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Catch us live on YouTube

“Italian Roots and Genealogy” Nov 17th at 3PM ET as we visit Sicilian Roots

Italian American Life - Frank Di Piero

Episode 136 – Interview with Dr. Lou Ignarro awarded the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine 1998

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.

Pizza Gets Me In Trouble

The Guidance Counselor Snags Me

My love of pizza started when I galloped into Grandma's tenement after school. She was at the stove. She was always at the stove.

Well, that’s not true because she had so many other things to do that she didn’t spend every moment there. Perhaps that’s what I wanted to think because so many wonderful things came from there. Like the bread and oil treat awaiting me when I arrived from a vigorous day of play. It was simple and delicious and served with love.

“Ed-a-Wood. Here. Take-a. Itsa good-a fa you.”

My brother, cousins and I stretched like birds in a nest as she drizzled the oil on the crusty, firm bread. We may have been chirping. She pinched some salt, un pinzimonio. The aroma of warm bread and fragrant oil nurtured us. We didn’t mind the oil sliding down our necks.

And then there was the addictive pizza fritta, deep-fried pizza; crisp on the outside while soft and chewy on the inside. She topped it with a bit of tomato sauce.

And her irresistible pizza . . . soft, chewy, topped simply with oil and salt, sometimes combined with tomato sauce. The smells and tastes of Grandma's treats evoke nostalgia and comfort and remind me of the enjoyable days of my early years.

So you may wonder how pizza got me in trouble that day in junior high school when an opportunity led to a bad decision.

One day, I had a smoldering desire for pizza from DeLuise’s Bakery across the ball field, beyond the elementary school and Chalkstone Avenue.

DeLuise’s was the best place for pastry, pies and strip pizza; a neighborhood destination of smells and tastes. The Napoleons and sfogliatelle were amazing, but nothing beat the strip pizza. I could smell it from afar.

It was when the idea hit.

I skipped out before lunch break and scooted across the ball field for the warm, soft, savory, baked bread, crisp on the bottom and smeared above with layers of tomato sauce. I looked at my Dick Tracy watch. I had time to get back before the other students went to lunch.

The ball field was a stretch of infield dirt and outfield grass.

Rabid, I marched along, picking up the pace by third base, second base and right field toward center, kicking dust while looking over my shoulder. I had never done anything like this. I was a blue shirt, white bucks, baggy khaki pants, wavy-haired predictable kid. To do something out of the ordinary, like changing my wardrobe or leaving school early for pizza was a little frightening, but I was on my way, and there was no turning back.

Money from my paper route was jingling in my pocket. I crossed the street to the bakery and opened the door to the overwhelming aroma of pizza. I strolled to the counter. The strips were stacked neatly in a tray on top, wax paper separating the oily layers. Ah, the pizza; ten cents a slice.

“May I help you, sonny?”

I looked around. “Yes. I want two slices of pizza. Can you make one of them an end?”

“Sure. Aren’t you out on lunch break a little early?”

“Uh yeah, I guess.” She wrapped the pieces in wax paper, put them in a bag, and handed it to me. I gave her the twenty cents, spun around, walked out the door and crossed the street. The oil, seeping through the bag, was a calling card.

Once across the street, I opened the bag, reached in and pulled out the end piece, peeling away the wax paper after each bite. I devoured it, crunching the corners while savoring the taste of the tomatoes. Nostalgic oil slipped down my chin just like the days at Grandma’s. I wiped it with my sleeve. I folded the second piece in its wax paper, put it in the bag and carried it in my other hand. I licked my fingers and began my march back across the field thinking that by the time I got to second base, I would be ready for the remaining piece. Still, no one had been dismissed for lunch.

As I approached second base, I looked up to see her, the guidance counselor, an imperial, matriarchal hulk of a woman, standing in the school doorway, hands on hips. I could not see her face, but I knew she was wearing a scowl. I felt her steely eyes boring through me from afar.

