Italian-American Tales

The Maloik (Malocchio) or the "Evil Eye"

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia) — Mon, 03 Sep 2018 05:42:00 +0000

This is a re-post of what has become my most popular post- originally posted 9 years ago.

While not Italian in origin, many Italians believe in il malocchio (often pronounced "maloik.") Part superstition, part tradition, it is the belief in the evil eye, placed on someone when someone else is jealous or envious of the other's good luck. The malocchio then manifests itself in some sort of misfortune onto the cursed person, usually some physical ailment.

It can also be done involuntarily, like when you see a beautiful baby and you compliment the parent. That could be construed as envy and the parent must then say something like "God bless her" right after it to ward off a possible malocchio, many believing that even though the compliment may have sounded sincere, its real motive was envy. That's why my cousin made me put a red ribbon over the threshold of my new home and told me to throw salt out of all the doors- to protect us from envious people. The person who gives the evil eye is not necessarily evil, but does indeed harbor jealousy.

One can also ward it off by wearing a horn (cornuto) around the neck or making a gesture with your hand (mano cornuta-which you may know from heavy metal concerts). It is said that Italian men wear the cornuto to protect their genitalia from the malocchio, as the curse is said to harm sperm.

I can't say that I believe or disbelieve the malocchio and I only have one indirect experience with it...

When my mom was in her twenties, she got a great job with the government. Soon after, she began getting terrible headaches that aspirin would not relieve. She suffered with them intermittently for a few weeks when it dawned on my litte Sigi grandmother what the problem was.

"Someone gave you the maloik. (malocchio).""You're crazy. Who would do that?" my mom responded, not telling her she was crazy for believing in "stregheria" or Italian witchcraft, but, rather, for thinking someone would put the curse on her. (The irony that my grandmother was a devout Catholic whose church forbids belief in witchcraft is not lost on me.)
"Who knows? You have that nice job now- someone is jealous and put it on you."
"Nobody is jealous of me."
"I want you to go see the strega down the street." The local strega, or Italian witch, was known to be capable of removing the horrible malocchio that afflicted unassuming Italians in the South Philadelphia neighborhood where they lived.
"I'm not going to the strega. Forget about it. The headaches will go away."
My grandmother never mentioned the malocchio again to my mother.

About a week after the strega conversation, my mom could not find her watch when she was getting ready for work. She asked my grandmother if she had seen it but she had not. My mom, a very organized and detail-oriented individual (you say anal, I say detail-oriented) who never misplaces anything, was disturbed by the missing watch. She looked everywhere for it and finally resigned herself to the fact that it must have slipped off to or from work. The stress only contributed to her constant headaches. (Knowing my mom like I do, I don't for a minute believe that she accepted that her watch was gone, and she probably continued to search for it for at least 24 hours more.)

A few days later my mom woke up and found her watch on her bureau. She put it on and asked my grandmother how it got there. My grandmother told her she didn't know. When she got home from work she grilled my grandmother about the watch.

"Are you sure you didn't borrow it and not put it back?"
"Bah, why do I need a watch? I don't go anywhere!"
"Did Daddy find it and put it in my room?"
"I don't think so. So... how are your headaches?"
"Funny, I didn't get one today."
My sigi grandmother smiled but did not say anything.
"Why are you smiling?"
"I took your watch to the strega since you wouldn't go yourself. She took off the malocchio."
"Mom!" she yelled
"It worked, didn't it?" My mom didn't know what to say to that. It was more troubling to her that someone had put the malocchio on her then the fact that there was a Sicilian witch living on their street who claimed to be able to both curse and remove curses.

How did the strega allegedly remove the malocchio. Probably by inserting the tip of a needle into the eye of another needle while saying: “Occhi e contro e perticelli agli occhi, crepa la invida e schiattono gli occhi." That means “Eyes against eyes and the holes of the eyes, envy cracks and eyes burst.” She then dropped the needles on top of three drops of olive oil in water and sprinkled three pinches of salt into the water. The strega would then jab scissors into the water through the oil three times and cut the air above the bowl three times and POOF! The spell was FINITO!

