![]() ![]() No holiday was complete without home baking that started a full week before the holiday. The tables would be set and cleared 4 times before the turkey would arrive! And the turkey was usually accompanied by a roast and some lasagna or something (just in case somebody walked in who didn’t like turkey) and was followed by an assortment of fruits and nuts, pastries, cakes, pies, and of course homemade cookies. Now we Italians… we also had turkey and stuffing but only after we finished the antipasto, wedding soup, ravioli, meatballs, salad and whatever else mom thought might be appropriate for the particular holiday. Or rather, they only ate turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce. When it came to food, it always amazed me that my American friends or classmates ate turkey on Thanksgiving and Christmas. And instead of being able to climb on the back of the peddler’s truck a couple of times a week just to hitch a ride, most of my MED-E -GON friends had to be satisfied with going to the A&P or Shop Right. They never knew the pleasure of waking up every morning to find a hot, crisp loaf of Italian bread waiting fresh from the oven. Americans? They went to the stores for most of their food. People would wait for their call, their yell, their bell, or whatever individual distinctive sound. These were the many peddlers who plied the Italian neighbor hoods. They even had a man who sharpened knives and scissors who came right to their house, or at least, right outside their house. Just… well… we were sure ours was the better way.įor instance, my grandparents had a milk man, a bread man, a coal man, a fruit and vegetable man, a watermelon man and a fish man. And while the term was little more than our great grandparents inability to pronounce “Americans”, there was no animosity involved in that distinction, no prejudice and no hard feelings. Everybody else – Irish, German, Polish, Jewish – they were MED-E-GONS. ![]() Wonder bread was a commercial we watched on TV.įor me … as I am sure for most third-generation Italian-American children who grew up in the 70’s and 80’s, there was a definite distinction drawn between US and THEM. Me? My family? We ate sausage and meatball sandwiches on thick homemade bread, dripping with sauce. Americans were people who ate peanut butter and jelly on mushy white bread that came out of plastic packages. ![]() I had been born in America and had lived here all my life, but somehow it never occurred to me that just being a citizen of the United States meant I was an American. I was well into adulthood before I realized that I was an American. Spanish, Japanese, Chinese, Iranian, Porteguese… We all have a lot more in common than we have different. But I have friends who share deep similarities in their own cultures that may appreciate it as well. If you’re Italian, you’ll enjoy much of this. But I really wanted to re-write it as best I could from memory. I searched for it for hours yesterday and finally gave up tonight. I remember the piece so well because the writer described my youth. It brought back amazing memories, and I recalled a piece I read years ago, written by an anonymous writer, some Italian living somewhere in New Jersey. I swear, the old gallon milk bottle hanging on the water faucet was the same one my grandmother would make me fill eight times when I’d tag along with her and my grandfather on their “daily” visits to the cemetery. In fact, I probably wouldn’t have, had I not been driving by anyway. It’s been a few years since I’ve visited. I stopped at the cemetery the other day to water the flowers on my grandparents stone. ![]()
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