I stopped at second base, turned toward right field took a step, started, turned back, turned to left field, took a step, and stopped, again. She waved. Head down, I shuffled my way across the infield, dragging my feet in the dust. I was done for.

After an eternity, I approached her. There was no room to get by. “What’s this about?’ she barked. “Why are you out while no one has been dismissed? And what’s that in your hand?”

“Uh, not sure.” I looked at my hand. “Pizza?”

“Come with me.” I blundered along, following her heavy heels that clicked along the corridor. By this time, the kids were getting out of class.

They stopped. There was nowhere for me to hide the bag. My pocket could never manage the bag and the oil. They snickered. They knew.

Crowd-conscious and humiliated, I trailed her down the corridor to her office like a shamed puppy, passing other kids now gliding along on their way to lunch. I tried to pocket the bag to no avail. She stopped. She turned. I stopped. She motioned me into her office with crooked fingers. ”Sit . . . there!”

I snuck by her sideways as she stood at the door to her inner sanctum. Impatient, indignant, she was eyeing my oily bag with calculated appraisal, one eye half closed, her lip turned up. Maybe she wanted a bite. What if I offered the slice in return for a pardon? That’s it. I’ll give it to her. She could take it to the teacher’s lunchroom.

She sat miles above at her desk, ogling me, her bushy eyebrows spread-eagled. I avoided eye contact as I slouched in the hard chair alongside her desk.

“Sit up. Good posture. What is this about?”

“I was hungry, so I went for pizza.” I sat up and held the pizza low beside the chair as a trickle of oil seeped through the bag and slithered down my fingers.

“You know this is unacceptable.”

“Yes.”

With a nefarious glare and an arthritic curl of her hand, she picked up a fat pen. “What do you think I should do? I could call your parents, you know. Even worse, I can get the Principal.”

“I don’t know.”

She paused solemnly, staring at me, her granite chin tilted slightly upward. I wondered how her bright red lipstick meandered around her lips, the top part a horizontal inverted number three. “OK. Get out of here.” I bolted out of the chair. “Don’t let it happen again. And, by the way, get rid of that pizza.”

Get rid of the pizza!? Curses, the final blow, the worst sentence of all. I tossed the greasy bag into the bucket near the door and wiped my hand on my khaki pants. “Yes, Miss F. Thank you, Miss F,” I replied, one foot out the door, the pizza in the waste bucket not easily forgotten.

Hmm, did she take it for her lunch and smear that lipstick?  

LA NOSTRA VOCE

A Village, Its People and Its Patron Saint — San Donato

it takes a village to preserve a tradition. 

By Richard Leto 

This August, I visited my ancestral family village, Comune di Biccari, located in the Puglia region (Province of Foggia). On some days, I found myself likely walking the same narrow village passageways once traversed by my maternal grandparents, Aniello and Elisa (Basile) Lucera, who were Italian immigrants during the Great Arrival. Other days were spent breaking bread with distant family members in the village.

I traveled with my cousin, Michael D’Imperio, from Philadelphia, and we stayed in a family friend’s village house — a true medieval casa, reminiscent of a typical hamlet (borghi) — located near the town’s historic center and the mother church of Biccari.

This article first appeared in the October 2024 edition of ISDA’s monthly Italian American newspaper, La Nostra Voce. Subscribe here

This year marked my third consecutive visit to Biccari, and, as always, it included a stop at my distant cousin Marcello Lucera’s family olive oil business. Marcello, who is a third generation, proudly carries on the legacy business that’s celebrating its 100th year. And yes, each time, I’m lucky enough to bring home a few bottles of their incredible olive oil.

The history of my ancestral village mirrors that of many other hilltop towns scattered across Italy. Biccari sits at the crossroads of three regions: Puglia, Campania and Molise. Nestled among the Daunia mountains, it lies at the foot of Monte Cornacchia, the highest peak in the region. Just an hour’s drive east of Biccari, you’ll find the stunning Adriatic coast.

