The Spia Family Presses On - By Mary Leo Page 0,90
her several years ago when her collapsible laundry drying rack toppled over from the weight of the pasta and, “heaven forbid,” she’d had to use packaged pasta for our Christmas dinner
“But—”
She held up her hand.
“Fine!” I said. “Later.”
“Try to be nice, darling. It’s so much more becoming.”
I wanted to scream. I had so much to talk to her about, but lately it was never a good time for her. Of course, she was right, now was most certainly not the time. She was obviously experiencing a culinary meltdown at the moment and talking to her about my dad and her bracelet would only add to the cuisine challenge.
“It’s all that louse’s fault. May he rot in hell,” Hetty said, making the sign of the cross then kissing her bunched fingers.
Maryann, who busied herself assembling the roasted red pepper and artichoke salad, had a different view. “Dickey’s in purgatory, not hell and I don’t care what you say about him.” She slammed down the cleaver she was using to chop artichoke hearts. I was glad of that. Hurling sharp objects was not something I wanted to be involved in.
She began to weep. Zia Yolanda joined her at a much louder pitch.
Hetty went over to Maryann, careful not to actually touch her. “I’m sorry, honey. How about you play us something fun on your accordion? We could all use a little cheering up right now.”
Maryann nodded, swiped at her tears then wiped her hands on the white apron she was wearing, walked over to a chair in the corner of the kitchen, picked up her ever present accordion and began to play Dean Martin’s Volare.
“Volare, oh-oh, Cantate oh-oh-oh,” she crooned.
Zia Yolanda smiled through her tears and began to sing. It was the first time I’d ever heard her actual voice, which was completely off key.
Aunt Hetty and Aunt Babe drowned her out and joined in. “Let’s fly way up to the clouds, away from the maddening crowds.”
Then Valerie and my mom chimed in. “We can sing in the glow of a star that I know of, where lovers enjoy peace of mind.”
I would never admit this to anyone, but I knew every word by heart. My mom must have played it a million times while I was growing up. I sang as loud as I could. “Let us leave the confusion and all the delusion behind. Just like birds of feather, a rainbow together we’ll find. Volare, oh-oh, Cantate oh-oh-oh . . .”
We sang the entire song, each of us busy with food preparation, smiling as if all was right with our little world, but we all knew better. That was the endearing feature about my utterly dysfunctional family. Each and every one of us had developed a coping mechanism that seriously distorted our perception of reality, and whether that perception was good or bad, it was what got us through the tough times.
When the song ended, Maryann continued to play while the rest of us continued to chop, pour, sauté, bake and plate the massive meal. We seemed to be in a collectively better mood, or at least everyone else was when we finally served the meal to our friends, family and the hired pickers who had helped bring in our first harvest of the season.
We spread the meal out on long sturdy tables in mom’s front yard, everyone taking a seat around the yard to chow down on the fabulous Italian delicacies, enjoying not only the food, but the wine and each other. Laughter rose up from the crowd and for a brief moment, I allowed myself to simply enjoy the ambiance.
We’d be picking and pressing on and off for the next couple of months, but the first full day of harvest was the most important. It gave Federico a good idea of how good the harvest would be, and according to how heavy the trees were with fruit, we would have a bumper crop this year.
My only hope was that Spia’s Olive Press would re-open long enough to reap the rewards, but from the looks of those damn turkey vultures still circling overhead, that hope didn’t seem like a viable assumption.
Braciole Di Manzo Al Ragu – Level Two
8 thin slices of beef (top round steak, about 2 oz. each)
1/2 cup Italian Blend or other robust EVOO
3 large cloves of garlic crushed and minced
1/2 cup finely chopped Italian parsley
1/2 cup grated Pecorino cheese from Sardinia or Sicily
1/2 cup pitted and chopped Kalamata or Picholine olives