Happy Birthday Mac!

Happy birthday to the best brother a girl could ask for!

Back when my brother was too fat to crawl.

Mac is 22 today. And at 22 he's already done way more than I have at 24. For example, last night we were FaceTiming and I asked him how school was going. His response? "Great. This morning I cracked open this guy's spine with a chisel to see his spinal chords."
What did you do today?

Not only is the kid smarter than I am, he's funnier, nicer, and all around cooler than I'll ever be. A little brother a girl can really look up to.

Hope you had a wonderful day, Mac. I love you!

A Tribute

My grandfather died in June.

I sat here for about 20 minutes trying to think of some clever and pretty way to segue into that, cushion the blow for you a little bit, but there really isn't one. And anyways, that's not what my grandfather was like. Straight to the point, sometimes harshly so, but always polite, always honest. I like to think that I have a little bit of that in me.

There wasn't any one particular cause of death. He got pneumonia from a complication with a surgery at Christmastime and never really recovered. It's harder to bounce back from something like that at 90 years old. He lived on his own up until then, completely independent and doin' his thang. But after the surgery and the pneumonia, that was no longer an option and he spent the last 6 months of his life he was in a nursing home. He hated it. He was confused most of the time and asked to go home constantly. I regret not being there when he passed away, but the rest of my family was there and they all said that he was peaceful. He was ready.

What a cool dude.

About ten years ago, my grandmother passed away. She had Parkinson's Disease (a disease so horrifying and debilitating that I would not wish it on my worst enemy) and eventually required more care than my grandfather could give her, so she spent the last year of her life in a nursing home. My grandfather got up every morning, ate breakfast and went to the nursing home. He sat with my grandmother all day and kept her company. As her disease progressed and robbed her of her speech, he sat there in silence with her and held her hand. Every single day.

My grandparents on their wedding day.

The last time I saw my grandfather was in May, almost a month to the day before he died. He was fairly lucid that day, and was so excited that I was there. He put his hands on my face and said, "Domenica! Look at you!" And then he hummed a little song. Before I left I told him I would be back in July and he squeezed both of my hands in his. "July," he said with a smile. "We'll set off some fireworks then."

Somewhere deep inside me, although I desperately did not want to believe it, I knew that I would not see him in July. I knew that although there would be fireworks, he would not be there to watch them with me. I turned back to wave goodbye to him before I left his room. With a startle I realized that there was no one else there with him. He was alone. And all I could think of was my grandmother so many years earlier. He was there to hold her hand, right til the end, but who was there to hold his? That walk, from his room to the elevator, felt like the longest 10 yards of my life.

Poppa in uniform

I got the phone call the day after my birthday. June 16th. My mom called me at work and told me, voice trembling, that the priest had just left Poppa's bedside. That it would not be long. I probably should have gone home, but what would I have done there? Made myself sick worrying and feeling guilty that I was in Boston. So I stayed at work to keep myself busy. Later, on my way home, I spoke with my dad and he told me that Poppa was gone.

Now I know where I get my good looks and style from!

I went home immediately, of course. We went through boxes of old photos (which is where all of these amazing pictures came from!) and shared our stories, our memories. I put together three boards worth of photos. I did it by myself. It was quiet time that I spent alone with him, at least that's how it felt, and it allowed me to wrap my head around what had happened. His funeral mass was beautiful, and later, at the cemetery, he had a full military honor. As they opened his flag the sun came out from behind a cloud and lit the scene. It was one of the most beautiful and moving things I've ever seen in my life.

My grandfather was cremated, according to his wishes, and laid to rest directly above my grandmother's casket. Now we can all smile and laugh when we say that Poppa will be on top of Nanny for all of eternity, just like they would have wanted it.

When it was over, there were no more tears. I felt, in all honesty, a sense of relief. A sense of peace. My grandfather was a very religious man. He went to church every single day for (almost) his entire life. And while I might struggle sometimes with religion, I do believe in God. And as we left the cemetery I knew that he was at peace. He is in heaven. He is with my grandmother, with his parents and his brothers. He is with God.

