No. 24
I made a gametime decision and felt that I would refrain from dispensing financial literacy advice for this post since it fell on the day after Thanksgiving.
For those of us who live in the U.S. it is the day after Thanksgiving – one of my favorite holidays. People will be waking from their food comas, experiencing soreness from the family touch football or pickleball game, and apologizing for breaking the rule of no discussion of politics, sex, religion, or money. Odd thing is that most of the world’s problems involve one or more of these topics.
For me the holiday stirs reflections of a simpler time when families were larger, and homes were smaller. I grew up in Belleville, New Jersey. Belleville was a little Italy of sorts in that day. Generations of families crowded into row houses and duplexes. Mothers, aunts, and grandmothers preserved tomatoes, eggplants, and the other garden vegetables, while uncles, sons, and fathers crushed grapes to make the annual family wine. But American traditions lived on too. The most important football game played on Thanksgiving wasn’t on TV, it was the local Belleville v. Nutley game that kicked off at 11am—a community event.
In my house preparation for Thanksgiving started days in advance with the baking of pies and the making of raviolis. My grandmother and great aunt would labor tirelessly for hours each day making certain that no one would leave hungry.
Thanksgiving morning started with a pancake breakfast and then off to the football game; a ritual that I would follow from childhood until I played in the game myself. We would return to an antipasto of meats, cheeses, olives, and peppers designed to keep us away from the army of hands preparing not one, but two feasts.
Two tables would extend across the small kitchen acting as a barrier between those cooking the meal and the ravenous relatives. If you had a need to get to the other side of the tables you had to go upstairs to my grandmother’s flat, out the back door, down the back stairs, and in through the back door of our flat. When it came time to sit down for the meal half the family would make the trek to get to the other side. To this day I am still not sure how we fit between 12 to 16 people in that tiny space.
Every stove and oven top in the house was occupied. My grandmother controlled the operation like a symphony conductor. In the basement a turkey was cooking, along with all the typical American Thanksgiving staples – stuffing, yams, broccoli. (Yes, every real Italian American in my neighborhood had an extra kitchen in the basement for holidays and the fall canning of tomatoes and vegetables.) This kitchen was manned by mother and father. After all, my father was the only adult in the house who was born in America and had some knowledge of American traditions. Nothing is more American than candied yams with marshmallows and cranberry sauce from a can. And that’s the line we straddled—somewhere between Italian and striving to be “American.”
The first-floor kitchen was manned by my grandmother and her sister. Here they prepared the first course of ravioli, sausages, and short ribs cooked in gravy (aka tomato sauce). The ravioli were handmade pillows of seasoned ricotta cheese. Three would fill a plate, but my grandmother made about 12 per person. If there was no fresh pasta, it wasn’t a holiday. Homemade wine and loaves of Italian bread also graced the table. Every October we made wine in our basement and stored it in a cellar that my Uncle Vito created under the front stairs of our home.
Once this course was completed salad would be served as the American course was transported from the basement kitchen to the table, and we’d eat a second Thanksgiving feast.
All of this occurred over a cacophony of topics that ranged from the terrible economy and who was to blame, to the futility of American sports, the war in Vietnam, and the decline of good manners and the general appearance of the American people. Like Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries,” it was high drama and high volume. At some point at least one family member would storm off, only to be lured back to the table by pies, pastries, and nuts later in the evening. One year an argument ensued about drug use in America. At one point during the heated back and forth, my Great Uncle Tony leaned over to me and suggested that next Thanksgiving we “put some drugs in the stuffing.” Levity was a much-needed antidote to Thanksgiving debates.
There were no Black Friday sales. Friday was a day of rest for the adults, while we kids ventured into the street for touch football. Plays were designed in the palm of the quarterback’s hand, and we all bore the scars from running into a parked car or two —grass was rare in our town.
Today, about the only thing that remains constant is the Belleville v. Nutley game, which I haven’t attended since 1980. Thanksgiving now requires travel across the country for me. The meal is still ample and delicious, but the Italian traditions have been replaced by new American family traditions. Everyone participates in the meal preparation. The house is larger, our family smaller. The wine is purchased and frankly much better. The discussions are better supported by facts and less emotional, but the people making the arguments are still loud and proud.
I do miss those Friday touch football games in the street. There’s nothing so beautiful as someone diving for a catch and landing on the hood of a neighbor’s Buick.
I say all this not to ruminate in nostalgia, but to highlight that America is constantly evolving and the American Dream is still alive and well. New generations of immigrants flow through the same neighborhoods stradling cultures, encouraging their children to get and education, and improve their standard of living. It is our strength as a people. Our secret weapon. Believe.
I will return in two weeks with more of the typical advice. If there is a topic that you would like for me to research and write about, please email me, or drop your suggestion in the comments.
Angelo, if your current career doesn't work out, you should go to Hollywood and become a screenwriter. Wonderful imagery - - I could see the scenes vividly. I could also hear and smell the sounds and aromas as I went through the story. A great message for us too. Well done sir.
Angelo—loved this! Thank you for sharing some beautiful memories!