...or the aspirin finally kicked in.

Claudia Fanelli

Not cool to be Italian?

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia) — Wed, 28 Jan 2015 22:32:00 +0000

When I was a kid, it wasn't cool to be Italian. In fact, I have emotional scars from the experience (read on for those details). But as an adult, thankfully it's different. Nowadays being Italian has some cachet.

Have you ever asked someone "Are you Italian?"

The response is almost always one of the following:

-100%. All italian

-half

-a quarter

It's never just "yes." It's never "a little." People will tell you, proudly, how much Italian is in their blood. If it's less than a quarter, they might even round it up to a quarter. I know people who won't even acknowledge the other half of their heritage.

-"I'm Italian."

-"But your name is O'Brien."

-"Whatever. I'm Italian."

If they are Italian, they'll tell you the regions their families are from. All of them.

-"I'm half Abruzzese, a quarter Napolitano and a quarter Calabrese."

-"My Mom's side is from Puglia and Basilicata, my dad's side is right off the boat from Calabria. A little town right at the tip of the boot. They used to wave to the Sicilians they were so close to Sicily."

"Actually, I'm Sicilian. (This is another topic but trust me, don't attempt to engage a Sicilian in a discussion about

why they say Sicilian not Italian.)

Myself? I'm Siciliana, Calabrese, Abruzzese and Basilicata. :)

If they aren't 100% FBI (that's Full Blooded Italian, a term you know if you are one), they will scramble to tell you their lineage. It's fantastic!

-"I'm a quarter. My mom's dad was born in Rome, but I was raised with all the traditions."

-"My dad's grandfather's mom came here from Piedmont. We always relate most to that side of the family."

"My mom is Irish and my dad is German but my step-dad is half Italian so you know, I'm kinda Italian."

"Not actually Italian but I married one."

I love that one especially. How do you not love someone who embraces their spouse's heritage? And let's face it, especially if an Italian mother is involved, that's a lot of heritage to embrace! The food, the um, strong opinions, the protectiveness, the hand gestures and noise level at dinner- if you haven't been around Italians all your life and you go to a big family dinner, buckle up!

It's like everyone wants to acknowledge their Italianness- (And who can blame them? Being Italian is awesome.) It's like being Italian is a very elite club with special benefits and everyone feels compelled to prove their bloodline. Sometimes it's almost like people with only a little bit of Italianness want FBIs or others to recognize them as paisans. "Accept me! Accept me into the club!" Can't fault anyone for that. I mean, it IS like a club (a very, very COOL, delicious club!) but all people proud to have Italian blood are members. In fact, if you just love Italians, we'll give you a membership card. We're like that.

Comedian Sebastian Maniscalco (an FBI) made a joke that Italians will say they're "a hundred percent Italian. Head to toe." And anyone who is part Italian says "Yeah, I'm half Italian and half embarrassed." Nothing to be embarrassed about, everyone should be proud of their roots, but I have yet to meet anyone prouder of their heritage than an Italian-American. This pride is important to me because as a kid who moved from an all Italian neighborhood in South Philly to what my family called "Medagon town" nearby in Delaware County, PA, my Italianness was not embraced. I endured taunts of "dago," "wop," and "greaseball," through 9th grade. My name, my skin color, my nose and worst of all, my smelly Thursday leftover meatball sandwiches (thanks, Ma!) brought me undue attention. (I'd name the kid who was most relentless in doing this but I don't want to give him the satisfaction.)

So, yeah! You wanna be Italian? Come on in!

Share your thoughts.

How to Speak Italian in South Philly

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 15 Jan 2015 13:22:00 +0000

Last night when I was updating the link for PhillyTawk, I came across this old video of Dom Irrera talking about how Italians in South Philly talk. I'd like to say his examples are largely stereotypical but I can't. Just the names of the neighborhood guys alone made me laugh out loud. Granted, I can only agree with him as it pertains to South Philly Italians when I was growing up, but if you're 40 or older, I'm betting you can relate, too.