So now, now that the sad times are over, I can look back at these old photos of Cosmo, my grandfather, and hold my memories of him close to my heart. I remember the way he laughed with no sound coming out. He loved coffee, we joked that we should put his ashes in a Folgers can, and used to eat his cereal in a bowl of coffee rather than milk. I remember him sitting at the end of my parent's dining table, a fork full of spaghetti in one hand and a huge chunk of bread in the other. How big his hands were, like bear paws. How he made me soup every single day for lunch because that's all I would eat at age four.

I think the phrase "Still waters run deep" was created about men like my Poppa. He was not an outwardly showy man, but the depth of his passion and love for his wife, his family, for life, was unmistakeable. I have never seen someone who loved so completely or so profoundly. He never needed to say it or flash it around, because you always knew it was there. It radiated out from him in waves. I have struggled with this, being able to verbalize and demonstrate my feelings. It's not until recently that I've realized you don't always have to. I'm so proud that I get that from him.

My grandparents again

Dancing to "Sexy Back" at my cousin's wedding last summer

Working the bar at my family's restaurant, The Oaks Inn, 1950's

I know this post has been very long and, in some parts, very sad. But I wanted to share it. My grandfather was an amazing man. Intelligent and funny and brave. He gave every part of himself for the people he loved. I hope that I can have a life half as full and rich as his. What an amazing example he has set for all of us.

Just the two of us, circa 1987

Ti voglio bene, Poppa. Rest in peace.

A Little Jaunt to Littly Italy

I had a doctor's appointment the other day. Doctor's appointments aren't normally that fun. Except when your doctor's office is on Hanover Street in the North End and you get to hang out with little old Italians in the waiting room.

My conversation with the receptionist went a little something like this:

Me: I have an appointment with at 11 am with Doctor ****.
Receptionist: *Looks at the computer and then eyes me suspiciously* What's you name?
Me: Domenica
Receptionist: You have a very old name. Very old. Where you get a name like that?
Me: *Tells the whole story*
Receptionist: I see you name on the schedule and I expect an old woman, not a young lady. We have two other patients with that name - one is 87, the other? 94. Old maids.

Wonderful.

My appointment was just a quick check-up, so I had a little bit of time to walk around and get some lunch. I love the North End. It's probably over stating the point to say that it's one of my favorite places on earth, but it's true. I love it. When I was walking around, I noticed that everyone I passed on the sidewalk nodded at me. Perhaps it was Italian men being, well, Italian men. But I like to think that they recognize me as part of their unique cultural tribe. A kindred spirit in our shared ancestry.

For lunch I got a sandwich from a little shop on a side street. Prosciutto, fresh mozzarella, tomatoes, and basil on ciabatta. All drizzled with extra virgin olive oil. I ate half for lunch and saved the other half for dinner.

It reminded me of a sandwich I used to get for lunch Perugia every other day from a place on via dei Priori called Parma. I have dreams about those sandwiches.

And I want to go back.
So I'm going to.

I've decided that before this year is out, I am going to make it back to Italy. Back to Perugia. And to Anagni. City of Popes and home to my family. I need to find some birth certificates after all...
:)

Mom's Eggplant Parmesan

As I promised yesterday, here's the word on my mom's eggplant parm. DELICIOUS. Like it's actually ridiculous how good it is. I think she might be sneaking drugs into the bread crumbs and now I'm addicted. It's that good.

Start with with 3 large eggplants, peeled and sliced thin. Dip them first into an egg batter and then a bread crumb mixture (with secret ingredients and said drugs), and fry them in garlic infused olive oil.



Is your mouth watering yet?

Layer the fried eggplant in a 13x9 pan. Start with mom's homemade sauce, a layer of eggplant, more sauce, mozzarella, then more eggplant.


Top off with sauce and lots of mozzarella and back for about 40 minutes in a 350 degree oven.

I meant to take a picture of a slice of the parm, but everyone (including myself) ate it before I got the chance. YUMMO!

An Italian Christmas Feast

I am an Italian American. Not the Jersey Shore, obnoxious guido kind. But a real Italian American. Once who knows exactly where her grandparents are from in Italy, who can speak the language, and whose family still celebrates all of the Italian traditions my grandparents and their grandparents grew up with.

I am proud of my heritage and proud of my family.

One of our biggest traditions is Christmas Eve. A lot of people have a low-key Christmas Eve. Maybe they watch a movie and have a quiet dinner with their immediate family. That's great, but that's not how my family does things.

