My father’s kitchen was immaculate, but it never smelled like pine or disinfectant. It had this heavenly smell of fresh onion, hints of garlic and pungent Italian cheeses. A counter ran along one wall, broken up in the center by a white porcelain sink with a window just above it. On the window ledge were several small pots of parsley and basil seedlings. At one end of the counter there was always a basket of Spanish onions and a bowl of jumbo garlic with white papery skin. The counter surface had a dull gleam from countless washing but nowhere could a chip or scratch from a careless knife or utensil be found. Meats and vegetables were diced with precision on a wooden cutting board kept in one of the 6 yellow metal cabinets below the counter. The interior of each cabinet above the counter was lined with plastic coated paper.
There was nothing in the cabinets that you wouldn’t find in any kitchen-- pots, pans, cups, glasses, bowls, plates, jars of spice, condiments and food staples. What was remarkable was the meticulous placement of each item--neatly stacked rows all lined up on an invisible grid. Previously opened jars and containers gleamed like new. The handles on the inverted coffee cups all pointed in the same direction like a series of clocks all pointing to ten past two. The drawers in lower cabinets were filled with perfectly folded dish-towels and the silverware nested in even piles.
Every Saturday a huge pot would simmer on the largest burner of the gas stove. The tomato sauce inside would send up huge bubbles that would burst on the surface and release an aroma that could only be described as divine. As the scent would permeate the entire house, stomachs would growl and mouths would salivate. No matter--no dipping into that sauce ‘till Sunday dinner at 1”oclock. This was my father’s kitchen and things here were done his way, the way they should be done--the right way--the only way. But he was not a harsh or stern man. He was a man sure of himself and his universe and this made his kitchen a place of comfort rather than intimidating; a safe and orderly place.
I loved to watch my father prepare food. I would sit beside him on a stool and lean forward with my elbows resting on the counter. He would tell me stories about his family and his childhood. The stories were interspersed with cooking instructions that he would give over and over again each time I watched him, as if I had never heard them before. He must have told me to clean up as I go along a million times. And always add a few drops of water to the can of tomato paste to get the last little drop. The stories formed an ongoing narrative; bits and pieces loosely linked together, about his parents, the hills of Benevento, Italy, and the section of the Bronx in New York City known as “Little Italy.” As a child I hung on every word and rarely thought of the hardship and tragedy in the life of an immigrant orphaned at six years of age and stricken with polio at nine.
The immigration photograph above, probably taken at Ellis Island, showed my dad, the last figure on the right, at the age of four. His mother has his little brother George on her lap. George died shortly after this photo was taken. His brother Sam and his sister Nancy are also in the photo. Dad’s father and two older sisters, Rafaela and Mary, had already immigrated into the country to pave the way for the entire family.
