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- Italian Roots Newsletter October 2023
Italian Roots Newsletter October 2023
October 2023
Bob Sorrentino, Ed Iannuccilli, Dorina Lantella-Martirano & Linda Gaudio-Binkley
October 01, 2023
October 2023
Welcome to the second edition of the Italian Roots Newsletter. Every month we will highlight our latest YouTube interviews, guest contributors, book reviews and recipes. With premium membership we will post our family recipes, lessons special, offers and more. Please subscribe at the bottom of the page.
September found us in Italy for 2 weeks with visits to Roseto Capo Spulico, Taranto, Bari, Toritto and Matera. Stay tuned for a special travel edition coming soon.
Frank Di Piero
Frank Di Piero was born in Chicago and is 100% Italian origin. He has traveled to Italy many times and attended two study abroad programs in Italy, one in Roma and one in Firenze. He is the former President of The Harlem Avenue Italian & American Business Association and was on the committee to start an Italian American Studies Program at Loyola University Chicago. He is a Director of Casa Italia, and LITTLE ITALY Cenetta. He is a volunteer at Casa Italia Library and the Italian Cultural Center.
Ed Writes - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli
The iceman patrolled the neighborhood for those who had not yet converted. In the windows of their tenements were signs that read ICE with the number of pounds requested. We no longer needed ice as our icebox, replaced by the Kelvinator, sat in the cellar as a storage place for Mason jars.
The iceman was of average height with rounded shoulders and eyebrows long enough to drift over the tops of his wire-rimmed glasses. Gray hair sprouted from his ears and nose. His chicklet-sized teeth were yellowed from an ever-present cigar. The brim of his fedora sported the stain of hard work.
His flatbed, smelling of oil and cold and with canvas sides cascading from metal hoops, rumbled and hissed to a stop. He descended, slammed the door, spun on the thick sole of his boot, walked to the rear, looked up, and saw a sign. “OK, they need twenty,” he mumbled. He flipped open the canvas, looked into the deep, dark end of the truck, placed his cigar on the edge of the bed, rubbed his palms on his trousers and pulled on his gloves.
Toward the front of the truck were blocks of ice covered with a heavy leather tarpaulin. He slid the tarp, spotted the cake that he wanted and with a long-handled stick, hooked it. Looking over the top of his glasses, he surveyed his catch, and with the skill of a diamond cutter, harvested a piece with a pick that initiated a shockwave that peeled apart a smaller block. He peered over his glasses and droned, “Yup. 20. Jes right.”
With the speed of a gunslinger, he replaced the pick in the hip holster on his belt. I loved to watch him drive that pick through the ice; carving just the right size with small slivers left over for us. “Can I try that?” The pick looked like it might be fun and easy.
“Nope, sorry, son. Jes a bit too dangj-a-rus.” He flipped me a piece of ice.
He draped a rubber cover over his right shoulder, grabbed the tongs that hung on the side of the truck, pierced the sides of the block, paused, grunted and swung it around to his shoulder. Bent to the ground, with beads of melting ice dripping down the rubber cover and hitting the back of his pants and then the heel of his leather boot, he methodically climbed the stairs to the door and knocked. “Ice here.”
He returned to his truck, hooked the tongs, took off his gloves, put them in his back pocket, wiped his hands on his pants, grabbed the cigar, replanted it, and tapped the canvas. “See ya, kids.”
He entered the cab, sat, pushed in the clutch with his left foot, turned the key, tapped the gas with his right, and off he went, his engine rumbling, splashes of water tumbling in his wake.
Our cool neighborhood iceman was soon to be out of a job when everyone converted to the Kelvinator. I doubt that he was disappointed.
Book Review - Linda Gaudio-Binkley
From Scratch by Tembi Locke
A memoir of Love, Sicily and Finding Home
To tell you the truth, I was somewhat non-plussed at first with the recommendation of this book… another recipe laden memoir of love and loss in Italy, especially one written by an American actress. However, it was sent with so much enthusiasm I decided to give it a try. I’m glad I did. The opening words “In Sicily every story begins with a marriage or a death, in my case, it’s both” immediately sparked my interest. From the beginning we know thatTembi’s beloved husband, Rosario, called Saro, is dead. It’s a rare way to start a narrative of a romance, but it works well in this memoir.
