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Michael Valleriano

 PIZZA - THE ONE ITALIAN WORD EVERYONE KNOWS!

My last entry into Bob's email talked about a "Common Language - Nebaletan" where I argued Nebaletan was shared across our American-Italian landscape.  But there’s another thing that unites us.  No, it's not the art by the Italian greats Michelangelo, DaVinci, or Caravaggio.  It's PIZZA (yes, all caps, because pizza deserves the respect).

PIZZA: THE GREAT UNIFIER

 Sure, the passion for PIZZA extends beyond "us" to the Amerigans, but also to every culture on earth!  "We" can argue endlessly about sauce vs. gravy vs. sugo, but when it comes to pizza?  No argument.  It's ours.  Period.  End of discussion.  And, let’s be honest, the world is a better place because of it.

Now, PIZZA isn’t just about filling our bellies—it’s part of our shared American-Italian DNA.  But its influence stretches way beyond that.  Walk into any pizzeria (please, not Papa John’s… oh, di mi (as my mother would say…aka dios mio, aka OMG), and look around. 

A PIZZA MOMENT IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE

Case in point—recently, I was in northern Arizona, on Navajo tribal land, eating at (what else?) a pizzeria. Two families sat next to us—one Hispanic, one Navajo. I noticed their kids rocking Serie A (the Italian league) soccer jerseys.

 Now, I’m obsessed with Serie A (it’s my version of religion), especially my beloved Napoli squad—nicknamed "Il Ciucciariello" (the little donkeys).  So naturally, I asked the kids if they knew the origins of their jerseys. Turns out, no one—not even their parents—had a clue.

But as we talked about Italian soccer, something clicked: here we were, completely different backgrounds, different cultures, and yet, PIZZA brought us together.  There’s one thing that transcends borders, languages, and opinions, it’s a good slice.

PIZZA NEVER GETS OLD

 Think pizza is boring? Ha! Tell that to my blog - femike99 (aka IronMike's Blog).

In 2024 alone, I made 134 pizzas from scratch in 24 separate baking sessions.  That’s down from 208 pizzas in 2023!

That’s not counting the 50 pizzas I bought from local joints and, many times, those 50 make it to the most sacred tradition of all—cold pizza for breakfast before a long bike ride. (The Breakfast of Champions.) 

Over the six years of my blog, I’ve documented 174 purchased pizzas (see here) and 630 homemade ones—and counting.  And guess what?  I’m still not bored.  If anything, my love for pizza only deepens.  I've learned that I can approach the pizzaiolo/pizzaiola (head pizza chef) in even the busiest joints, and ask about their dough, sauce, and their cheese.

Recently, we stopped in a new joint outside of Buffalo (Pizzeria Florian).  The pizzaiolo, Jay, also started Jay's Artisan Pizza which a Top 100 in the World pizza (the only list that I trust).  When I mentioned my blog, Jay sat down and talked with us for 10 minutes.  I had no intent to "interview" but I learned a lot but especially was reminded about how small PIZZA makes the world.

IF IT WAS BORING, WHY DO WE PASSIONATELY DISAGREE WHAT’S BEST?

Want proof that pizza isn’t boring? Just Google “Best PIZZA Near Me” and watch the internet implode. 

The moment someone utters the word "best”; the arguments begin—and unlike Middle East peace talks, these pizza debates should last forever. Because as tastes evolve, so does the pizza landscape.  And that, my friends, is a good thing.

For example—my buddy from Brooklyn and his wife from Staten Island swear by a Rochester joint's NY-style PIZZA. I, on the other hand, usually find NY-style just… “good” - for several reasons.  Though they never say, I think they were disappointed in my assessment, but hey, that’s what makes the PIZZA world go ‘round.

WHY DID I START BLOGGING ABOUT PIZZA?

Because I can!  I love putting my opinions out there and then stirring the (pizza) pot with my readers. It’s like that Arizona pizzeria—different people, different places, different takes on pizza. 

