CHAPTER 1
Glimpses of Childhood:MEETING MY INNER JUNKIE
In my childhood home on Cole Street, a crawl spaceconnected the two upstairs bedrooms. On one side wasthe room I shared with my big sister; on the other was mybrother's room, which became mine several years later whenhe left for college. To a five-year-old, the crawl space wasa long, dark tunnel of cobwebs, where ghouls and goblinshovered, shifting incessantly from one doorway to the otherthroughout the night, primed for entry, raring to frightenlittle girls. Much to my amazement, just a couple of shortyears later, I bravely smushed the cobwebs with a wet papertowel and took rights of ownership with very little fear. Nowit was my long, dark tunnel of stillness and secrecy.
In that quiet little space, I set up camp, stocking it withpillows and blankets and puzzles and coloring books anddoodads worthy of hours of undetected solitary play. I wrotepoems and made up jokes for my stuffed animals' amusement.It seems I may have interacted with an invisible playmate,but I recognize her now as my inner junkie.
During the late-afternoon hours between school and dinner,we crept in and out of our tiny clubhouse every so often,as the stale air required. I had to scootch out carefully so asnot to hit my head on the slanted ceiling where the eavescame together with the wall. I made clandestine trips tothe kitchen for snacks. We pigged out on stacks of grahamcrackers smeared with soft, sweet butter and creamy peanutbutter, served on a china saucer with a fancy silver knife. Inretrospect, that seems astonishingly grown-up and civilizedfor a seven-year-old. Perhaps I thought it gave my littletunnel an elegant refinement, making the act of sneakingsnacks seem less egregious.
Weeks of covert operations later, my mother discovered myhideout in a most distressing manner. My snacks had drawnants. Thankfully, I was not there at the time she traced themto my private oasis, where she found a streaming parade ofthose industrious little critters crawling on and around herchina and silver pieces. To this day, I'm not sure whether Iwas reprimanded for hiding, snacking, or using the goodchina. I suspect it was mostly about the ants, but to my bustedlittle heart it was a trifecta of offenses for which I carriedheaps of guilt for days.
* * *
My parents both worked full-time. In those days, there werefew working mothers; all the mothers within at least a ten-blockradius (your whole world as a child) were stay-at-homemoms. In fact, the term "stay-at-home mom" didn't existyet, since working mothers were the exception. When shewasn't sick, my mom was a brilliant whirling dervish ofenergy who wanted the finer things in life for her family offive. My parents' teacher's salaries didn't make us rich, by anymeans. But we wanted for little and had a lot of things manyother families did not.
One of our luxury items was a storage freezer. It was thesize and shape of a refrigerator, but it sat horizontally, andeverything in it was rock hard. When you opened the lid, arush of frozen air swirled around like puffs of clouds abovethe food. Sometimes you'd have to fan the mist away beforeyou could determine what was inside. My parents werethrilled at the money they saved by buying and storing largequantities of meat bought in bulk directly from the butcher.He supplied a drawing of a cow and a pig, with arrowscharting all the different edible sections by name, and myparents would put in their quarter-year order accordingly. Itlikely paid for itself in pork chops in no time.
The freezer was stored on the enclosed porch that extendedacross the back of our house. It was easy to get foods in andout of it, making it convenient for both daily use and long-termstorage. After holidays, any leftover cookies and pastrieswere tightly wrapped in double layers of tin foil and hiddenamong the steaks and hamburgers. There were sometimesChristmas cookies to be found there, the procurement ofwhich became a game of espionage. I had to devise reasonsfor going out onto the porch without raising suspicion. Toavoid being seen, timing was critical. My inner junkie wasexceptionally good at these games.
I snuck the cookies out two by two and ate them frozen. Theywere divine, even icy cold and stiffly solid. After seconds inmy mouth, they'd soften up beautifully and provide lasting,chewy, delicious satisfaction. Unfortunately, I was recklesswith the rewrapping. Kids don't have much patience for that.It didn't take long for my mother to realize that I was delvinginto the goodies. She was not happy about it. "Those are forspecial occasions!" she cried, looking at me wide-eyed, likeI'd committed a mortal sin and stood in the very clutches ofSatan himself. Whew! The drama.
I apologized profusely and slunk away. I was sincerely sorryfor upsetting my mom, but I had a hard time feeling sorrythat I had eaten the cookies. They were so delicious that Iwas pretty sure it was worth whatever punishment mightfollow. As it turned out, I received no punishment, andknowing it would be forgotten within a few weeks, myinner junkie had already begun plotting our next strategyfor acquisition.
* * *
Since my folks were teachers, our summers were extraordinary.We took road trips in our Country Squire station wagon,even traveling across the entire country one summer withanother of our luxury items in tow: a pop-up Nimrodcamping trailer. We visited faraway relatives and saw all thewonders of America.