Readers are spared the ten years of Saro’s illness and Tembi’s caregiving. We learn about this through flashes of commentary, but no specifics. We do become endeared to the couple through the narrative describing their desire to be parents. Tembi says “I don’t care about giving birth, but I want to be a mother.” And so we learn about the adoption of the beloved Zoela as a baby.
Even though we know that Tembi’s loss of her husband is well-anticipated, it is no less traumatizing. To assuage her grief, she and Zoela, now nine, spend summers after Saro’sdeath in his small home village in Sicily, actually in his mother’s house.
Throughout three summers in Sicily we learn via flashbacks the history of their love affair and the rejection they suffered from Saro’s family. His parents would simply not accept an African American aspiring actress stealing their beloved only son and taking him away to America. No-one ever returned to Sicily to live after having lived in New York! Their hearts were broken. They refused even to attend the wedding in Florence, the city where the couple met.
Though knowing she is unloved in Sicily, Tembi honors Saro’s dying wish to have his ashes returned to the island. Through this endeavor we see the blossoming of love and respect between the author, the daughter, and Saro’sparents. All are consumed with grief and love for Saro; and this inevitably leads to a strong and comforting bond.
Lovers of Sicily will enjoy the sensory experiences of Tembi’s prose. We can feel the scirocco, smell the finocchio and enjoy the curdling sight of the fresh ricotta making. The writing serves up Sicilian tastes, sounds and smells in ample portions. Tembi’s love for the island and its people shines throughout the narrative.
Food and meal preparation and ingredient selection is vital to the narrative and is a recurrent motif. What goes on in the kitchen influences the mood of every event. This is appropriate since Saro’s was a professional chef. That the book ends with a chapter of Sicilian recipes is a compliment to the story and a tribute to Chef Rosario.The opening words “In Sicily every story begins with a marriage or a death, in my case, it’s both” immediately sparked my interest. From the beginning we know thatTembi’s beloved husband, Rosario, called Saro, is dead. It’s a rare way to start a narrative of a romance, but it works well in this memoir.
Mongrel Dog
Joe Giordano
Stickball on a Brooklyn street was a game of skill. Don’t look at me like that. Unscrew your mother’s broomstick, wrap the grip with electrical tape, and let’s see you hit a wildly spinning Spaldeen two sewers. Our playground was a canyon of parked two-toned cars, brown-brick apartment buildings, and asphalt-shingled row houses. Neighbors heard us on the street and dreaded the crash of a broken window. The old lady who poured a kettle of water on our chalk-marked skelzie box hovered behind a screened window like a gray ghost. The guy with the shiny maroon Buick who didn’t say hello to my father asked me not to hit his vehicle. My parents worried that I’d shoot out from between parked cars chasing a ball and be hit by one of the speeders down our block. They taught me to look both ways before crossing even on our one-way street.
We played ‘automatics,’ a ground ball not caught was a single, a hit beyond one sewer was a double, and two was a home run. A ball caught on the fly was out even if it first bounced on a car.
My turn to bat, and I took practice swings with the broomstick over the sewer home plate. Lenny Spazzolato pitched. Gene Kaplan stood in the outfield and his younger brother Carl was backstop. I nicknamed Lenny Cousin Weak Eyes. His peepers bulged like a toad, but if I called him Frog Face, I would’ve had a fight on my hands. He didn’t like the Cousin Weak Eyes moniker, but it didn’t rise to an insult that demanded a punch in the mouth. Gene was Jewish, chunky, a curly redhead and lived in the apartment house. His mother told my mother that her Gene was like ‘white bread.’ I didn’t get it, but Gene was my best friend, probably because he emulated everything I did. Carl was dark, skinny, and a pain in the butt. I tolerated him as the toll for Gene’s company.
Lenny pitched a knuckle ball, looking like a half moon in the air before it bounced, destined to squib and be impossible to hit, so I was happy to see the pink De Soto round the corner. I yelled, "Car," and play was suspended.
We squeezed aside as the De Soto rumbled toward us. The tires screeched and I jumped. A man with a three-day beard rolled the window down and stuck his head out like a turtle. "You want a dog?"
The black snout of a camel-faced animal with brown bushy eyebrows popped out next to the man’s head.