But honestly, my PIZZA obsession started when the PIZZA scene in my adopted hometown of Rochester, NY, took a turn - not that the PIZZA was bad (see below), the PIZZA lacked a certain pizzazz that comes from exacting standards that are the trademark of an artist - like our early immigrant ancestors. 

Like most Rust Belt towns, the immigrants who built the PIZZA culture eventually moved on, and with them, that original passion.  New owners took over, but it was never quite the same.  Some cared, some didn’t, and the few originals that did survive weren’t making pizza with that same LOVE as that of an ARTISAN.

So, I started searching— I was looking for my old, lost favorites -- Bay-Goodman in Rochester, Anita’s in my birth town outside of Cleveland.  I wanted any place that could take me back to those favors and the memories that they invoke.  Funny enough, I can’t remember what I ate yesterday, but one bite of the right sauce, and BOOM—I’m back in 1970, eating a pie with my family from Anita’s (which, to this day, I swear was seasoned with wacky-tobacky and not oregano).

THERE’S NO BAD PIZZA, JUST LIKE ART!

I only have three pizza ratings: Great, Good (close, but not Great), and Meh.  That’s it.

Even a “Meh” pizza isn’t bad.  I’ve eaten “meh” gas station pizza with an ice-cold Coke while 70 miles into a bike ride in the middle of nowhere, and in that moment?  It was GREAT.

 Of course, when I got home and realized it was freezer-burned, reheated cardboard that had been spinning on a metal turntable all day… my opinion changed.   But you know what?  It still wasn’t bad.

So, in parting, I will say this:  The search for GREAT PIZZA is never over.  I truly hope yours is not either.   And as you search, think about the great Italian works of art - Michelangelo, DaVinci, Caravaggio, and PIZZA!

Ci vediamo…in pizzeria! (See you later…in a pizzeria).  Ciao!🍕

Italian American Life - Frank Di Piero

Italian American Podcast Episode. 353: Mike D’Amore’s Journey In Preserving Culture and Community

Mike D’Amore shares his journey of embracing his Italian heritage with stories that remind us of the beauty and strength in cultural traditions. His experiences growing up in Rome, New York, and active participation in groups like Sons of Italy provide a window into the efforts to keep Italian culture alive in America. From the heartwarming tales of homemade capicola to the celebration of Italian familial bonds, Mike’s passion for preserving his roots shines brightly as we broadcast from Little Italy. We explore the power of cultural preservation through the lens of Sicilian heritage, with a focus on the young leaders reviving these traditions across the country.

The significance of the St. Joseph’s Day altar in the Carolinas, inspired by New Orleans, is just one example of how Italian-American communities are keeping these customs alive. Through the Italian Exchange and Fellowship League, a network of future leaders collaborates to create cultural events and strengthen ties to ancestral lands like Calabria, illustrating the deep connections and stories that bind individuals to their heritage. The journey doesn’t stop there; we traverse the vibrant regions of Italy, including Palermo and Catania, to discover the warmth of Italian hospitality and culinary delights like granita con brioche and pistachio gelato. As we discuss the potential for Italian-Americans to aid in revitalizing southern Italian towns, we reflect on how tourism and philanthropy can weave new opportunities into the fabric of these communities. The role of Italian-American organizations in fostering these connections echoes throughout our conversation, ensuring that Italy continues to flourish for generations to come.MARGARET

The Photo Angel - Kate Kelly

Meet Louis Philip Rosa (1917-1972) born in Providence, Rhode Island to Italian immigrant Menotti “Thomas” Fondanarosa “Rosa” and his wife Elvira (Toppi) Rosa.

This WWII veteran was one of five siblings. United States census records indicate that he worked in both the restaurant and machine manufacturing industry.

I Took Art Metal and Woodworking

Check out Ed’s blog - edwrites.net

The first day I attended West, I realized I was expected to behave responsibly in traveling from class to class. It was the first time I encountered kids from different schools, neighborhoods, and towns; some even bussed in from Scituate and Foster, far away, or so I thought.

I was close enough to walk to the school and far enough to give me a pause on those bitter-cold winter mornings when the frost burned my face and chapped my lips. I wore my favorite hat, the toque that, even though it was not ‘cool,’ was as warm and comforting as a good friend.

