Channeling Maria Pellicione

It’s been two weeks since we have returned from Italy and I am fully recuperated; for certain! I had made the mistake of believing that after day four and then promptly hit the wall. During my return to "normal," I’ve been cooking Italian meals from scratch, sorting through all of the pictures and processing the question everyone has asked, “What was your favorite part of the trip?” There were some especially delightful places and things I’d consider “highlights” of course, but for me it was more about remembering moments with my late grandmother and a experiencing a connectivity to a country and its culture. I am after all, half Italian.

My grandma was a petite Italian woman who never met a soul with whom she couldn't have a pleasant conversation.  She even considered Ralph, the guy who sold her a brand new 1966 Corvair as a friend. I suspect that's how he glad-handed her into buying such a sassy car! Her house had its own distinct scent of oregano, garlic and Jean Nate cologne. Her term of endearment for me was "poco chiacchierona" (little chatterbox) and when she gave me a directive, it was usually followed by "capisce?" (Do you understand?).  My mother worked, so Grandma was my caregiver during the week. From as early as I can remember, we were a team and it seemed to me that she was always organized and had the right tools for the right occasions, including her faith.

We visited  funeral homes while she paid her respects to old friends. A devout Catholic, she carried her rosary beads in a zippered leather pouch....always. She taught me funeral home etiquette so at a tender age, I actually felt comfortable expressing my condolences. It seemed we were always popping in on the priests at the rectory to deliver a baked good which was shared over coffee. She liked to keep the priests on her good side, just in case I suppose!  Frequently in August she would randomly stop the car along a rural roadside because she instinctively knew where to find blackberry bushes. A berry basket lived in her trunk for such random adventures, along with a shovel, rubber boots, an umbrella and a collapsible lawn chair. And while she prepared buttered dittalini noodles with fresh Parmesan cheese, I'd turn raw tubular pasta into a noodle necklace.

She loved to visit. So I tagged along to see her numerous friends in the villages of Acosta, Gray and Jenners Township where they fed me pizzelle cookies and sugar coated almond candies. These were the homes of her immigrant friends, some living in former duplex style “company homes” that the mining company had once owned. Others in nearby single dwellings. A company store was once the lifeline of these villages. Here was what remained of what could be described as Somerset’s “Little Italy.” Cats lounging on porch railings. Windows wide open and laundry hanging on lines. Small dogs were treated as well as the guests. Soups and sauces simmering on the stove. They spoke very fast Italian. Conversations were in raised voices, alternating between  staccato and legato with hands conducting and punctuating emotions, because a true Italian can not speak without using her hands. They were "la famiglia," not bound by blood, but culture, circumstances, and life experiences. They had nursed each others' babies if one of them fell ill. They had supported each other through the loss of children and protected one another from the hands of abusive husbands. I had been privy to the tail end of era now gone and I didn't understand it at that tender age. But the memories are strong and I can still smell the anise that permeated these modest homes.


So something felt welcoming and comfortable as I wandered through the colorful streets of small villages our first few days into the journey. How simply and intimately the Italians live. Windows and doors without screens are open to the world. Laundry is literally aired off of balconies and across alley ways, dotting the grey stone facades with bursts of color. In villages, children race through the piazzas while old men engage in heated banter on benches. Dogs are well behaved and welcome almost anywhere. Cats sit on ledges observing life around them. The aroma of Italian cooking wafting through the streets mingled with conversations through open doorways and windows. The emotion of fast talking Italians flailing their hands. At one point Dick even stated out loud that I seemed to “fit in” and I understood what he meant: simpatico! It isn't so much that I look Italian, but the innate way I express emotion and use my hands when I talk.  And although my Italian was anything but fluent, the few words I managed to speak seemed to flow with the proper annunciation.

My grandmother's influence struck me.  I had flown nine hours across the Atlantic. The architecture and terrain were foreign and sometimes even medieval, yet there was something familiar to me. Sometimes it was a smell that stirred a memory or a familiar phrase of Italian, but the sights, sounds and aromas of my childhood were all around me. I loved hearing the Italian language spoken the way I had heard it so frequently back then. And the simplicity with which the Italians live brought to mind how simply she lived. She could make magic with noodles, an event of a drive on a rural road, or a night on her couch a "teachable moment." Through my grandmother's eyes I saw myself. And though now gone for the better part of my life, she is my touchstone. The source of my passion, my love of cooking, and the reason I yearn to visit again and again.