TOMATOES - A LOVE AFFAIR

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I love tomatoes.  I love them as much as I love pasta, so obviously I wait with intense anticipation for the late summer months when this most wonderful of the locally grown fruits is available.  How do I survive the rest of the year when fresh tomatoes are not available?  The truth is, I am such a tomatoholic that a harsh winter tomato is better than no tomato, much to the dismay of my dear wife.

Thinking about it, I would have to say that the tomato has been the most prominent food in my life, even more than my beloved pasta.   The lovely Jersey tomato dominates the gastronomic history of my childhood.  There has never been one that matches the flavor and richness of a tomato freshly picked from my father’s garden.

By the time I started school my father had converted the farm from crops to poultry, but always, out of love and necessity, managed a large, abundant vegetable garden.   He cultivated lettuce, asparagus, arugula, corn, and a variety of peppers, but the queen of the garden was the tomato.  This was before the age of the hybrids, and those seeds are no longer readily available; sadly the tomatoes of my childhood are no more.  The plants were not staked or contained in the cages used today.  The vines, laden with their fruit lay on the sandy soil, a mass of green dotted with red.  The tomatoes were generally the size of a tennis ball, maybe a little larger, and sometimes smaller.  It is easy for me to remember the pure delight of slices of fresh tomato and mayonnaise between two slices of bread on any summer day.

Competing with the tomato sandwich for “the best way to enjoy a tomato” title was the tomato salad, so simple, yet absolutely heavenly.  Several tomatoes are cut into bite sized pieces and placed in a bowl with a bit of water and drizzled with olive oil.  Salt, oregano, basil, and chopped garlic are added and mixed in with the tomatoes.  Accompanying the salad should be several thick slices of good Italian bread to sop up all the wonderful juices.

My dad, years later, in his beloved garden when he and my mom lived on our farm in Maryland.

THE COFFEE MUG

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The coffee mug was a Christmas gift for my father, purchased in 1962 at a small pottery shop on south 10^th street, across from a side entrance to Jefferson Medical College.  I spotted the mug when Gene, my roommate during our second year at Jeff, and I stopped in to browse during mid-day break in our schedule.  Shopping for my dad more often than not meant a book or some wine related accessory, and this mug caught my eye; it would make the perfect gift to a man who drank as much coffee as he did.

Stoneware (fireware) mug made by Utestar in Austria

The truth is, I don’t remember how he responded to the gift, because of all that was happening in our lives at that time.  While I was up to my eyebrows with schoolwork, my father had the first of what would be a series of crippling heart attacks; so much of that period is a medical school dominated haze and the mug soon became distant history.  As the years passed by, the mug was proving itself to be indestructible, surviving frequent use and three household moves.  Eventually a cup and saucer replaced the mug as my father’s “go to” vessel for his daily coffee, and the mug was passed back to me.  Again, I don’t remember when this happened; I think I’ve been using it for at least 15 years, and maybe as long as 20 years.

The replacement

It has become important to me – a reminder of so many periods in my life, but more importantly, it provides an enduring and humble link to my father.  I have a lot of “stuff” in my possession, but very little that has survived over 50 years of constant use.

The lesson here?  I gotta improve my memory!

 

SPARTACO DIAGORA RENZULL I a.k.a. Dad

Dad...age 14

My father was born to Angelina and Salvatore Renzulli on October 27, 1913, in Landisville NJ.  His birth certificate lists his name as Spartaco Diagora Renzulli, and not Spartico as it was commonly spelled, even on his passport.  fortunately for him and everyone else, he was known as Duke.  He was 8 years old when his mother died, a loss that I now believe he felt his entire life.  While all of his older siblings completed high school and went on to college or business school, he chose to leave school after the 8^th grade to work the farm with his father.  He never spoke about it, but I suspect there were times he regretted leaving school when he did.  Like his father, he loved to read; his favorite subject was political history, American and European.

My father’s name reflects the passionate social and political beliefs of my grandfather.  Spartaco was to pay homage to Spartacus, who led a failed slave revolt against the Romans.  Diagaro is Italian for Diagoras, the 5^th century Greek atheist, philosopher, and poet. 

Dad (far right) with his older brothers Bruno Ferrar (left) and Commudardo Leinido (center) in front of the farm house that was to be home for the first 18 years of my life.

The names selected by my grandfather for all of his children is worthy of a post of its own.