Toting a Kraft #8 lunch bag, I walked down Wealth, took a right onto Academy, passed the barber and the shoemaker, and then left up one of the many hills, usually Beaufort Street. Miss Carroll, my favorite teacher, lived there. Beautiful, kind, elegant, and engaging, she rose above classroom formality when she greeted me, smiling, “Hello, Edward. Good morning. How are you today?”

“Hi, Miss Carroll.”

An outstanding teacher, she was one of the many reasons I loved the school. I rarely missed a day and once received the perfect attendance award at the end-of-year ceremony.

GJW Junior High stood high in a residential neighborhood. It was named in honor of West, a lawyer born in Providence in 1852, a member of the school board, and active in public affairs. The school hunkered along Mt. Pleasant Avenue encompassing an entire block. Gymnasiums and recess areas were anchored on either end.

Elegant steps, memorialized in our 1954 graduation picture, led to the first floor that housed an auditorium with a stage and a balcony. Principal Cerilli, a taskmaster whom we feared and sometimes admired, proclaimed, “West is best.”

The student body was from different cultures that reflected neighborhood patterns; Italian Americans, Polish Americans, Irish Americans, etc.

Those bussed in were from the distant towns of Scituate and Foster. Because they returned to their buses after the last bell, not to be seen until the next morning, and certainly never in our neighborhoods, even on weekends, we hardly knew them.

Lockers lined wide wooden halls that smelled of varnish. My locker made me feel grown-up.

We started our day in homeroom joining a prayer and the Pledge of Allegiance broadcast from the central office through speakers next to which was hanging the U.S. flag.

I was a late bloomer, not one of the guys, and, realizing it early, I did my own thing as an early preppy (fag then, nerd now) surrounded by zoot suiters. I was conscientious and crowd-conscious and harbored only an imagination of mischief.

Academics were strong. I had tough, resolute teachers who prepared us for high school: Miss Flanagan, a stout, capable, idiosyncratic figure for Algebra, “Don’t forget to FACTOR.” Charming and clever Miss Carroll for English; testy Miss Turbitt for History; tall and distinguished Mr. Kirby for Art and Geometry; Miss Somers for Auditorium and so many others committed to their profession.

There were metal and wood shops, a gym for boys and one for girls. There was a cafeteria.

It was the first time I was exposed to woodworking and art metal.

Those classes met after lunch on the basement floor in adjacent rooms across from the cafeteria. After lunch was the best time for hands-on activity and the worst time for English or History with their soporific overtones floating over a baloney sandwich and Twinkies. It was easy to stay awake in Woodworking and Art Metal class. Sleep and you might lose a finger.

The smells of pizza and tapioca mixed with those of freshly cut wood, polished metal, and oil.

Wrought iron guards protected windows looked up to the tar-covered schoolyard where we played fistball. Low ceilings lent a level of security. The window guards were not there to keep us in. We wanted to be there. Rather they were there to keep shop-eager, tool-hoarders out. And, just maybe, to keep someone from stealing a potentially priceless work of student art. Wishful conceit.

Beams of sunlight full of dust and specks seeped through the grates.

Soft lights hung from metal wires. Machines were close to one another along the dull gray outside walls. An independent bandsaw stood in the middle of Mr. Spinney’s Woodworking room.

Mr. Lees taught Shop Metal; and Mr. Spinney Woodworking. Notwithstanding their shared goals of driving us to a finished product, they were different.

Lees was a robust, bulky guy with a relaxed, cheery-faced, enthusiastic manner, an ability to laugh, and a knapsack full of working-with-metal facts. He wore a grey smock that straddled to his thighs. His textured fingers were riddled with healed cuts and garnished with oil that sneaked under his fingernails.

Mr. Spinney, much more serious, was a partially paralyzed, lean fragile man who struggled walking so someone dropped him near the stairs to his basement realm. With crutches, he negotiated the stairs, bouncing down one at a time, then stopping, then bouncing. He shuffled into the room. His tremor, which I thought was not good for a woodworking teacher, was never a hindrance. I was transfixed when I watched him lumber to the band saw, flick it on, and with the care of a surgeon, maneuver a board to its center; perfect cut. He had all his thin fingers.

