Act Normal

So why is a nice, used-to-be-a-Catholic girl drinking a double vodka martini at 3:00 in the afternoon?

I'll tell you why.

Because last Tuesday I got a call from the people who did my annual mammogram.  They said the result was "abnormal" and that they needed to do "some more images".  And maybe an ultrasound.  Oh, yeah, and maybe an MRI and/or biopsy.

What???

"Why?" I asked.  Which was a perfectly legitimate question, I thought.  And I asked it politely, even though my brain was going supernova at that minute and I couldn't breathe.  Let's see a show of hands out there of  you ladies who wouldn't have had the same reaction.

Naturally, they got all vague about it and referred me to my doctor, who was equally vague.  I couldn't figure out if my doctor was being vague because she figured I was basically a goner, or because she lists "running" as one of her hobbies on her online profile.  It's a tough call.

Also, naturally, they couldn't fit me in for the "more images" until this Tuesday.  So I've had a bad week.  But they did promise me that the radiologist would be right there to read the images and give me the good/bad news immediately, and that was something, at least.

What did I do for seven days?  Well, I prepared myself for the absolute worst case scenario, figuring that anything less would be a nice surprise.  And I decided who I was going to leave my Ferragamos to.

And I tried to act normal.  Like I even know what that is.

Today was D-Day, and zero hour was 2:00 this afternoon.  My husband, Anthony, said he would wait in the car.  I said, "Like hell, you will," but nicer.  Like a normal person would.  I think.

Let me tell you, without giving too much information, Round Two of a mammogram makes Round One look like a tarantella.  I'm saying.  If men had to have this test on their coglioni, they'd all be history.

Then they made me sit in a room to wait for the results, which was the longest ten minutes of my life.  Fortunately, there was a "People" magazine there so I could numb my mind.

Finally, the sweet lady who almost ripped my boobs away from the chest wall ("Stand back, just a little.  I don't want to catch your rib between the plates."), came in with the results.

"All clear."
 

The Ferragamos were still mine.

Anthony actually kissed me in public.  Then he suggested that we go out for some soup and a milkshake.  A real party animal, that Anthony.  I let him know that I preferred a stop at the liquor store.  Seven days is a long time.

Hence the vodka martini.  And tonight, we're going to feast on Melrose peppers.

Melrose Peppers

Melrose peppers are long, thin sweet peppers that got their name because Italian people in Melrose Park, IL used to grow them a lot and sell them at South Water Market in Chicago.  They had brought the seeds with them from Italy, though I haven't a clue what they call them there.

You can be legally declared brain-dead and still cook Melrose peppers.  You don't even have to trim them.  Just wash, throw them in a big roasting pan, sprinkle with some sliced garlic, rub with olive oil, and salt and pepper to taste.  Pour a little more olive oil over them, and then roast in a 350 degree oven for about an hour, until the peppers turn sort of brown.  I like mine real brown; Anthony likes his on the green-side.  Pull the stems off before eating.

Melrose peppers make great sandwiches and frittatas.

Melrose peppers are considered exotic delicacies in most of the civilized world, though the people in Melrose park would be surprised to hear this.  They can be green or red.  We always buy them green.  Melrose peppers are hard to find at the store, so buy mass quantities when you do.  After they're cooked you can freeze them and they'll stay good for three blessed, wonderful months.

Ordeal officially over, thank you St. Anthony.  Now I need to go wipe the lipstick off the vodka bottle, and get on with my life.

I'm not going to tell you who almost got the Ferragamos.

Good Advice

Snooki.  I am SO sorry, girl!

Now, before you go and put the malocchio on your rat bastard husband, talk to your mother.  If she's anything like my grandmother, she'll roll her eyes and give you some good advice.

My grandmother told me two things about men:

1. "Put 'em all in a paper bag, and reach in and get one."; and
2. "He can put his shoes by my bed anytime."

(The second is in reference to Luciano Pavarotti.)

The first, Snooki, means that men are not all that special.  You got one you like, great.  Does he bring home a check?  Bonus points.  Does he beat you?  No?  He's a keeper. 

And don't defend him.  He doesn't need defending, YOU need defending.  If you try to defend him you're just going to sound like Tammy Wynette.  Or Hillary Clinton and her "vast conspiracies", something that worried me a lot more than her emails.

Ashley Madison?  Better you should be biting your nails over the Republican presidential candidates.

My grandmother also taught me how to make baby artichokes.  These are better than men.