I was only six years old, so one of the few wonders I rememberwithout prompting is being allowed by relatives in Texas tohave all the watermelon I could eat, enjoyed in big, fullquarters, one after the other, seed-spitting optional. Fun! Ihad so much watermelon, I wet their bed that night. Thatkind of humiliation keeps a memory alive.
Whether camping or close to home, we spent countless hourson the beach. Saltwater virtually runs in my veins. As thestory goes, we started out camping in the back of a one-roomice house near the Connecticut shore. I have no recollectionof that. Some years later, we rented the upstairs of a three-bedroomduplex for a whole summer month, right on thewater at Middle Beach in Westbrook. Years later, we shiftedto Misquamicut Beach in Westerly, Rhode Island, extendingour stay to six weeks and eventually buying a cottage of ourown, where we spent full summers of bliss!
The Ortisi-LaBella family owned the big property inWestbrook. They lived in a house behind the duplex forthe entire summer. A small, primly gardened courtyard satbetween the houses, where we all often came together afterthe day's adventures. Tory was my best friend. He was thegrandson of Mama and Papa Ortisi. We spent all our daytimehours together swimming; dodging jellyfish; bailing waterfrom a decrepit, leaky rowboat; combing the beach forunique shells and rocks; and dangling mussels on a string-lacedstick to catch crabs off the rock jetty. At night, we ates'mores or made Jiffy Pop popcorn. We played cards and haddance-offs. We laughed ourselves nearly to death. When wewere called inside, we rushed through our nightly rituals,threw on our pajamas, and skipped off to our bedroomwindows across the courtyard from one another, where wecontinued our chatter long distance through Dixie cups ona string until we heard Papa shouting, "Zitto! Sleep, sleep!"
The yard was always filled with sweet aromas from MamaOrtisi's kitchen. She was a first-generation Italian who spokevery little English; her language was food. And boy oh boy,could she talk! Surprisingly, her grandson was as thin as ablade of grass. But then, he was always in a tizzy, buzzingabout here and there, doing this and that. He never stoodstill, that one. So even though we ate like there was notomorrow, he stayed rail thin, while my inner junkie got fatand happy.
To this day, the smell of sweet Italian peppers frying inolive oil still causes an undeniable pool of drool to collectin my mouth. Pepper-and-egg grinders, handmade ricottaravioli, eggplant cooked to perfection and layered withfresh mozzarella ... everything made fresh with herbs fromthe garden and the cook's boundless love, served up like aromance novel.
* * *
My mother was also an excellent cook. Her Italian mealsrivaled Mama Ortisi's. When she cooked, her Naples rootsproved unbreakable, and she channeled all the women of herheritage who had taught her the language of food.
Religious holidays were grand feasts. My large, extendedfamily came together and gorged on massive quantities offood: antipasto piled high with pepperoni, provolone, genoasalami, and other assorted meats and cheeses; a vast array ofolives, dates, nuts, fruits, and crudités; caprese salad with freshmozzarella, ripe tomato slices, and fresh basil leaves; and, ofcourse, a variety of child-friendly chips and dips. Torronenougat candy and shiny, colorful ribbon candy were artfullyset out in fancy glassware, strategically placed in all thehigh-traffic areas around the house. Dinner was comprisedof lasagna, piled high; seemingly endless quantities of sausageand meatballs; and freshly baked, oven-toasted garlic bread.There was salad and broccoli—other stuff too—but they hadno appeal whatsoever until I was much older.
The desserts came from an authentic Italian bakery onFranklin Avenue in Hartford: cannoli, cookies, spumoni,rum cake. I may have heard more Italian spoken there thanany time at the Ortisis'. Believe it or not, I didn't eat acannoli until I was in my twenties. I couldn't imagine whypeople would eat dry pastry filled with cold cheese whenthey could be eating divinely sweet cookies!
When I finally tried a cannoli, I chided myself for whatI'd been missing all those years. I'd had no idea they weresweetened!
The people at the grown-ups' table had mounds of cookiesand bakery boxes full of pastries and could eat all they wantedwithout scrutiny. The kids' table got one small, dessert-plate-sizedallotment of cookies to share, and the few timeswe were allowed to eat cannolis, they were cut in half andassigned one section to a customer. Only now do I realizeI probably could have traded my share for an extra cookie.All those years, I just gave it away to the cousin who askedmost sweetly. Dang! I couldn't wait till the day I would beallowed at the grown-ups' table.
* * *
I was exposed to a lot of fun activities as a child, especiallyduring the more carefree summers, but it's the food I rememberenjoying most. One special trip we took periodically overthe years was to Old Sturbridge Village, one of the country'soldest and largest living history museums. It brought to lifeearly New England from 1790–1840. We could watch themaking of teapots and lanterns in the tin shop, see applespressed into cider by horsepower in the mill, and explorebuildings and homes with historians in costume. We watchedsheep being sheared and marveled at the sight of their woolbeing spun and dyed. The blacksmith forged new shoes forthe horses. Butter was freshly churned. Bread, pies, andcookies baked in the flames of firelight in a dark, dirt-flooredkitchen, with samples available for tasting. It was a world ofexciting exhibits and fascinating activities!
