Growing Up In An Italian Family

My Recent Italian Breakfast Sparked Some Warm and And Heartfelt Memories

A Lulu Photo

Making this breakfast reminded me of my love of breakfasts growing up, being Italian and Nonna’s house.

• Sliced Italian bread, hot from the oven

• Sweet butter and preserves

• Intense, fresh roasted coffee

Growing up in an Italian family, food was the focal point of our day. My father owned a small breakfast and lunch restaurant near our house. The short distance allowed him to have breakfast with his children several times a week.

Once his prep was completed for lunch, he’d stop at the bakery on his way home to pick up several loaves of fresh bread hot from the oven. When he’d walk in the door, we’d rush to hug him and take the warm loaves from his arms. He loved this ritual, as did his children.

We’d slather butter on the warm slice sending it into all its nooks and crannies that would sometimes dribble down our chins. I can still hear the crackling sound as we bite into a crusty slice.

Lulu photo, My Fresh Baked Sourdough Boule

Mom would make coffee, filling our cups with warm milk and a splash of espresso or drip coffee. Whichever coffee she chose to make, it was always dark and robust, its aroma floating in the air — a delightful ritual, one of many in our home, as I remember.

There were many small shops in our neighborhood. The scents would tickle our noses as we walked by them.

Mr. Barker, the neighborhood butcher, aged his meat in a meat locker. A large refrigerator about the size of a small room cut the steaks or other meats his customers wanted and then wrapped them in butcher paper, adding a sprig of parsley or other fresh herbs to the package. His homemade sausages were hung from a rod over the deli counter. While waiting to order, Mrs. Barker would hand us a slice of dried sausage to reward our patience.

We bought our produce from Peter DiRosa’s Market. Fresh from local farms during the warm weather. Beautiful, in all the colors of the rainbow, some of the vegetables still had a little soil clinging to them, giving off the smell of earth.

Rascati’s Bakery was our go-to for the most delicious, crusty loaves of bread. The smell of baking bread floated through the neighborhood. It was irresistible. It was so delicious that all it needed was a splash of olive oil.

I remember my Nonna heating some day-old bread and sprinkling it with water, salt, and a drizzle of good olive oil as a snack for her grandchildren. Then, when her figs were ripe, she’d cut several and put them on the plate with the bread; their sensual, dark red interior was as sweet as sugar.

I don’t think we realized how lucky we were.

Polio Cheese was a family operation. Ricotta, mozzarella, and provolone. They made mozzarella in different shapes and sizes, knots, and tiny spheres the size of a golf ball. They made their cheeses daily but sold others imported from Italy, like Parmigiano Reggiano. When we’d walk in to pick up cheese for dinner, we’d be treated to slices of mozzarella or other creamy variety handed to us on a piece of food-wrapping tissue.

Aunt Nellie and Zia Laura lived nearby. We’d bring some of these groceries to them and watch the alchemy as they wove them into the most luscious dishes effortlessly. Zia Laura was deaf from birth but taught herself to speak. She was tall and thin, wearing a black dress and stockings, which made her look like Olive Oil from the Popeye Cartoon. When she hugged me, I felt her love envelop me. I loved her more than I could express.

Watching how our food in this country changed, I cherish the memories of eating and growing up in my Italian family. I keep my cooking and shopping as close to natural as possible. My grandmother would be happy; I know I am.

Sharing my memories with you will bring up sweet memories of your own growing up. Thank you for stopping by.