Stuffed Baby Artichokes

Look for little artichokes in the store.  They're hard to find.  You can make this recipe with big artichokes, too, but big artichokes are a pain-in-the-ass, so keep your eye out for the little ones.

Once you have your baby artichokes (depending on their size, you'll need 6-8), trim them.  You do this with a bread knife.  Cut the bottom stems so that they're flat with the rest of the bottom of the artichokes and then saw off about a half-inch straight across the tops.  If you want to get fancy, you can stick them in ice water while you prepared the stuffing.  This opens up the leaves a little.  Otherwise, just rinse the artichokes and set them aside.

Now make a stuffing.  Mix about 2 cups of breadcrumbs with some grated cheese (romano, parmesan, and/or pecorino), some Italian spices (oregano, basil, parsley, etc.), garlic salt, and black pepper.  If you run low, make some more.  The proportions don't really matter.  Mix it however it tastes good to you, but try not to overdo the basil.

Get a rectangular casserole dish and put about an inch of water in the bottom.  Take the little artichokes and spread out the leaves.  One at a time, sprinkle the stuffing over them (some of it will fall into the leaves) and put them in the casserole dish.  Cram as many into the dish as you can, and then drizzle with olive oil.  Cover the dish tightly with foil and bake in a 350 degree oven for an hour or so, until tender.

Serve with melted butter. 

If you don't know how to eat an artichoke, go on Google and find a tutorial  (I'm thinking YouTube).  And get ready for one of the best experiences of your life.

You can't get this from Ashley Madison.  Trust me.

Woulda. Shoulda. Coulda.

There are certain consequences that go along with being Italian.

Some consequences are good:

1. You've got great skin.  After the acne clears up.
2. If you've taken it easy on the cannoli, you have the ass of a goddess.
3. And if you're smart, you learned how to cook from your mother.  So no man in his right mind will ever leave your lasagna for some skinny blonde.

Some consequences are bad:

1. You are incapable of responding calmly to stressful situations.  Any stressful situation.  Just forget about it. 

This is genetic and not your fault.  In Italy, Italians drink wine to calm down.  In Italy, where we belong, you can have wine for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  In fact, it's encouraged, because it keeps the taxes down.  Emergency response teams are expensive.

Americans, though, tend to be fussy about day-drinking.  I think it's the whole car culture thing, which needs to go away for a lot of reasons, but probably won't.  Too bad.  Americans should remember the '80s and their three-martini lunches.  People were happy.  They thought they were happy because Ronald Reagan was president, but it was the martinis, believe me. 

Italian-Americans usually deal with wine-deprivation by consuming mass quantities of coffee, which only makes them more difficult.  Then they get a rep for being excitable, taking offense at every little thing, and having hair-trigger tempers.   I won't argue that, but what do you expect when you take away the wine?

I wish I'd had a gallon of the stuff the other day.

I'm Sicilian, so it's much worse.  People think of us as being silent, stony-faced types (2500 years of foreign occupation will do that to you), but - trust me - beneath that exterior, we're boiling.  In fact, I'd say the stonier we get, the more you've got to worry about.  As long as we're yelling, you're okay, but remember Al Pacino in "The Godfather"?  The way he got right before he smacked Diane Keaton?  She was pushing every button he had, while he just stared at her blankly.  Then, all of a suddenly, he started to shake, and wham! Mt. Etna, right in the face.  And that wasn't all acting, I'm telling you, given her performance.

I have this summer job as a "host" to visiting tourists and one of my "host" jobs is to get people to be nice and stand in line.  It's not easy.  As soon as you tell people to form a line they go brain dead. And act like you want them to walk over a cliff.  Well, the other day, I had finally gotten my line in order and talked down the psychotics, when this little boy in a wheel chair showed up with his family.  I took a few minutes to get them situated (he was a legitimate priority, am I right?) and when I got back, the line had disintegrated into a mob.

Led by an English guy, I think, by the accent.  Or maybe Australian, which is easier to make fun of.

So he started hollering at me about how I didn't explain things properly (it's a freaking line, you idiot, only two goddam dimensions for you to figure out).  And then some other tourists got in on it, acting like big unswaddled babies, and then the whole crowd started pushing like they were going to miss the last game of the World Cup Finals if they didn't start a stampede.

I had, like, two seconds to make a decision.  And my decision was to let the most hysterical morons go first.  Which, obviously, made everyone else unhappy (damn those little boys in wheelchairs), but probably saved their lives.  And mine.