My parents had cautioned me to be wary of strangers beckoning me from stopped cars. I took a half step away. "Why?"
"I’m taking him to the pound. They’ll put him down."
"Is he sick?"
"In the head."
"What’s his name?"
"Faccia Brutta. You want him or not?"
I’d pressed my parents for a dog. My father had given my mother a wink and countered that a baby sister would be better. Christmas was six months away. The dog panted, red tongue lolling. He smiled at me, and I made an executive decision.
"Yeah."
The man tipped the bench seat forward, and the dog jumped from the back to freedom. He slammed the door and took off. The gangly dog jumped up on me, pushing his paws against my chest, and I was pinned against a hood. His breath was hot, and his yellow-brown eyes seemed to say, "Guess which one of us is in charge?"
Lenny had hands on hips. "Why is he your dog?"
I peeled the paws off my chest and the dog sat. "Because the man asked me."
Lenny reached out to pet the animal, and the dog growled.
Lenny withdrew his hand. "Okay, he’s yours."
Gene and Carl neared. Carl picked his nose. Gene was wide-eyed. "What are you gonna call him?"
"Georgie, like Georgie Russell, Davy Crockett’s buddy."
Georgie had a leather collar. I found a piece of rope and attached it as a leash. I pulled, but his nails gripped the ground. I used all my strength to move him a few feet. "Come on, you need to meet my mother." The plea had zero impact on cooperation. "Are you hungry? Want to eat?" Georgie’s yellow eyes brightened, and he came along.
Georgie and I walked into the kitchen. We had a white fridge, a bread box, and a brown-patterned metal-top table we ate most meals around. My mother was a slim brunette, and she wore a blue print dress while washing dishes. She saw Georgie and screamed. "Madonna mia, what a beast. Get him out of my house."
"You said I could have a dog."
"I said no such thing."
"Mama, the man was gonna put him to sleep."
"He’s a horse. This isn’t a stable. Give him back."
"Mama, please."
She made a chopping motion with an open palm. "Wait until your father gets home."
Georgie crawled on his belly cornering my mother. He licked her feet. He rolled on his back with all fours in the air, imploring, and my mother’s face softened.
I puffed out a sigh of relief. "He’s hungry."
"We don’t have dog food."
"How about the leftover rigatoni?"
Georgie’s nose pushed an old plastic bowl around the floor as he scarfed up cold pasta from the fridge like it was sirloin.
My mother crossed her arms. "He stinks. Give him a bath."
Within sight of my mother, Georgie acted the model citizen, and I led him out of the kitchen. She said to my back, "He’s your dog. You need to take care of him. Keep him out of my vegetable garden, or I’ll shoot him myself."
I maneuvered Georgie into the tub and turned on the tap. Georgie took my arm in his jaws and his eyes said, "We’re not going to hurt each other, are we?"
Water splashed everywhere. Georgie resembled a drowned wildebeest. I used every bath towel to dry him and sop up puddles on the floor. He left a ring around the tub like an oil slick.
That evening when my father came home, Georgie jumped on him, and his back hit the door. "What the hell?"
"Mama said I could keep him."
"The Hound of the Baskervilles?"
I pulled Georgie off my father.
He shouted toward the kitchen where my mother prepared dinner. "Carmella, you told Anthony he could keep this mongrel dog?"
My mother knew better than to answer.
I had Georgie in a headlock and held him with every fiber in my body. "He’ll be good. I promise."
My father reached the kitchen. "Carmella, the dog?"
She stirred a pot. The kitchen smelled of roasted meat and sautéed garlic. "Taking care of a dog will teach Anthony some responsibility. He’ll guard the house. Maybe you could turn him into a hunting dog."
"Hunt what? Elephants?" My father kissed her cheek with a look of extreme dubiousness.
That night, Georgie snuck out of my room. In the morning, my father found him as he was leaving for work. The dog had gnawed the pedestal on the banister down to raw wood.
His voice boomed. "Anthony."
I jumped out of bed and sped down the stairs.
My father was red-faced. "I’m taking this mutt to the pound."
"They’ll execute him."
My mother huffed when she saw the tooth marks. "We can’t keep him if he ruins things."
"It was my fault that he got out. It won’t happen again."
My father glanced at his watch. "We’ll talk when I get home tonight. I’ll expect you to make this look like new."