With all that I would see and experience, what I lookedforward to most about our Sturbridge trips was the stop onthe way home at Hebert's Candy Shop. Hebert's was in abig, stone castle laid out with a gigantic assortment of freshlymade chocolates, vast varieties of fudge, and seasonal treats.In keeping with the Sturbridge theme, they made chocolatelollipops in animal shapes like the lambs we had just seenat the farm. I loved peering through the glass cases at allthe scrumptious goodies. Knowing I could select just onetreat necessitated long moments of contemplation. I pausedadmiringly over the nonpareils, peanut butter taffy kisses,and rich, milk-chocolate-covered, malted milk balls butalways ended up delightedly choosing velvety, rich whitechocolate on a stick. So exotic!
* * *
No one would claim I was a finicky eater in general, butmy Auntie Fran and Uncle Joe learned well the few foodsI couldn't stomach. When my mother was ill, which wasoften, especially in my earliest years of life, I stayed overnightat their house. My little cousin Richard was like a living doll,adorably cute and sweet, and we had a lot of fun together.I'm sure I was traumatized by having to be away from mymother so often at such a young age, but I felt loved there,all the same.
One of my strongest memories of those overnight visits is ofUncle Joe's soft-boiled eggs served in little, individual, whiteand red porcelain egg cups. I've never known anyone else everwho had egg cups in their kitchenware, but I'm pretty surethey saw considerable use at Uncle Joe's. I loathed soft-boiledeggs! We sat down at the table together for breakfast, whichwas quite special and lovely, giving my broken, interruptedlife the illusion of an Ozzie and Harriet episode. The eggcups were stylishly served on a woven place mat, with spoonand cloth napkin neatly tucked beside it, accompanied bya small plate of perfectly toasted bread with just a hint ofbutter and orange marmalade. Uncle Joe slurped his egg upwith delight; clearly, this was a house specialty he made forthe occasion. To this, my reaction was "Eeeewwww! Do Ihave to eat that?"
The answer was an unequivocal "Yes!" In fact, I would not beallowed to leave the table until I had eaten my egg. This wasa shock—at home, I'd never been required to eat anything Ididn't like. Encouraged, yes, but required—never. Here withmy aunt and uncle, I was expected to become an honoredmember of the "clean-plate club" who at all times eats thefoods she or he is served, even the disgusting, nutritious ones.They tried desperately to impress upon me that this was goodfor me and important for a healthy, growing body. Oh Lord,I gag even now at the thought of that runny, slimy-lookingcup full of yuck!
At some point in the standoff, my aunt acquiesced, much tomy uncle's chagrin. Maybe she felt I was already sufferingenough as a castaway with a sick mother. I was convinced Iwould throw up right there at the table if I tried to eat theegg, so I believed I was actually doing everyone a huge favorby staunchly refusing.
Another source of controversy was spinach. They probablygot Richard to eat his by convincing him he would grow upbig and strong like Popeye, the spinach-loving sailor man.That would likely appeal to a young boy, but I was a girlwith no desire to smoke a pipe or have tattooed forearms thesize of tree trunks. I found the very smell of cooked spinachhorrendous! I couldn't possibly put that foul aroma rightunder my nose and into my mouth! My wriggling torso andcontorted facial expressions said it all. If this was the classicstuff of nutritious and good-for-you foods, I'd be havingnone of it, thank you. I'd rather be pudgy Winnie-the-Poohsavoring gooey honey and all things sweet!
I adored my aunt and uncle and would return to them manyyears later for sanctuary when I hit bottom following a short,tumultuous marriage. I appeared unannounced one day attheir doorstep with a two-year-old daughter, a seven-year-oldcat, and a rusting, beat-up Oldsmobile stuffed with allmy earthly possessions. They took me in and lovingly caredfor me just as they always had.
* * *
Food was at the heart of everything. Every disappointment;every celebration; every event, good or bad, was highlightedby what we ate. A successful dance recital, a good reportcard, helping with chores and the like, meant pizza fromVic's, ice cream sundaes at Friendly's, or maybe fresh éclairsfrom the Parkade bakery. A lost part in the school play ora misunderstanding with a good friend might result in mythen-favorite dinner of spaghetti with butter and parmesancheese, beef stew with dumplings, or the rare treat ofhomemade French fries.
Even my glorious days at the beach conjure images of specialsweets. As far as the beach itself was concerned, I couldlikely tell you more about the thrill of hearing the bells ofthe Italian lemon ice truck as it made its way around theneighborhood; or about the saltwater taffy you could onlyget at the shore, where you could watch it being twistedand stretched in the storefront window; or the penny candystore in the center of town, where you could always beg afew coins from your parents for Squirrel Nut Zippers andMary Janes. I could pop sweets in my mouth until I was sickto my stomach without thinking twice, never once givinga thought to any feelings behind it. I certainly never thoughtof food as healing, but without question it had great powerto do so.
