Cry, Laugh, Cook!: A Collection of Essays, Conversations, and Conte Family Recipes - Softcover

Conte, Yvonne F.

Softcover

ISBN 10: 145254588X ISBN 13: 9781452545882

Verlag: BalboaPress, 2012

Inhaltsangabe

A collection of essays, conversations, and Conte family recipes I wrote this book because I want my grandchildren to know that same kind of family strength and loyalty that I grew up with. We cried a little bit, we laughed a little bit, and then Daddy would get us in the kitchen and we'd cook!

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Cry, Laugh, Cook!

A collection of essays, conversations, and Conte family recipesBy Yvonne F. Conte

Balboa Press

Copyright © 2012 Yvonne F. Conte
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4525-4588-2

Contents

Foreword.................................................................................ixIntroduction.............................................................................xiAcknowledgments..........................................................................xiiiLa Famiglia (The Family).................................................................3Travel: Four Stories Straight from the Road..............................................29Learning and Laughter: Fifteen Essays to Help You Live a Life of Joy.....................36PART TWO: THE CONVERSATIONS..............................................................65PART THREE: BENVENUTI ALLA MIA CUCINA!...................................................115Invitation...............................................................................159About the Author.........................................................................161

Chapter One

La Famiglia (The Family)

412 Ashland Avenue

Freshly picked tomatoes magically became sauce on the stove. Billows of steam escaped from pots as men smoked cigars and laughed loudly. Various sizes of children ran through the old house and women talked about the weather. One small black and white television called out the score. Someone retrieved a pan of golden crisp chicken, carrots, and potatoes from the oven and bottles of deep red homemade wine found their way to the linen covered table. Gramma Conte's kitchen was filled with luscious sounds and aromas and always with so many people. Every one of us dressed in our best clothes. This was Sunday.

Children had to sit in the kitchen at Gramma's breakfast nook. We loved it because it was like sitting at a restaurant—four or five of us on each side all squished in together, every one of us giggling, Each with our own mopine tied around our neck. (a part of an old tablecloth or bedsheet that Gramma had stitched along the ends so it wouldn't tear, used as a napkin). Our little faces waited to be stained with tomato sauce. But we couldn't wait to finish eating and go back to the yard to play.

We could see Grampa out in the garden in his signature fedora and three-piece suit and tie. Bent over with his head buried in the greenery, he picked tender lettuce and radishes, crisp cucumbers and onions, and only the best plum tomatoes for our salad. A stick stood firmly in the ground with long strips of cord holding pie tins as hands that would hit each other, causing a ruckus and scaring the crows away.

Nothing was ever wrong at that house. Everyone was happy. There was always enough food and enough room for everyone. The uncles told jokes and everyone laughed. Most of us kids didn't know why everyone else was laughing. We laughed anyway.

Gramma always said ca bella, which I guess meant that we were beautiful in her eyes anyway. She was a real Gramma with an apron and glasses and a head full of gray hair and bobby pins that seemed to be there for no real reason at all. She had black shoes that laced up the front and thick stockings that went up to just above her knees. She was always either at the stove or the sink, it seemed. When one of my uncles would stick a piece of fresh bread in the sauce or steal a perfectly shaped meatball, she would hit him on the arm. He would laugh and she would say something in Italian as he left the room with his mouth full. Then a moment later she would call to one of my aunts and say, "Taste this!" as she handed over a spoonful of sauce. I could never understand that, and I remember how funny I thought it was.

Fresh garlic and parsley from the garden hung above the sink, and bowls of tomatoes and green peppers sat like photographs on the counter. I would give anything to go back to that kitchen once more and enjoy the sounds, tastes, and aromas of 412 Ashland Avenue.

First Kiss

We laughed and squealed loudly, running out of their reach as the boys chased and teased us. The spacious four-acre yard with a swing set conveniently nestled behind the three-car garage provided us with wonderful privacy as we played in the summer sun. I jumped up onto the swing set and began to walk across the bar, hand over hand, to the middle. Scott began at the opposite end and when our little faces met in the middle he kissed me! I screamed and he screamed and we jumped down off the bar and ran. We both were guilty of wiping the kiss off of our lips and making nauseous sounds. Then we all went back to the swing set to do it over again, but this time we were joined by my sister Donnarae and Scott's brother Larry. We made a game of it, lining up at one end and then the other and meeting in the middle for a kiss followed by screams, giggles, and endless running. Larry kissed Donna and Scott kissed me. It wasn't anything like I thought it would be. I had the idea that kissing a boy would somehow make me fall madly in love forever. Truthfully, I didn't feel a thing, and besides, his face was hot and sweaty and he smelled gross.

The Family

This week I worked in Wichita, Kansas. My cousin Vinny lives there with his wife Teresa and son Andrew. Because I was in town, Vinny's dad and sister, Jimmy and Stacey, drove five hours up from Texas just to see me. It didn't matter that Jimmy recently had a hip operation or that Stacey had to take time off from work to be there. They came because we're family.

We spent most of the seventy-two hours of my visit laughing and reminiscing about the old days. We have many beautiful memories of our childhood growing up in Upstate New York surrounded by a cast of characters we called The Family. Our grandfather could be found seated at his desk in the dining room with a drink in one hand and a deck of cards in the other. Dressed in a suit and tie, his shoes were shined and he never left the house without his fedora and his beautiful smile. Our grandmother was the boss of the family if truth be told. She pretty much ran the home and the family restaurant, and grandpa seemed perfectly fine with that arrangement. Her food was legendary. No matter how my poor mother tried, no one made stuffed peppers like Gramma Conte. Her home at 412 Ashland Avenue was a safe haven for all of us. It was there in the dining room that the family gathered for every birthday, anniversary, holiday, and especially for Sunday dinner. There was always enough room for everyone and the food was abundant. I never remember a cross word or a sad moment; only the sound of aunts and uncles telling stories and laughing, dishes clinking, and an army of cousins giggling around the kitchen nook.

My cousins were like sisters and brothers to me. We ran, jumped, climbed trees, and chased each other around the yard until we were hot and sweaty—all of us in our Sunday best: the boys in little suits and ties, hair neatly cut and slicked to perfection, and the girls in party dresses, lace trimmed socks, patent leather shoes, and sausage curls with ribbons. We caught lightning bugs in jars and marveled at how they flickered. We ate fresh purple grapes right off the vine, played tickle-fish and laughed until we couldn't breath. The bigger kids looked after the little kids and someone always fell and cried as their mom cleaned up the scrape and put on a Band-Aid. We never gave a thought to what a wonderful time we were fortunate to...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: BalboaPress
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2012
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 145254588X
• ISBN 13: 9781452545882
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 180
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: gpsr@libri.de; gpsr@libri.de; ; Friedensallee 273; Hamburg; 22763; Deutschland