In Italian culture, Christmas Eve - La Vigilia di Natale - is a bigger deal, more important, than Christmas day. We don't eat any meat on Christmas Eve, because it's a day of penitence, so instead we have a feast of seven different types of fish. Shrimp, scallops, cod, smelt (my grandfather's choice!), tuna, calamari, and tilapia. The first four are fried, the tuna is made into a sauce for fettuccini, the calamari is stuffed with bread crumbs and cheese and cooked in a red wine sauce, and tilapia is baked with butter, lemon, white wine and garlic. We also have homemade polenta and eggplant parmesan (more on that later!). We're up by 8am and frying fish by 9. Everyone helps. Take a look:


Grandpa just oversees everything. And yes, that is my dad's homemade wine in the background.

When everything is cooked, we all shower and get ready for mass at 4. Traditionally you'd go to midnight mass, but when my cousins and I were all little, it was much easier for our parents to go to the earlier mass and it just kind of stuck. Then back to my parents' house to eat and drink and drink and eat. Everyone is dressed to the nines and family photos are taken in front of the Christmas tree. After dinner we change into our Christmas jammies and play games.

And yes, even though I am 23 years old, my dad still reads me The Polar Express before I go to bed.

Then it's up in the morning for presents, and over to my Aunt Tara and Uncle Cataldo's house for the feast round 2. YUM!

Buon Natale, everyone. :)

Torrone

Hi folks. I'd like to talk to you about torrone.

What is torrone (yes, you pronounce it toh-ROH-nay), you ask? Well, well, well, aren't you in for a treat!

Torrone is an Italian nougat candy that is traditionally eaten around Christmastime. I love the stuff, can't get enough. But my dad, ohhh my dad LOVES it. We've tried torrone from different bakeries all over the place. But the best, the very best torrone I've ever had, and I mean this with all my heart, comes from Boston's own Modern Pastry.

If you're thinking of the stale, orange flavored candies that come in the little colored boxes, then think again. Because this stuff is the real deal. Chewy, crunchy with the almonds, slightly sweet. And the dipped chocolate cappuccino or the dark chocolate espresso - oh. my. god.

Every year before I head home for Christmas, I have to go to the North End and stop at Modern to get torrone to bring home for my dad. This year he asked me to get 3 dozen. Now they come in bars the size of a king-size Snickers, maybe a little bigger. It ended up weighing almost 13 lbs. THIRTEEN POUNDS of candy. In other words, $187 worth. Of candy. I'll let you visualize that.

But boy oh boy, was it worth the hassle. Mmmmm, buonissimo!

Homemade Christmas Ornaments

Remember when you were a little kid and you used to make ornaments for your mom? The kind you rolled out and used cookie cutters for, and then decorated them with glue and glitter once they'd been baked?

I made some.

No, I'm not cheap. And yes, I love giving homemade gifts. But the real reason I made them is because my mom called me sobbing one night because their Christmas tree fell over. A lot of ornaments broke, but the ones that she was most upset about - the ones that made her cry - were the ornaments my brother and I made for her when we were little kids. So obviously I had to make some replacements.

I used this recipe from McCormick.com and stained my hands red and green for about 3 days.

I didn't have cookie cutters (I know, ridiculous), so I had to find another way to shape the ornaments. Guess who traced patterns off her laptop, cut them all out, traced said templates onto the rolled out dough, and cut each individual ornament out with a parring knife? Oh yeah.


But look how great they turned out!



Now shhhh.. don't tell my mom!

Oaks Inn

Did I ever tell you that my family owns a restaurant?

My great grandparents, my father's grandparents, Paolo and Teresa, came over from Italy in the early 1920's. My great-grandfather worked for a time at the Endicott Johnson Shoe Factory. My dad told me once that he was a healer. That he had a gift for helping people, for fixing them. People used to go to see him instead of going to the doctor's. Maybe that's where my brother gets it from. My great-grandmother was a housewife, I suppose. But with 8 kids, they needed to make a living somehow. And so in 1932 they opened Oaks Inn.

Yes, I realize the Italian on the menu doesn't really make any sense. To be honest, I don't think I've opened the menu since I was about 10 years old. The quote should read, "Un giorno senza vino e` come un giorno senza il sole." Don't worry, it's being updated.