Spiteful little teacher jokes flew in the face of Mr. Spinney’s tremor and Mr. Lees’ paunch, but they were soon replaced by respect for what they knew, were able to teach, and how they did it safely; safety first.

They demanded respect for who they were and what they did. We became respectful. Lesson learned.

I loved the smells of milling metal, wood shavings, the belt of the metal polisher, and the whirring scream of the band saw.

In Art Metal, I made copper bookends with an emblem on each. Despite my uneven swirling polish, Dad loved them. “Neat, Edward.” I still have them; dull, uneven, tarnished surface and all. And I love them.

In Woodworking I made a three-level spice shelf that my mother appreciated despite its splotchy staining. She tucked it in a corner of the kitchen counter. Weathered by time in service, it became moldy, sticky, and stained, so it had long disappeared but not before ages in her kitchen and years of my boasting, “See that. I made it.”

After all these years I realize how important those classes were. They allowed me to socialize, lose the fear of conversing with the teachers, and walk around unconfined. I would like to say I learned lifetime skills of creating with my hands and fixing things, but I'm afraid not. But at least I produced two products. Then.

The girls had similar experiences. From classmate, Barbara:

“I took Home Economics/cooking or sewing classes. I did take Art Metal at least once, too. I remember a lot about what we sewed and how exciting it was to use an electric sewing machine, for instance. The cooking classes were eye-opening in as much as they opened my eyes to a version of "American" food that was unappealing. However, both classes were favorites of mine.”

And I learned:

To respect teachers in all disciplines

To respect the machines

To respect safety

To respect socializing in class

To respect learning practicum

To respect hands-on learning

To understand problem-solving

To understand planning and execution

To appreciate creativity

“I made those!”

Friend Tom relates his experience with a perceptive teacher.

In junior high, we were assigned to build a breadboard with handles carved with the band saw.

I showed my handles to the teacher. He looked, twirled them, turned to me, and said, “D___, do you know where the janitor‘s office is?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Well, open the door nearby and you will see stairs leading to the boiler room. Go down, find the trash can, and throw these in.”

I was crushed, but he then helped me cut the perfect pair.

I have that breadboard today.

In a world increasingly dominated by digital experiences, I now realize that those classes provided crucial hands-on learning opportunities to work with real materials and develop tactile skills and 3-D awareness. How critical.

We need those classes today. More of them.

The classes taught us to find solutions, to be patient, and to think creatively.

I wish today that I pursued those skills. I understand how critical they are in playing a key role in our workforce.

I call those craftsmen for help, often.

And I watch. And I envy.

My hat off to the author, Dr. Ed Iannuccilli, for sharing his family with us.

Our Contribution To Freedom Is Amazing!

by Prof./Cav. Philip J. DiNovo 

​The extent of Italian and Italian American participation in the American Revolution, the Civil War and all the wars up to present time is amazing. I often ask myself why the contributions of these immigrants are not known by the general public. Much of what I write here is not found in our American history textbooks. The list of Italian American Revolutionary War heroes is long. I highlight a few here. 

​Although not a direct contributor to the American Revolution, the town of Paoli, not far from Philadelphia, is named after Pasquale Paoli. For 14 years, Pasquale fought for Corsican independence from Genoa. His struggle aroused the admiration of free men all over the world including the Sons of Liberty who played an important role in the American Revolution. When the New York Battalion of the Independent Foot Company was organized in 1773, it took the name of “Corsicans.”

 Scholar Giovanni Schiavo shows that by 1776 there were thousands of people of Italian origin living on the American colonies. Both French and English documents contain scores of Italian names. Many men from France with Italian surnames fought during the American Revolution under the French flag. They were often offspring of Italians who settled in France or Italian citizens who assumed or were given French flag. An example is Philip Phinizy (Finizzi) who came over with the Rochambeau. The British had a list of Italian enemy soldiers that they imprisoned. The patriotic contributions of men of Italian descent included military combat, spying, authoring propaganda, and foreign missions.