DAD

Sixteen years after his death, I can easily access a number of mental images of my father, but there is one that stands out above all the others. In my favorite memory of the man he is sitting with his elbows on the kitchen table and one hand folded into the other, and as the dish of pasta is set before him his face is transformed into one of absolute delight and an audible “ahhhhhhhh” escapes from somewhere within. My father loved pasta and never failed to express his appreciation for every opportunity to indulge his love. Even after he lost most of his speech and some motor functions to a stroke (which he survived for about a year) this simple display of joy at the dinner table never faltered, and in fact may have even become a bit more pronounced. I do not doubt that in some way this whole pasta affair is my attempt at emulating my father. Did I mention that he also loved wine?

He would be 98 years old this month.

TIME AT WORK

Yesterday I described my delightful encounter with Sam, my first college roommate, at our 50th class reunion. I must admit to being surprised at the genuine affection that encounter engendered for someone I had not seen for over 50 years, especially since we were not close friends during our college days. I’ve been trying to understand this phenomenon ever since, and have decided that it represents one way in which time manifests itself.

Time has the effect of focusing our attention on the essential rather than the non-essential. Looking backwards into our lives the unimportant and frivolous, seem to fall away, allowing us to see or remember what we may have failed to see or have forgotten. At 72, I have much more respect and admiration for some of the very traits that I tended to avoid or dismiss at 19. My first experience with this phenomenon occurred with my father. As a young man he had habits and ideas that I could not tolerate, but later in our lifetimes, and even more so after his death, they simply disappeared from my mind. (I think it was Mark Twain who said, “when I was 17 I thought my father was really stupid, and at 21 I was amazed how much he learned in 4 years!”

In Sam’s case we share a common past and have both experienced the joys and difficulties of medical school and post-graduate training so I can appreciate the commitment he has made to the profession. Coming from my own-checkered career I am impressed with his achievements and the fact that he is still practicing medicine full time.

Tonight at dinner I will raise my glass of wine in a quiet toast to Sam.


Dad, when he didn't know so much (I thought.)


Dad with all of his acquired wisdom.

LUNCH WITH DAD

It started with a glass of wine at lunch, a small juice glass of red wine, and thinking to myself, “if it was good enough for my grandfather and my father, it is good enough for me”, and before long the wine, always red, became a routine part of my noon meal.

For as long as I can remember lunch has been an important part of my day. Regardless of where I was or what I was doing I made every effort possible not to miss that meal. I suppose one reason might be that I rarely ate breakfast, but for the past 5 or 6 years I have made it a point to do so, and lunch still remains a necessary event in my day. It usually consists of whatever I find in the fridge, leftovers, a sandwich, or maybe a salad.

Gradually things began to change. For many years I’ve been aware of my growing interest in recapturing the spirit of my mother’s kitchen and the meals she prepared for our family of 3. In the course of the past few years I have assumed all of cooking for my wife and I. Of course we eat a lot of pasta and things Italian…I love the food, and it is my way of staying connected to my roots.

More recently my attitude toward lunch has begun to change; it has become one of life’s simple pleasures., and several times a week I make the time and effort to prepare what I consider a most delightful and elegant meal for myself (and dear wife when she is home). The meals are simple with little cooking required, and generally revolve around ciabatta bread , olive oil,, lemon juice, and cheese, accompanied by a fruit or vegetable. And yes, a glass of wine, knowing that my father is looking down at me with a big smile on his face and a small glass of wine in his hand. How wonderful it is to have lunch with him again.

IT'S ALL ABOUT THE FOOD

Sitting at my table in a small local trattoria I finished my plate of tortilloni and was enjoying the last of the wine when I thought of my father. Oh what delight he would have taken in this adventure of mine. How I wish he could see me here...absorbing everything that is Italy...and how much pleasure that would have given him. Sadly, it has only been in the later years of my life that I could understand his love for this land, a land that he inherited from his parents, a land that totally engulfed him, growing up as he did with parents, family, and a community of Italian immigrants. Like so many second generation hyphenated Americans, the impact of my heritage was sadly under estimated, and perhaps even under appreciated...until I got older, maybe wiser, and certainly much more interested in what I lost. I cannot truthfully say that this trip has been for my father, but I can say that not a day has gone by when I have not thought of him, and my mother. The food, the language, the smell of cooking from the apartments next door, they all take me home, to our farm, our kitchen, and our family.


DAD WITH 2 OF HIS LOVES...HIS GARDEN AND HIS WINE

Now...the rest of this post is ALL ABOUT THE FOOD

The photos that follow were all taken with my iphone while dining out.


TAGLIATELLI ALL BOLOGNESE


PROSCIUTTO W MELLON


LINGUINNI W MIXED SEAFOOD


CLAMS W OIL AND LEMON


ANTIPAST ALLE PESCE


MIXED GRILLED SEAFOOD


SMOKED SALMON IN OLIVE OIL & LEMON


CAPRESE


INVOLTINO



ANTIPASTA