I'm not proud of that decision.

I tried to stay calm.  I really did.   I might have looked calm, even though my brain was congealing like eggs in a frittata.  But I could feel the steam trying to escape through my ears.  And the crowd got real quiet.  Probably because they started noticing my resemblance to Al Pacino.

Later on, I got to thinking.  Woulda. Shoulda. Coulda.  Had my brain been functioning:

1. I woulda alternated between the normal line and the one with the gaguzz' headed up by Crocodile Dundee.  You go, they go, you go, they go.  Fair enough?  No.  But this was a lose-lose deal.
2. I shoulda smiled sweetly and said, "Let me call my manager."  Then he would have had to wait, and he still would've been last in line.  Fair enough?  Absolutely.
3. I coulda said, "Hey!  Man from Snowy River!  Get outta my face.  You don't like it, take it up with my boss.  Or you and me can settle it later, outside.  Your choice."  I like this option.  A lot.

Of course, a real Sicilian would have followed the guy back to his hotel and bribed a bellhop to put Super Glue in his shoes.

I shoulda.

Before I Cook More

I'm a little stressed out.

I'm frequently stressed out.  That's how I roll.  So what I should be saying is that I'm more stressed out than usual.

What do I do when I'm stressed?  I cook.  Don't judge. 

I've been cooking for two days.  And I might not be able to stop.  What's stressing me out?  This:

1. My father's sick, and it's not good;
2. My cousin's daughter just got dumped by her boyfriend after eight years.  Also not good.  Girls, listen to me, I know what I'm talking about:  If he's still a "boyfriend" after eight years, he's a dirtball.  Set a time limit, and stick to it;
3. I started a new job, and I'm trying to publish a book.  Neither of these activities is particularly hard, they just make me a little nervosa, you know what I mean?

So far, I've made:

1. Sausage;
2. Potato salad;
3. Refried beans;
4. Cranberry sauce;
5. Linguine marinara;
6. Nectarine/raspberry pie.

This sounds like more work than it was.  The sausage (chicken/spinach/feta) was store-bought, and delicious, I thought, though I'll probably never eat it again because my husband Anthony prefers the traditional heart-attack-on-a-plate variety.  The refried beans were from a can.  The cranberry sauce I'll give you at Thanksgiving.  (I have issues with making cranberry sauce at any other time of the year, but Anthony can't live without the stuff, so I make it with frozen berries.  It works.  Sort of.  But it's not the same.  Still, you gotta keep the old man happy.)

The potato salad was an experiment.  I just boiled some peeled and cut up yellow potatoes and tossed them with a chopped red bell pepper, some Greek yogurt, dill, parsley, salt and pepper.  Meh.  So I'm going to split the leftovers in two and add brown mustard to one, avocado and lemon juice to the other.  I'll let you know.

The linguine with marinara was perfect.  It always is.  Marinara recipe here.

The big surprise was the nectarine/raspberry pie.  It never really made it to a pie, because the stuff Anthony likes is the filling, and I prefer to save my calories for alcohol, so it stopped at being a compote.  I patched together a couple of different recipes:

Nectarine/Raspberry Stuff
Take four nectarines and cut them into pieces.  Don't bother to peel them, and I don't have to tell you to throw away the pits because you're not a gagootz, right?  Put a sauce pan on the stove and put in a half a cup of sugar, two tablespoons of flour and a pinch of salt.  Stir all of this together and then add 3 tablespoons of water.  Stir until it's a liquid.  Add the nectarines to the saucepan.  Stir again.  Then turn on the heat to medium-high and bring to a boil, stirring constantly.  When it boils, cook and stir for two minutes and then turn off the heat.  Add a package of raspberries (rinse them first).  Done.  Serve alone, with yogurt, or with ice cream.  So easy.  I prefer to save my patience for holidays.

My kitchen is the perfect place to hide out.  Why?  Because:

1. It's quiet.  My neighbor Ruthie complains that her husband doesn't talk to her.  Lucky girl.  Mine never shuts up;
2. It's small.  I like womb-like places.  Only one person can fit in my kitchen.  Two at the most.  Anthony's claustrophobic.  What's not to love?
3. There's wine in it.

Need I say more?

Ghost Story

My daughter, Nikki, works for an attorney.

The job's pretty good.  She gets a decent salary.  She goes downtown every day.  The work is sort of interesting and the attorney's not a bad guy.  The only pain-in-the-ass she has in her life is one of her co-workers.

