Defining My Childhood
Food \fud\ n.
The shopping for, the preparation of, and the meal was an integral part of family life. It was never a chore, even for a kid to participate in the process. Yes, I even did the dishes and learned how to make pots sparkle with the promise of fresh Cream Puffs or a Bombe made from chestnuts and whipped cream.
I was very fortunate to grow up in a food honoring house with French and Italian immigrant grandparents. They, as well as my parents and my relatives, played a vital role in the foods I was exposed to.
For them, it was an stress free everyday event to prepare some antipasto, a cocktail, or an elaborate meal made from the catch of the day or yesterday's leftovers. Nothing went to waste and it was important for them to touch, smell, prep and honor what was going to be our meal. It was equally important to describe in great detail what part of the pig, fish, or bird it came from or the color of the soil from which it was picked.
No·no \nänō\ n. Nono to me, but Peter to others. An Italian gentleman with elegance and grace. See my grandfather.
I will never forget the trips to the butcher shop and into the meat locker, where only the “special” customers were allowed. Nono would discuss the exact cuts he was looking for. Within minutes, we would be off with our bag of whatever tickled his fancy, and I, a slice of bologna given to me by Charlie the butcher.
Next was the bakery, the fish market, and the corner news stand for a fresh box of De Nobili cigars. He loved those stinky things and said they kept the bugs away. Then, we went home. Ingredients came in their purest form. Learning how to clean a fish, pound veal into slivers of tenderness, and peel countless vegetables till not a speck of dirt showed, was almost as much fun as playing baseball. By the way, Nono loved baseball and took my sister and I to countless Mets home games, where he happily ate kraut covered hotdogs and Crackerjack. He taught me bread should always be presented crust side up, as it was “born” that way and should always be covered with a clean linen as a sign of respect. I honor that man and thank him for all that he taught me about the respect, prep and presentation of a meal. Food and food service was sacred ground and he imparted that to me at a very early age.
No·na \ˈnänə\ n. Or Louise, my French grandmother. She was another story. See: strong, determined, intelligent, welcoming.
Nona ran a boarding house on West 54th street, and most nights she single handedly cooked for 20 or more tenants. We would visit her in her brownstone in Manhattan and never quite knew what to expect when we arrived. Fifty pound bags of rice, potatoes, and cases of wine and seltzer lined the hallways. Sidebars were covered with linens, plates, and flatware. There sat a tiny kitchen with a four burner stove where the magic happened. My sister and I would run up and down the fire escape where she often kept supplies, fetching what she told us to. My grandmother later moved in with us to my parents house and that is where things really started to change for me. Many times, I would come home from school for lunch to see her standing at a sink filled with live eels or prepping a goose that a “cousin” of hers dropped off. Quite often, the door bell would ring and magically appearing was a band of “cousins” laden with bags full of stuff. Stuff meant bulbs of fennel, pigeon, pheasant, oysters, sweet breads, chestnuts, oranges, imported cheeses, wine (lots of wine) and Torrone- an Italian Nougat confection. Only the “cousins” could acquire these things. Most of the time, of course, there was no way of knowing they were coming.
Simply put, my grandmother knew everybody, all were family and family needs to be fed. My parents always graciously opened their doors and were wonderful hosts. Before Nona moved in with with my parents, weekends and summers were often spent at a cottage my parents had out on Long Island in the corner of a potato farm. I have great memories of my grandmother coming home with my father laughing hysterically as she wrestled live chickens in the back seat of the station wagon. Without going into the bloody detail, the image of a wider than tall, 80 something, hatchet wielding woman chasing chickens in the yard is forever one of my fondest. Needless to say, the Coca Vin was delicious!
Food Thoughts from Peter Pioppo
I could go on forever with stories of food, and the gathering, and prep but this is not about that. I feel very strongly about passing on recipes, techniques, and stories associated with food experiences. It's about sharing the love of food in its every form. Cooking and sharing it with friends and family is the ultimate goal, but the road that our food takes to get to our plate should be known and appreciated and honored.