I dragged Georgie into the garage to retrieve the sandpaper, wood filler, and stain. His face had the look of a penitent. "Georgie, you must behave, or my father will take you to the pound." The dog peered into my eyes like he understood. Nonetheless, I kept watch on him as I made repairs.
I finished just before my father got home. My mother saw the work and nodded. "Good." She asked, "Where’s Georgie?"
The front door opened, and my father walked in. We heard a bark from upstairs. The three of us rushed to my parents’ bedroom. Somehow, Georgie had opened my mother’s armoire where she kept her lingerie. He had a panty in his mouth and a bra on his head. She screamed.
My father grabbed his head. "That’s it. He goes to the pound."
"No."
Georgie almost knocked my father over as he ran from the room.
"Anthony, I’m sorry, but we can’t have an animal that causes damage."
Tears came to my eyes. It wasn’t fair. He was my dog. I sped down the stairs and threw open the front door. "Come on, Georgie." We ran down the stoop and into the street. The Impala driver slammed his brakes. Tires screeched. I froze, and everything went into slow motion. Georgie barked viciously and jumped in front of the oncoming car. The Chevy swerved, but the bumper caught Georgie and threw him twenty feet. The fender smacked me a glancing blow, and I slammed into a parked car. I crumpled to the asphalt unconscious.
I awoke in my bedroom. Dr. Sprandio bent over me. He’d delivered me and lived close by. Heavyset with thinning hair he had cool hands, and his brow was deeply furrowed. "He’s awake."
My parents stood behind him with red-rimmed eyes. My mother sobbed. "Thank God."
Sprandio stood. "When the ambulance arrives, I’ll take him to the hospital and check for a concussion."
My father slipped out of the room and returned cradling Georgie like a baby hippo in his arms.
Georgie whimpered.
My father's face looked sad. "Georgie's been hurt badly."
I cried, "He'll be okay?"
My father sighed. "I’ll take him to the vet." His eyes met my mother's.
She caressed my forehead. "Anthony, we may need to put Georgie to sleep."
"No." My tears welled.
The solid smack of broomstick on ball never lost its thrill. I'd timed Lenny's pitch pulling a line-drive over Gene's head that rattled in the branches of a maple tree. We didn't see the ball come down.
"Foul," Lenny said.
"Home run," I countered.
Carl said, "If we don't find the ball, Anthony, you're out."
Gene poked his brother silent.
As we searched near the parked maroon Buick, we spotted Georgie sitting on the sidewalk, his smile curled around the ball in his mouth. The look in his eyes said, "Now, we'll play my game." He took off.
Even after his injury, Georgie could pivot on three good legs.
As we chased Georgie, Lenny shouted, "If his teeth ruin my Spaldeen, you're paying."
Heck, I thought, I could always get another ball.
Recipe for Crostata di Ricotta / Ricotta Tart
(metric and imperial measures)
Crust | Pastafrolla
200 gr -Butter- 2 sticks
150-175gr -Sugar ¾cup – ¾ + 2tbsp
2 Egg Yolks
75gr -Milk- ¼ cup
1 spoon Vanilla (or lemon juice)
Zest of 1 lemon
500gr - flour- 4 ¼ cups (if sticky add a little bit of flour.)
Mix butter and sugar. Add the eggs, milk, lemon zest, vanilla. Lastly add the flour and baking powder. Mix well but not overly. Take out of mixing bowl and knead gently into a ball and cover with a bowl while you make the filling.
Cream | Crema
350gr -Ricotta - about 3-3 ½ cups
150gr -Sugar - ¾cup
Zest of 1 lemon
(juice of one lemon-optional-but I like it!!!)
2 eggs
1 yolk.
Options- mini chocolate chips in the cream is nice and so is Nutella as a bottom layer!
Mix all together. Make sure all ingredients are fully mixed in.
Jam of your choice! I like Raspberry and Apricot in these. They go nice with the cheese and are two of my favorite Italian flavors!
Roll out dough. Place in tart pan or you can use a spring form pan only going halfway up the side. Spread a layer of jam on the bottom of the crust. Top with ricotta mixture.
Make a lattice top on the tart. Bake at 350 for 30-40 minutes or until it is lightly golden and the cheese filling no longer jiggles.
Let cool and enjoy!
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