One of our great heroes was Cosmo Medici who fought at the Battle of Princeton. His military performance was so outstanding that he was promoted from Lt. to Captain in 1777. He fought in many battles and, according to Congressional Investigation Committee, Major Medici commanded four corps of cavalry during the American Revolution. According to the research, no soldier of Italian origin had a rank higher than major. Yet the effort of the colonists of Italian descent and Italian volunteers were of great help to the patriots.  

Philip Mazzei (born “Filippo” in Poggio a Caiano, Italy on December 25, 1730)was an Italian wine merchant, trained surgeon and arms merchant. He was a particularly significant figure. He sailed to Hampton, Virginia in 1773. As a civilian, he and his close friend Thomas Jefferson, wrote numerous newspaper articles to promote the recruitment of military volunteers. In 1775, when the British landed at Hampton, Virginia, he joined the company of Albemarle County as a private. He volunteered along with fellow Italian Americans Carlo Bellini and Vincent (“Vincenzo”) Rossi and fought under Patrick Henry (Governor of Virginia). In 1779, Governor Henry sent Mazzei on a mission to Europe to raise funds for the American cause. His ship was captured by the British and he was held prisoner on Long Island for three months. After his release, he headed to Europe to complete his mission writing many articles and successfully convinced General Comte de Rochambeau that coordination of French naval power with the American army would certainly end the War of Independence. This vision was realized with the defeat of British forces at the Battle of Yorktown. And, if that wasn’t enough proof of Mazzei’s patriotism, he is credited with these words, “All men are by nature equally free and independent,” which Thomas Jefferson used in the Declaration of Independence.

Among Italian Corsicans who fought for American independence aboard French ships were seamen Dominique Pozzo, Ignace Nini, Joseph Masso, Barthelemy Martinelli, Pierre Santelli or Lur, Dominique Turchini, and Joseph Dottore. Colonial soldiers of Italian descent included Lt. James Bracco, who was killed in action at White Plains on October 28, 1776 and Colonel Richard Tagliaferro who was killed at the Battle of Guilford Hill, 1781. Joseph DeAngeles joined the Colonial Army at the age of thirteen and served from 1776 until the end of the War. In 1903, the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs published a list of soldiers and sailors who fought during the American Revolution under the French flag and the list contains scores of Italian names.

Francesco Vigo (1747-1836), a fur trader who helped finance the American Revolution, served as a spy. He was ultimately rewarded with the rank of colonel and is 

There are many books written by Italian American authors on our contributions in case you would like to learn more. The American Italian Heritage Museum and Cultural Center has exhibits commemorating the wartime contributions of Italian Americans.

Dorina’s Kitchen

Pizza Rustica

So this is a recipe that I make every year around Easter time .... everyone who has had it loves it and people who don't know what it is are dying to try it!!!

It's a savory pie and oh so good. It's meant to be a treat after the fasting of the Lenten season.

I hope you enjoy my version of this recipe! (below you will find the written recipe on my own recipe card and a video I did on how to make it!).

I must add that although it is not traditional to make it without meat... I DO make a really tasty vegetarian one that is so good! I created the vegetarian version about 10 years ago for some guests who were vegetarian. I always feel bad when someone can't have something good that I make!!! So the Veg Version was born... and it's been a hit with vegetarians and meat-eaters alike!

Buon appetito!!! <3

So this is a recipe that I make every year around Easter time .... everyone who has had it loves it and people who don't know what it is are dying to try it!!!

It's a savory pie and oh so good. It's meant to be a treat after the fasting of the Lenten season.

I hope you enjoy my version of this recipe! (below you will find the written recipe on my own recipe card and a video I did on how to make it!).

I must add that although it is not traditional to make it without meat... I DO make a really tasty vegetarian one that is so good! I created the vegetarian version about 10 years ago for some guests who were vegetarian. I always feel bad when someone can't have something good that I make!!! So the Veg Version was born... and it's been a hit with vegetarians and meat-eaters alike!

Buon appetito!!

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