Don't Sing at the Table Read Free

more. (Full disclosure: in the basement below the kitchen was a “canning kitchen” with a stove in the laundry room typical of many Italian American homes.) In the official upstairs kitchen were two generous countertops with recessed lighting for prep and assembly. There was a deep stainless steel double sink framed by windows, a four-burner electric stove, and an oven set into the wall, surrounded by more cabinetry. Tucked into a corner was a small pink linoleum desk in an alcove with a pink phone hanging on the wall, the phone number printed on the circular dial: 588-5746. It had an extra-long spiral of pink cord so Viola could talk on the phone and cook at the same time.
    In the connecting breakfast nook sat a table built by my grandfather and two straight walnut benches, by a big window that overlooked the grounds. On the opposite wall stood a plate armoire, made by a carpenter friend of my grandfather’s. A series of plates depicting foxhunting scenes in the English countryside were centered carefully in the dish grooves.
    My Italian grandparents aspired to the British style, from the chintz teacups to the chocolate brown crossbeams set in beige stucco on the facade of the Tudor. For them, all things British meant aristocratic. Whenever Viola admired a well-turned-out gentleman, she said, “He was like a duke.” And when a woman did the same, “She was a queen.” The royal touch went one step further. Underneath the floor, at the foot of the dining room table (Viola’s seat), was a servant bell that, when pressed, dinged in the kitchen to summon the help. Usually, “the help” was a blood relative of the hostess.
    From this small kitchen, Viola produced gorgeous dinner parties. She served canapés and cocktails in the living room (aqua and gray decor) first. Viola made a mean Manhattan, and as kids, we’d fish out the maraschino cherries after the grown-ups went into the dining room to eat. The canapés were pure charcuterie, slender slices of Italian salami, juicy olives, fresh local scamorza (a locally made version of mozzarella, braided by hand) dusted with black pepper, served with small biscuits and fresh bread.
    The first course was always one of her hearty soups (Italian wedding soup with greens) followed by a salad, made with fresh greens tossed with a simple oil and vinegar dressing I cannot duplicate (I only know she never used black pepper, only salt, to season a salad). She went through phases where she’d come upon a new recipe and perfect the dish by repeating it over the course of a year’s worth of dinner parties. She went on a jag in the 1970s where she made oysters Rockefeller in actual seashells. This was a perfect dish to serve with a Fuzzy Navel, a fresh aperitif made with peach schnapps.
    The main course usually harkened back to meals prepared during her youth on the farm: creamy polenta with a robust tomato sauce tinged with cinnamon, savory meatballs and sausage with her handmade manicotti (filling and crêpes), or a Venetian fish brodetto in a marinara sauce that I crave to this day.
    For dessert, she made fruit pies from scratch, simple pound cakes and cookies from her sister-in-law Gus’s oeuvre (Italian sesame cookies, small chocolate cups, and ginger cookies we called “dunkers”). There was no fancy frosting or rosettes of whipped cream—she was as direct in her baking techniques as she was on the factory floor. She used the freshest and best ingredients, never a box mix or prefab dough. Her devotion to eating fresh was a lifelong commitment; we used to drive to a nearby farm early in the morning so she might have the freshest eggs for baking. The Miller Egg Ranch operated on the honor system; you took what you needed and left the exact change in a cup.
    Viola was a regular at Calandra’s in Nazareth, Pennsylvania, where they made fresh ricotta, mozzarella, and grated Romano cheese. When my dad decided to move his