We've all been there.  I don't have the heart to tell her that as soon as you get rid of one, another will just crop up in her place.  It's like they're ordered from the Batshit-Crazy Co-worker Factory, on special.

This particular piece-of-work eats off-season Peeps for breakfast, wears clothes that tell you where she's from in Indiana, whistles, talks about her three ex-husbands constantly, and mouths off to the boss.  Pretty standard issue.  On top of it all, she has a bizarre name.  I can't tell you what it is, for legal reasons, but I will tell you that:

1. It rhymes;
2. It's hilariously descriptive.

And it's not even her maiden name.  It's, like, the name of her second ex-husband.  She CHOSE to keep the name, which tells me that this woman may have some redeeming qualities after all.

One day Nikki was telling me a story about work.  A bunch of "the girls" were sitting around the lunchroom, talking about lasagna or something, when suddenly Miss Congeniality piped in with, "I don't believe in ghosts."(?)  She proceded to descibe a creepy event that happened back in her trailer park in Indiana that - she is sure - had nothing to do with ghosts.  Because, you know, only stupid people believe in ghosts.  And on and on, until everybody remembered they had some work to do.

So I said to Nikki, "Oh, yeah?  Did you tell her about The Veal Marsala from Beyond?"

She didn't, because that would have prolonged the agony.  But I defy anybody to tell me they don't believe in ghosts after hearing this story:

Once, about twenty years ago, I was sitting around the house, when my neighbor Ruthie called me.  "I need your veal marsala recipe."

"Hold on," I said and went to grab my favorite Italian cookbook.  Only my favorite Italian cookbook wasn't there.  "Let me call you back."

I turned the house upside down every-which-way-to-Tuesday.  No cookbook.  This is the out-of-print, published by Culinary Arts Institute of Chicago in 1954, best-marinara-recipe-ever, book that my father-in-law had given me.  A little pamphlet of a thing.  And the freaking motherlode of Italian recipes.

It was gone.

I looked everywhere.  I scoured the basement.  I called my brother-in-law and accused him of taking it.  I tried to find a used copy on the Internet.  No go.  Niente.  Zip.

Then, a few months later, I was visiting my grandfather, sitting in his kitchen.  Suddenly I flashed that I had given the book to my grandmother for the stufoli recipe a few months before she died.  Could it be?  I ran over to the bookshelf where she had kept her cookbooks, and searched.  And searched.  Looked at very single book.  Not there.

I went back to the kitchen.  I sat down again, and that's when I heard The Voice.  Right in my ear.  It was my grandmother's voice.  Like she was standing next to me.  And she said, "Go and look again, you idiot."

My grandmother was one of these legendary Sicilian nonnas that most people only know about from scary Mafia movies.  People like her rule their worlds with an iron hand and must be obeyed, even after they're having dinner with Elvis.  So I got up, went back to the bookshelf, picked up the first cookbook I saw, opened it, and...

...there it was.  My cookbook.  Stuck in between the pages.

I'm telling you, these women are so powerful they can - and will - reach across dimensions to make sure you get the veal marsala right.

Veal Marsala from Beyond

In a big skillet, one that you have a lid for, brown some garlic in about 1/4 cup of olive oil.  In a deep plate, put a cup of flour seasoned with salt and pepper.  Dip some veal cutlets in the flour and fry them in the oil.  In a bowl, mix:  1/4 cup of Marsala wine, 1/4 cup of water, chopped parsley, salt, and pepper.  Pour it over the veal and cover the skillet.  Cook on very low heat until the veal is tender, about 20 minutes.  Add a little more water if it gets too thick.

So there you go, Ms. Skanky Pants, bane of my daughter's professional existence.  Just because nobody's bothering to contact YOU from beyond (to make sure you get the purple Peeps), doesn't mean they're not out there.  It just means they don't want to talk to you.

I'm lucky.  I've got a ghost that not only knows how to cook Italian, but who also knows I'm an idiot.

More like an angel than a ghost.

St. Anthony's Day

I hope you had a nice St. Anthony's Day. 

St. Anthony is the Staccato household's patron saint.  The main reason is that my husband, Anthony, was born on St. Anthony's day, June 13th.  This is something that would be obvious to many Italians.  It's how my mother got to be named Udenzia, poor lady.  I managed to escape the cycle, because I was breach and my mother's first child, so she was in a state of shock and she was on a lot of drugs which they give you if you really raise hell (recommended).  So, while she was hallucinating, I was named Connie instead of Frances.  Okay with me.

