June 2024

Frank Di Piero - Italian American Moment

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.

I am often asked what happened to the Sunday dinner tradition. In my book, What Ever Happened to Sunday Dinner? I write about it. I reflect more upon it these days.

It has not completely disappeared. As I speak of it in presentations I give around the country, many tell me that their tradition continues, perhaps a bit watered down, but it continues, and I am pleased for them. But, for me, it is not the same.

Those days meant we were at our best; clothes, shoes, behavior, preparation for worship, a visit, and most of all, for Sunday dinner. Stores were closed. Streets were empty. The neighborhood was quiet. No television. No malls. No cell phones. It was a day for family, food, and conversation with a meal prepared by Grandma in her efficient, seemingly effortless way. It was one of the pillars of our culture.

The day started with church followed by a visit with my aunts, a stop at the corner where Dad met old friends, and, in the summer, a trip to Roger Williams Park to listen to music at the Temple to Music.

When we arrived home, savory smells were in the air. The doors of our three-tenement home were open, and those smells crept into every corner. The kitchen windows were steamed from simmering gravy and roasting chicken. Grandma was banging her wooden spoon on the rim of the pot. The meatballs sizzled in olive oil and garlic. Grandma started her gravy (gravy makers are possessive), a rich tomato-based sauce with cuts of meat and spices, in the early morning because it took hours of slow cooking on the rear burners of the Barstow Stove. The Italian radio show with Antonio Pace droned in the background.  

Taking two stairs at a time, I entered Grandma’s door and went directly to the pantry, ripped the corner from the Italian bread, and dunked it in her gravy, being careful not to burn my tongue as I ate. Grandma fried her meatballs before placing them in the gravy. Sometimes I liberated one. It was the start of the ritual. I blew on the bread as I cradled it with two hands,

strolling into the dining room to peek at the mahogany table covered with its plain white cloth. Sun splashed on white dishes bracketed by knives forks and spoons sitting patiently in front of each chair. There may have been a centerpiece. In the adjacent parlor, an arm’s length away and separated by a mahogany arch, next to the pianola, was a smaller table set the same way for us children.

I have no idea how my grandmother did it. In a small tenement, she prepared simple Southern Italian meals for her large family. Her feast included antipasto, soups, pasta, meats, fresh vegetables, fruits and desserts.                                                                

Domenica ( how meaningful that her name meant Sunday) was a small, quiet, purposeful, and efficient kitchen technician who buzzed from pantry to kitchen stove to dining room, a gravy-splashed apron skirting her waist. Her energy was infectious. “Come on, sit, sit, itsa time to eat. Mangia, Mangia.”

 The first course was an antipasto of meats (prosciutto, salami), cheeses, and roasted red peppers. Chicken and dumpling soup or chicken soup with tiny meatballs, some floating like land mines ready to explode on the way down, followed. Then came the pasta; ravioli, gnocchi, lasagna, or manicotti. She served meatballs, sausage, and braciole in a side dish. Stuffed artichokes, salad, and string beans accompanied a chicken roasted with crisp potatoes. Fresh bread came from the local Italian bakery. Desserts included figs, fruits, cakes, and Italian pastries. Grandpa’s homemade wine smelled like his cellar. Neapolitan songs or operas floated in the background.

After dinner, we children went out to play while the adults sat around to talk even more. Though they spoke to each other daily, somehow, on Sunday, they had more to say. My memory of those conversations is not specific, because I was not interested, but I do recall the same subjects discussed over and over . . .  work, children, neighbors, etc. They laughed a lot. No one adjourned to a TV room. Rather, they enjoyed the simplicity and grace of the day and each other.

The dinners, like my grandparents, grew old and diminished, though my mother continued them for a while, her sisters often stopped by for coffee, not for the full dinner, as they had already served their own families. My children had the opportunity to experience the love, respect, partnership, and joy of extended family through my Mom’s Sunday Dinners.

I loved those days, but not until recent years did I realize how much. In some ways, life seemed better then. We enjoyed freedom from the slavery of the clock. My memories of those days are a treasure that will live with me forever. Perhaps a return to this once-strong family tradition will take us back to the honor and values of years past.

Why is it no longer the same? Grandparents and parents have passed. We are a mobile population. Children have moved around the country and the world. Traditions are being lost as generations move further from the customs of their immigrant forefathers. People intermarry. Cultures mix. Those are just a few of the reasons. But the customs don’t have to disappear. Make Sunday a focal point for the family.

Revive your Sunday dinner time! Relive the gift! Preserve your cultural traditions. Celebrate your heritage. Talk to each other. Take pride in your family. Pass those traditions along. It will remind you that there is more to life than just daily bread. It is a respite from the fast pace of modern life. It will dress you, again, in your Sunday best.

When you are family, there’s always a place at the table.

The Photo Angel - Kate Kelley

Thank you Gerald Stalter for the generous donation of World War II ephemera to The Photo Angel project! These letters, documents, and photos were addressed to father and son, Anthony and Ralph Garramone of New York. Antonio “Anthony” Garramone (1895-1980) was born in Italy to parents Angelo and Maria (de Asmundis) Garramone. He arrived in the United States in 1904 according to an online ship manifest. This truck driver married Elizabeth Maro and they made their home with their children in New York City. Raffaele “Ralph” Ronald Garramone (1920-2014) was born in New York City to parents Antonio and Elizabeth (Maro) Garramone. The Town Journal (Saddle River, New Jersey): Ralph R. Garramone Sr., of Sanibel Island, Fla., formally of Saddle River, died on Sept. 23. He was the son of Anthony and Elizabeth, and was born and raised in Greenwich Village, New York City, the oldest of four brothers, Michael, Anthony, and John. In his youth, he was an accomplished musician. He played the accordion and sought the best teachers in New York City, and, as a result, was chosen to give a concert at Carnegie Hall. During World War II, he served in the U.S. Army in the Pacific Region 4 and one-half years, attending the rank of 1st Sergeant. After that, he never played the accordion again. After his service, he joined his father’s business, which he owned for many years thereafter. He was an usher for 40 years at St. Gabriel’s Church in Saddle River. He survived by his wife of 61 years, Marie Corbo; children, Elizabeth Mary, and her husband Rev. Wayne Santos, and Dr. Ralph Garramone Jr., and his wife Glynn Rivers, and their children, Grace Glynn, Ralph III, also known as Max, and Oliver Thomas. A Mass of Christian burial was held at St. Gabriel’s Church in Saddle River. Interment was private. I am excited to share that these family treasures will soon be reunited with the Garramone family in The Garden State! Below please find a sampling of the letters and photos and the image from Ralph Garramone’s 1952 chauffeurs license.

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