooking - now it's worth its weight in gold and comes in different flavors. Pesto (Nonna's kitchen always smelled of basil and garlic), zucchini flowers, tiramisu, espresso, veal saltimbocca, prosciutto - and don't get me started on gnocchi - we had all these things growing up. In many cases they are simple things that our grandparents had as staples that helped to stretch meals. My mom told me that when she was a girl, lunch often consisted of a slice of Italian bread spread with gravy (tomato sauce) and maybe some cheese sprinkled on top. Since her family owned Nuti Bakery in Chicago, they were never without bread. I'm sure Nonna fed quite a few kids in the Taylor Street neighborhoods with this version of Depression pizza.

Here's my polenta recipe:

Bring to boiling in a saucepan

3 cups of water

1-1/2 teaspoons salt

Gradually stir in a mixture of

1 cup yellow corn meal

1 cup COLD water

Continue boiling, stirring constantly, until mixture is thickened. Cover, lower heat (to the lowest) and cook slowly 10 minutes or longer, stirring occasionally. (I've never gone over ten minutes.) Transfer cooked polenta to a warm platter and top with your favorite dish such as chicken cacciatore, tomato sauce with sausage and mushrooms, or roasted red peppers with garlic.

It is very important that the water mixed with the corn meal be very cold. I've even put some crushed ice in the water, but make sure it is no more than one cup combined.

To get the smooth look of the polenta in the picture, I pour the cooked polenta into a rounded pyrex dish to let it set. Then I invert it onto a platter.

Happy 4th

It was the 4th of July, 1960. I was nine years old and my family was in the process of moving from Chicago's Austin area to the nearby suburb of River Grove. We spent the day at my Aunt Alice's house - her family was already in RG, moving from Chicago's west side.

I'm sure there was lots of food, maybe the adults played cards, watched baseball on tv or just visited together while we five girls (my two sisters, my two cousins and I) probably spent the day entertaining ourselves with games of hide and seek or tag in the empty lot next door to Alice's house. It was space that was part of the property - the biggest yard we had ever seen. Coming from apartment living, we reveled in the space that the lot afforded us. We immediately found it to be where we could run ourselves silly, then collapse on the back steps of the house, panting and sweating with bright red faces. The lot was nothing but grass but it was our own private playground.

Over the years we would expand our repertoire of activities in that lot to softball (using chunks of concrete from a busted up sidewalk for bases), bocce, spud and in the back, creating a teeter-totter out of an old plank with a hole in the middle that we positioned over some kind of pipe that stuck out of the ground in the yard. The thought of impaling ourselves on such a contraption never entered our minds as we rode up and down and spun each other around on it. We wore away the grass to a fine dust and then ran through the sprinkler to wash away the dirt and grimy sweat. Eventually, Alice would get an above-the-ground pool and summer weekends would take on a whole new aspect of fun in the sun.

On that first 4th of July, both our families were new to the village and didn't know much about how everyone celebrated. After supper as darkness fell, our parents sat around the kitchen table having coffee, sweets, cigarettes and probably a few punccinos (coffee, whiskey or rum, lemon and sugar). We kids were out in the lot, catching lightning bugs and getting mosquito bites. My uncle might have brought out a bag of sparklers he picked up on his routes as a truck driver and we lit them off as our moms watched nervously. They would go back in for another pot of coffee and left us to our games outside, even though it was late and the street lights were already on.

My cousin Carol is about ten months older than I am. Often, growing up, we escaped our younger siblings and would go off together just walking and talking - forming a special bond as each other's first friends since birth that we still have. That night, as the others went back in, Carol and I heard thumping sounds coming from not too far away - the sounds of fireworks. We followed the sounds to as far as we were allowed to go, the corner of Thatcher and Greenwood. We looked to the west and a little north and could see the brilliant colors of the display just above the trees that were going off at Gideon's Field - a place where most of the people in our town were enjoying the final celebration of the day.

Carol and I stood on the corner and watched enviously, wishing we could be there or at least just a little closer. Then we managed to climb onto the mailbox that stood near the sidewalk, straddling it like two kids on a horse and giving us just a little bit more height to catch sight of the reds, whites and blues as they exploded nearly a mile away.

We were two city kids who had lived on very busy streets in Chicago. We found the quiet of this little suburb very different but we didn't miss the sounds of the "L" train behind the house going through the alley or the ambulances speeding south on Laramie. We had a lot of exploring to do, a new school where we would start fifth grade together in a couple months, and being a lot closer geographically than we had in the past. We wouldn't need our fathers to drive us to each others' homes - we could just walk during the day, but when our dads were home, we would end up driving the six blocks anyway.

That night atop the mailbox, we craned our necks to see the finale explode in the night's sky. The colorful sparkles above the trees stopped and we knew it was over; it was a fitting end to the day's activities. We slid off the box down to the sidewalk and walked back to the house. We told our parents what we had seen, and we knew that next year, we wouldn't be watching from a far away corner. We would be joining the throngs with a blanket and folding chairs, sitting on the damp grass with family and neighbors, ohhing and ahhing with each explosion. Then, still smelling the smoke in the air, we'd make our way back to Alice's for another pot of coffee and another game in the lot.