I've noticed that it's not a hard-and-fast rule, though.  There aren't many guys out there named "Blessed Waldo", which is what you get if you're a New Year's baby and your father is really hungover.

The other reason that St. Anthony is our patron saint is that he's done us a few favors.  His superpower is finding things.  You want something found, you say:

St. Anthony, St. Anthony

Please look around.

Something's been lost

And cannot be found.

Then St. Anthony finds you what you were looking for.  I'm convinced that he's the reason my son Nino found a job in Boston, after narrowly escaping a job offer in Memphis, and if you've ever had a cannoli from Mike's in Boston, you know why St. Anthony is worthy of our devotion.

We celebrate June 13th.  A prayer of thanks to the good saint for rescuing me from a future of chicken fried steak.  And some birthday treats for my husband.  He got his usual calzone (recipe here), and I also made him a nice pesto out of my very own basil plants.  Lucky bastard.
  

Don't eat this if you're planning to kiss anyone but your own children.

Pesto

Toast about a half a cup of pine nuts in the oven.  Just a few minutes, and watch them, or they'll burn.  In a blender or a food processor put the pine nuts, 2 cups (packed) of fresh basil leaves, 2 cloves of raw garlic, a half a cup of grated Parmesan or Romano cheese, and a half a cup of olive oil.  Salt and pepper to taste.  Blend.

You can toss the pesto with pasta or use it for a pizza, but why?  All you need is some good Italian bread, some cheese, a sliced tomato, and some wine.  Maybe a little vintage Dino crooning on your stereo for ambience.

You've found the perfect summer dinner.  Thank you, St. Anthony.

 

The Grand Gesture

My husband, Anthony, is the master of - among a few other things - something we call in our house, "The Grand Gesture."

Here's an example of how The Grand Gesture works, with the English translation:

"Here, have the last meatball."  (Translation:  "I want to eat the last meatball, but I would feel like a total dick if I just scarfed it down without asking.  Though I thought about it.")

"Maybe..."

"Go ahead!"  (Translation:  "Shit!")  "Take it."  (Translation:  "Say no.")

"You don't want it?"

"You take it."  (Translation:  "Say no.")

"No, that's okay."

"Are you sure?"  (Translation:  "Your caboose is as wide as a barn, for chrissakes.  You don't need another meatball.")

"I'm sure."

"Go ahead and take it..."  (Translation:  "Please say no.")

And so on.  Until I swear on the madonna that I don't want the last meatball, after which he is free to scarf it down, guilt free.

Or is it?  Obviously, since I've lived with Anthony for over thirty years, I know he wants the last meatball.  He knows I know it.  But he's got to make the Grand Gesture, to keep up appearances.  Usually, I just say no at the get-go and have another glass of wine.

The term "Grand Gesture" was added to our household vocabulary by one of our roommates (back in the day before the kids), also an Italian.  Italians generally have a low tolerance for bullshit, but this one votes Republican, so go figure.

My kids act in opposite ways when faced with the last meatball and a Grand Gesture.  My son, Nino, will cave, but not without an eye-roll.  My daughter, Nikki, will heartlessly eat it.  So refreshing.

Just so you know what the fuss is about, here's a recipe for meatballs.  Everybody's got their own.  This one is from my father-in-law.  Updated by me.  We don't put them in the sauce.  I've got another recipe for doing that.  We just fry them and eat them "on the side".

Meatballs

Take a couple of pounds of ground meat.  I usually get a "meatloaf mix" of veal, beef, and pork.  Sometimes you can only find it beef/pork.  It's all good so don't worry about it.  Put the meat in a big bowl.  Add about a half a cup of grated cheese (Romano's good), 3 eggs, a half a cup of milk, a clove (or two) of crushed garlic, 2 teaspoons of beef bouillon, a teaspoon of salt, a half a teaspoon each of black pepper and dried basil, and some chopped parsley.  Not take six slices of bread, hold them under running water for a few seconds and then squeeze the water out of then (they get all pasty).  Put the bread in the bowl with the rest of the stuff and mix real good with your hands.  Form into balls and fry in olive oil.  My father-in-law liked to flatten them out a little, because he said they cook better.  You can also make meatloaf with this mixture.  Or burgers.  Or stuff a pepper with it.  Or mushrooms.  It's magic.

Just make sure you let your husband have the last one.

That way, you see, he owes you.