gina depalma

The meals of my childhood rotated on a regular schedule. It sounds like a boring and predictable approach to dinner, but that notion never crossed my mind. When my siblings and I joke about it now, I feel a throat-choking wave of love and respect for my mother Evelyn, and her mastery of home economics. She never missed a beat, juggling so many balls after my father’s death. We ate lean, but we ate darn well, and the more I think about it, that schedule was the key. Her weekly habits made organizing her shopping and dinner prep easier and kept a tight control on her budget, a priority amidst all the other weights she balanced so carefully on her tiny shoulders.

The schedule wasn’t restrictive and allowed for plenty of variation. But there were constants from which Mom never wavered, and in retrospect those patterned menus anchored our childhood in those uncertain, difficult years after my father died. And to be clear, my mother was busy. She worked multiple jobs, managed a household and cooked our meals every day, teaching me to help along the way. That wasn't a conscious choice, but just the way we got the important things done, and it I am certain it led me down the path to becoming a chef.

We had soup at least twice a week, and Monday always started with a bowl of broth made from beef and marrow bones or chicken wings, served boiling hot with tiny pasta stars or balls or tubes and a shower of grated cheese floating in it. Even if it was 95 degrees out, soup landed, still boiling in the bowl and giving us a steamy facial as we waited for it to cool. My mother dug right in, cautioning us to do the same or it would get cold, which never, ever happened. To this day I swear her tongue is made of asbestos.  Any leftover boiled beef was shredded into salad for sandwiches the next day, spiked with red wine vinegar and plenty of oregano.

The second weekly bowl of soup was heartier - split pea, white bean, or lentil with little cuts of pasta mixed in – and served on Friday, a first course before one of her staple fish dishes. Vatican II had never registered with my mother and we continued to abstain from meat on Fridays.  Our fish dinner was always on the cheaper end of the spectrum, the so-called throwaway fish that didn’t seem to interest anyone else. (I never tasted salmon until I was well into my 20’s.) Fried smelts were a favorite, dipped in seasoned flour and fried. We devoured piles of them; at a very young age I learned how to expertly split the smelt, lift the backbone in one swoop, and finish with salt and a squirt of fresh lemon. Another favorite was involtini of whiting, stuffed with breadcrumbs, garlic and parsley, rolled up with a toothpick and poached in a splash of white wine. Simple as they were, those toothpicked bundles never failed to make me feel like a real grownup.

Some of our suppers were both meatless and fishless, but we never, ever felt deprived because it was all so delicious. Frittata, loaded with potatoes, onions and peppers with buttered toast and a salad was one of my favorite dinners. Pasta of all shapes and sizes was in the weekly rotation too, tossed with peas, beans, broccoli or cauliflower, or with ricotta, eggs and herbs as a special treat. Those recipes traveled with my mother from Calabria, specialties from her own grandmother who also knew a thing or two about the necessary alchemy of economy and eating well.

I don’t remember a single meal that didn’t feature at least two or more vegetables on the table. Eggplant helped to stretch a ball of ground beef: roasted, the pulp was mixed with meat, egg, breadcrumbs, herbs and grated cheese, then stuffed back into the skin and baked with tomato sauce and bit of mozzarella. This dinner still makes my knees weak when my mother serves it. Artichokes, the leaves stuffed with breadcrumbs, bits of cured salami, garlic and grated pecorino, kept us long occupied at the table as we carefully scraped the leaves with our teeth. Eventually we reached the tender interior leaves that could be eaten whole, and then the reward for all that work: the soft, sweet heart with a dribble of olive oil. 

Sundays were special, a day for quiet family togetherness and a grander meal to celebrate it. Usually, it meant my mother’s meat sauce, which we called “gravy” (meatless tomato sauce was referred to specifically as marinara). Sometimes mom started it early in morning so it could simmer away for a few hours before we went to Mass. I sat in church squirming with the knowledge that gravy and pasta was waiting on the other end of Our Father; I always prayed hard for fusili. Mom almost never made a Bolognese-style sauce with ground meat in it. She was from the mezzogiorno, and in her world, the meat was used to intensely flavor the sauce by braising in it, low and slow, then served on the side after the pasta as a second course with a sink-full of broccoli di rape or escarole, sautéed in plenty of garlic and olive oil until it was soft and creamy.

Her meats of choice were pork and beef, which we had easy access to in suburban Virginia. Pork was in the form of a few thick-cut country ribs, on the bone, and if we had sausage, that would go in too. We stockpiled homemade sausage in the freezer for these precious Sunday dinners.

Beef was for her meatballs, the amazing meatballs that remain the single most evocative food of my childhood, always fried in good olive oil then braised in the sauce, releasing flavor from their crusty exterior. Mom always made ten or twelve little mini-meatballs, fried them up and kept them on the counter with toothpicks, to satisfy our inevitable post-Mass, pre-dinner nibbling. There wasn’t a huge window for that, since dinner was always at 2:30 sharp on a Sunday. Often, my aunts, uncle and cousins joined us. We lingered and savored, had seconds if we wanted them, and spent time with each other over the table, nibbling on pieces of fennel, clusters of grapes, slices of orange and pear.

Food is much too expensive these days, and my mother’s example is a valuable lesson in home economics that is absolutely applicable for currently tight budgets and large waistlines. The core principles are undeniably Italian: a small amount of meat, including off cuts, served only a few times a week; loads of vegetables every night, often mixed with inexpensive and nutritious pasts to satisfy the appetite; a big salad and fresh fruit, always in season and always the final course, and a special dinner on Sunday, enjoyed with mindful appreciation of all that graced the table the week before. Michael Pollan would have surely approved. I know we did.

The pictures in this post are my attempts at some of Mom's classics. Trust me, hers were better. (That's her knowing hand grating the cheese!)