Its mother church, Maria SS. Assumption (in Italian: Chiesa Madre di Maria SS. Assunta di Biccari), is the focal point for worship in the town. On this recent trip of mine I had the pleasure to meet Don (Padre) Leonardo Catalano of the mother church. We were able to have several dinners with Father Catalano and share our mutual love of Biccari. Father Catalano is a true leader for the people in the village. At the novena mass of San Donato (the patron saint of Biccari), Father Catalano had me read the gospel passage (in English) to the congregation, a truly extraordinary experience for me.

Besides the novena mass, Michael and I witnessed and participated in the historic procession of San Donato, Biccari’s holy protector, which is the most significant event for its citizens.

Celebrated on August 7th, the festival includes a lively gathering in the main piazza and a solemn procession featuring the statue of San Donato and the silver arm relic (as shown in the photo above). According to historical accounts, the devotion to San Donato dates back to 1527, when a citizen of Biccari, after participating in the looting of Rome, retrieved the Saint’s arm from the catacombs and brought it back to the village. Like many other celebrations, the event also features evening concerts and fireworks.

For many of us with Italian American heritage, visiting Italy and experiencing the villages and festivals of our ancestors helps keep us connected to our Italian roots. Additionally, the festivals and saint celebrations that take place in Italian enclaves across the U.S. echo those of the motherland, strengthening our commitment to preserving our heritage and never forgetting our roots.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: 

I was born and raised in the Italian enclave of South Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. I currently reside in Columbus, Ohio. I’m an ISDA Order/Fraternal member who attended the Cleveland and Pittsburgh ISDA conventions. As a proud third-generation Italian American, I enjoy informal writing as a hobbyist regarding the Italian American experience. I am the grandson of Italian immigrants who emigrated to America during the Great Arrival and settled in South Philly.

Dorina's Anise Biscotti/Biscotti all'AniceCiambella Rustica - Savory Bread Ring

I love a simple tasty dish that is outside the norm. This is an easy savory bread to make that you can use in place of a sandwich for lunch or as a snack or even as a breakfast!

Try it! You'll like it!!!

Ciambella Rustica. --- A Savory Bread Ring

200 g Red Cabbage (about a ¼ of a small cabbage)

20 g Lemon Juice (about a tablespoon)

1 spoon apple cider vinegar (tablespoon)

150 g scamorza mozzarella/ or other cheese (about a cup)

150g ham or other (about a cup)

1 red onion (or half red and half sweet)

3 eggs

80g XV olive oil (1/2 cup)

1 tsp salt

Pinch pepper

100g ricotta (1/2 cup)

300g flour (2 cups)

15 g baking powder (1 tablespoon)

Have 3 bowls

For the first bowl- slice the cabbage thin and then cut in smaller pieces

Add the vinegar and lemon juice -stir up and set aside.

In a frying pan- saute the diced onion with a little olive oil until lightly golden and soft.

Second bowl- fill with cut up cheese and meat/s and put aside

3rd Bowl- beat eggs and add olive oil, ricotta and salt and pepper.

Once these are all beaten together add in the flour and baking powder.

Mix until it’s a “dough” but don’t over mix.

Add bowl 1 and 2 to the dough mixture. Add the onions.

It will be a lumpy doughy mix.

Don’t think it should be all smooth. It won’t be!

Just make sure it’s all mixed together evenly.

Now scoop into a greased springform pan or a springform bundt or Angel food pan.

It’s nice with the hole in the middle. If you don’t have one of these pans- you can make one with a regular springform. You can make a center post out of an empty can covered with parchment paper and then fill it with water or some other weight. And voila… you have a perfect pan for a Ciambella!

Cook for 45 min on 375. Take out when a toothpick comes out clean and the top is golden.

Let it cool a bit before slicing. It will hold together better!

There will always be some little pieces that fall off… don’t throw them away! That’s the best part!!! Yummmm!!!

Enjoy it!

We sure did today!

Love,

Dorina

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