Over the years, everyone on my dad's side of the family has worked there. My parents have old photos of them all. I'll have to get copies and upload them sometime. My dad even lived in the apartment above the restaurant when he was a little boy, before my grandparents bought their house. Today my father's cousins own the restaurant.

Someday, when I am rich, I am going to buy the restaurant from my cousins. It needs to be redecorated, reorganized, updated a little bit and brought back in time to its glory days. My brother said he'd help me. I won't touch the menu. Add to it a little bit perhaps, but the menu hasn't changed in years. But why should it? It's fantastic. I've literally gotten the exact same meal every time I've gone there since I was 10 years old.

Chicken Saltimbocca.
I mean, seriously?

My dad's favorite, Lemon Veal.


Homemade spaghetti and gnocchi.

I die.

All Dogs Go To Heaven

On Christmas Eve when I was 7 years old, I lay in my bed listening to the strangest sound. A high-pitched whining. Over and over. Since my aunt and uncle were in town with my new baby cousin, I was convinced they came back from the hotel and were staying at our house. The sound I was hearing was probably the baby crying. I almost got up so many times that night to walk down the hall to see for sure what the noise was. The only thing that kept me in my bed was that childhood belief that I would break the magic spell that allowed Santa to come.

The sound I heard ended up being the best Christmas present I've ever received. My puppy. He was in a crate that was covered in a Christmas table cloth and a bow. As we walked into the living room, the crate started shaking and whining. After my brother and I calmed down, my mom opened the crate and let him out. He walked out, sniffed a little bit, and climbed right into my lap where he stayed for the rest of the morning. He was so tiny. A little ball of fluff with the most adorable face I've ever seen. Like a little ewok. We named him Sambucca ('cause he's a licker.. get it?!), Sammy for short. And I've loved him unconditionally every day since that Christmas morning.

Yesterday morning I got a phone call from my mom.
Definitely not a phone call that I ever wanted to get.

Sam died on Sunday night. He was 16 years old. He can't really see that well anymore, or hear, but he's healthy. I was hoping that my mom was going to tell me he passed away in his sleep, but unfortunately that was not the case. He fell into my parents' pool. My dad found him there.

And then my heart broke.

I am trying not to let my thoughts wander, because when they do they go to a place where I can't let myself go. Like how long was in the water before... How hard did he try... How scared he must have been... I just can't. My sweet little dog. He didn't deserve to go like that.

I don't know what was worse - hearing what happened, or my parents voices as they broke the news to me. That is something I will never forget. My dad crying because he knew that he not only let Sammy down, but me down as well. I don't blame him, of course I don't. It was a terrible, tragic accident. But I know he feels guilty nonetheless.

I do, too.

So Sammy, I am sorry. From the bottom of my heart. You deserved so much better than that. I loved you so, so much. You were the best dog I ever could have asked for. A good dog, a wonderful dog, who didn't ask anything except for cuddles and a treat at exactly 9pm sharp every evening. And I was more than happy to give that to you. I always wished I could have brought you to Boston with me, but I know you wouldn't have liked the move. Please know that I've missed you every day the last five and half years that I've been up here. I know that your last moments were probably terrifying and confusing, but I hope that now you are not afraid anymore.

Rest in peace my little Blamface.
I love you.

Happy Birthday Mama!

Today I am wishing a very, very happy birthday to my beautiful, funny, wonderful, amazing, superwoman of a mother. Happy birthday, Mom! I love you very much. :)

Fratellino

I have one brother. His name is Mac. He is easily one of my favorite people in the entire world. So smart and so funny and so kind. Even when I wanted to kill him growing up (and there were certainly times), he was still the best. Still is.

And now my little brother is a grown up, taking the MCATs and apply to med school.

When did this happen?

(And does that mean that I'm a grown up, too?)

Growing up Mac didn't read. Don't get me wrong, he could read. He just chose not to. I was always the studious one, the smart one. The nerd who read books at my little brother's baseball games. I used to tease him that maybe he didn't know how to read. Mac just never seemed to care about school that much. Even so, he still got decent grades. Without even really trying (or so it seemed) he made the honor roll and got great report cards. I guess he was just one of those kids, you know?

Then he got to college and discovered that he has a learning disability. He started taking his medicine and now has, as a bio-chem major with a minor in psychology, a 4.0 GPA. And he's taking his MCATs and applying to med school.

