1970s Polaroid of my mother (back) with my grandmother and my aunt.
MY FAMILY’S STORY OF FOOD is partly the story of our evolution, of our identities unraveling into who we are today. As a third-generation American, I can barely pronounce gnocchi, let alone make it. And while that seems almost tragic to me, that’s the way my Italian grandmother and great grandmother would have wanted it—their offspring bearing the regional accents of New England and not of Asti. (My great grandmother, Nanny, actually used to pronounce that pasta dish “gnoch” in an effort to sound less Italian.)
Like her own mother, my grandmother called gnocchi “gnoch” and risotto “risott,” chopping off ending syllables in denial of her linguistic and culinary roots. My mother grew up eating white sauces on pasta, pots of polenta, animal intestines, giblets, and boiled chicken feet (or at least that’s the impression I’ve gotten)—dishes made with a delicate mix of Italian cuisine carry-over, spendthrift, and just the right amount nutritional weirdness supplied by my grandmother. Money was tight, and things were generally not very joyful.
We had never eaten meat until we adventurously branched out as teenagers, nibbling buffalo wings at restaurants or tasting a sliver of turkey on Thanksgiving.
As adults, my parents shed their chicken feet-eating (or in the case of my dad canned Chef Boyardee ravioli-eating, but that’s another story) identities from times they didn’t particularly admire, and became vegetarians. They grew their own food and canned it for winter—rutabaga, corn, squash, peas, beets, and beans. They rarely ate animal products at all. After T and I were born, our parents raised us as vegetarians. We asked for hot cereal mush in the morning and tofu for dinner. We had never eaten meat until we adventurously branched out as teenagers, nibbling buffalo wings at restaurants or tasting a sliver of turkey on Thanksgiving.
So today, as the TSP sisters share the stories behind their favorite auxiliary cookbooks, I’m offering one of my grandmother’s recipes for “Tripe in Sour Gravy” from her 1937 copy of America’s Cook Book. I’m sure anything with “American” in the name truly tickled her fancy. (She was known, after all, to favor Velveeta over “mozzarell” on occasion.)
Tripe is bovine stomach lining. I wouldn’t eat this, nor would I recommend eating this. Don’t worry, T’s and my kinds of recipes—for dishes like cabbage salad, veggie fritters, and crispy tofu—are forthcoming. I actually think enough tripe could turn anyone vegetarian. Take heed. Or maybe give it a try if you’re trying to kick the habit.
No related posts.
First time here? Here's the idea: 
{ 8 comments… read them below or add one }
There was much I did admire and love about my grandparents: Ida Croce and John DeCaroli who courageously ventured alone, at separate times, to Ellis Island from northern Italy, as young teens leaving their parents behind, in the early 1900s. On their small beautifully cultivated flower adorned plot of land in the Bronx, where they lived when I was a young child, they had peach and apricot trees, raspberries, strawberries, enough vegetables to can along with the fruits. They also grew grapes which they made into wine and stored in their own wine cellar, as well as dandelion wine from dandelions which they collected from grassy patches along the Bronx River Parkway. Their regard for nature, beauty, self-sufficient strong work ethic life style which enriched my childhood is the substance of my being.
AH – I can’t get that picture of Deborah eating chicken feet out of my head! I like things better the way they are now, sans tripe.
On another culinary note, I saw the BFC (barefoot contessa) make a delicious looking blue cheese soufflé today. I am going to practice my soufflé skills so we can make it next time we rendezvous.
Your parent’s vegetable garden was the envy of many of us neighbors. And your parent’s food choices for you and T were the model we would have like to achieve, for our families but never did. I still think of your mom whipping up a batch of miso soup. In the late 80′s it was chicken nuggets, pre packaged for my kids.
M
oh yeah, and maybe that’s why your mom looks at least 15 years younger, with fabulous skin tone, no body fat, and in great shape! my heft makes me look older. not a surprise.
lifestyle choices.
@kcs bring on the soufle, baby. I’m ready.
And as for Ms. M, you look great!! I remember so much life and joy in your house when I was growing up. It was always so exciting for me to eat your “bunny” bread and butter instead of miso soup! Now our vegetable garden is nearly non-existent. Are you still growing veggies chez toi?
My mom used to make veal and insist on telling me that she wasn’t telling me what it was made of.
blech. And you’re a vegetarian now, right Adam?
My mom used to “accidentally” feed my sister and I meat when we were vegetarians living at home. In general she was pretty supportive, pointing out that she was a vegetarian when she was in high school too.