It makes me think back on all those times growing up when I teased him about not knowing how to read. He obviously knew how, but... But what if he wanted to read, and he just couldn't? Literally could not physically sit down and process the information in front of him. And I teased him about that. Obviously I had no way of knowing, but still. Imagine that frustration. Now he reads even more than I do. And, thinking back on his grades growing up, and how he never seemed to try or care - I can't help but wonder if the whole not caring thing was some kind of cover up to hide how hard he was trying and not getting the results he wanted.

Or, and this really wouldn't surprise me at all, maybe he's fooling us all. Maybe he really didn't care, really didn't try growing up, got to college and was like, "Ha! You bitches don't even know what you're in for because now I'm actually going to apply myself." I secretly think there's a little bit of that in there too.

Either way, he emailed me the personal statement he wrote for his med school applications. He wanted me to take a look at it, edit it, give him my suggestions. Because while I'm not going to cure cancer like he's going to, by God, I can write a damn good essay. So I thought sure, I'll revamp it and make it totally amazing. And then I read it. He talked about the human condition, about our little cousin, about his friend Dan, about how the experiences he's had in his life have shaped the way he feels about medicine and have inspired him to help improve the lives of people who can't help themselves. My words not his. I didn't make that many changes. Suggestions here and there, grammar issues, threw in some big fancy SAT words. But the ideas were there and they were all his. And reading his essay today made me feel even more proud to be his sister.

So, that's all. No moral to this story. Just wanted to say that I've got a pretty amazing fratellino. One that I'm ridiculously proud of. In bocca al lupo, Mac.

Happy Father's Day!

Happy Father's Day to the best dad I know.


Thank you for for the laughs, the rides, the lunch money, for always being there for me, for everything. I love you very much!

Home for the Weekend

Hello! I just got back from a long weekend at home. It was kind of uneventful, and unfortunately my brother wasn't at home, but it was still nice to spend some time with my parents. I was hoping my mom and I would be able to cook together (we kind of did) and that I'd be able to get some pictures of my dad making wine, but it will have to wait until next time. Here's what I did get to do while I was home:

• Joey's Northside Pizzeria My Aunt Tara and some very good family friends of ours recently bought a pizzeria on the northside of Endicott! They've only been open about a week and a half, but they're off to a great start. They make fantastic Italian-style brick oven pizzas, traditional Italian pasta dishes, and awesome panini and subs. When I went I had the eggplant parmesan and it was buonissimo. The portion was so big, I ended up eating the other half for lunch the next day!
• Drunk Scrabble Alright, so we weren't drunk, but we were at a bar. One of my best friend's Ryan used to work at neighborhood restaurant/bar in high school and college and whenever I'm home I usually meet him and some other friends there for a few drinks. This time around we played electronic Scrabble on his iTouch and had some Jameson & Gingers. Great night!
• Bridal Shower! Guess what -- my cousin Carley is getting married in April! She's the first of my girl cousin's to get hitched and I'm super excited for her and her fiancee, Paul. Her bridal shower was at the Endicott Visitor's Center and the room and tables were ADORABLE. My Aunt went and bought all of these antique luncheon plates and and borrowed vintage tea pots and tea cups for every table. The food was fantastic and Carley got some great gifts. I can't wait for her wedding!
  
  
• Stuffed Peppers My mom and I made a huge batch of her famous stuffed peppers for my cousin's bridal shower. They're so easy to make and totally delicious.
• Shopping! So Carley is getting married in April, and her brother, my cousin Kip, is getting married in July. With so many weddings coming up I need to get some pretty dresses to wear. In my family, we wear one dress to the ceremony and then change into a fancier, and more fun, dress for the reception. I bought the cutest dress for Carley's ceremony -- it's coral colored, fitted with a high neckline and a matching belt. And I love the dress I bought for her reception. It has an empire waist. The bottom portion is fitted black satin, and the top is cream colored taffeta with one shoulder that has an architectural element on it. Can't wait to wear it! I'll take pictures, I promise.

So that was my weekend in a nutshell. I was seriously bummed that I missed Harpoon Fest. Again. Seriously, how does someone live in Boston for 5 years and not make it to a single Harpoon Fest?? I'm awful. But I digress. I did have a nice weekend, but now it's back to the grind! Only 58 days until graduation. Ahhhh!!