Enjoy!

Click here:
How to Speak Italian

Gatzadeels and Jungadels

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 15 Jan 2015 02:31:00 +0000

These are two words I grew up with and I have no idea if my mom made them up or they are so butchered beyond recognition that I cannot find the correct spelling.
I have a feeling gatzadeels comes from the word cazzo which is the word for a male body part, but I'm not sure.

Anyway, they both mean little pieces of decor- figurines, statues, decorative plates, souvenirs, random pieces of unmatching "art," basically things that must be dusted and are infinitely breakable. Gatzadeels don't have to be cheap and junkie but jungadels are.

Growing up, my mom did not have any of those. She has a credenza with a few pieces of Lladro and a piece or two of Royal Daulton, and some Capo Dimonte flowers but that's it in terms of figurines. "Simplicity is elegance" is her motto. And I can't believe it, but I adhere to it. I hate what I call "little shits" all over the house. They junk up a nice clean line of a mantel or a shelf where one or two pieces suffice. In short, my home is "gazadeel"-free.

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The Philadelphia Accent

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 15 Jan 2015 01:18:00 +0000

I'm reposting this video (Philly Tawk by Sean Monahan) because the original post from a while back has gotten some hits and comments that it wasn't working. This should work now. Enjoy!

Philly Tawk

The Dreaded Christmas Eve Tradition

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 24 Dec 2014 18:12:00 +0000

There are fewer rituals that my family performs that I dread more than Christmas Eve dinner. It should be re-named "Torture Me Night."

No, it's not the Christmas carols that my kids and I sing to far away family and friends in operatic voices over the phone- I like that part. It's not the anticipation of seeing the kids wake up and see what "Santa" brought them the next day. It's not even the exhaustion I feel every December 24th at about 1:00 in the morning, having wrapped all the gifts when the kids finally have fallen asleep. Nope. It's CHRISTMAS EVE DINNER.

What could be so dreadful about a Christmas Eve dinner? Well, my medagon friends, a typical Italian dinner on December 24th involves a long-standing and for me, unappealing traditional meal- SEAFOOD. It's the one night a year when I, myself, wear the title of "Medagon," given to me by my parents. I don't eat seafood. Non mi piace. It never has appealed to me, with the exception of fish- tilapia, haddock, tile fish, tuna, and my favorite: flounder.
So, the meal to which I was subjected for every year of my life until I was 33 and moved far away enough from my family to not go back on Christmas Eve, just Christmas Day, is an array of "Seven Fish(es)." I used to refer to this as the Parade of Fishes as a kid, for the way they just kept coming out of the kitchen.

To qualify for the "Feast," It does not have to be actual fish- any seafood will do. The offending fare can include (but is not limited to) the following: -flounder or another kind of fish (in my family it was breaded flounder, the only kind I would eat as a kid, to make me feel included and loved) -crabmeat -shrimp -mussels -clams -lobster -calamari (I think this appeared on the table once or twice at my grandparents’ house where we would spend Christmas Eve until 1986 when they moved to Florida) -tuna (in the marinara sauce) and the one dish that my mom opted out of making and left it to my dad and grandmother: bacala (as in dried codfish, not "Bobby."). It gets soaked a long time before preparation to remove the heavy salt taste and is served with a red sauce. You'd have to rip out my taste buds to get it to taste good to me.

The seafood was always served with linguini (I prefer capellini, but I took what I could get) with the tuna or crab sauce and I would get a "medagon special," a dish of linguini with melted butter and Locatelli cheese. Nope, I wouldn't even eat the sauce if it had fish in it.

Now some people ask why the number seven? It's debatable- the number of days to create the universe, some say, others say the number is 13- one for each apostle plus Jesus (keep me out of THOSE houses) and my mom's version- any odd number under seven. So, when I got was on my own, I made that number become ONE.

The next few years I started a new tradition of flying in the face of tradition and, allegedly, Canon Law (this proved untrue- I could find nothing that says you cannot eat meat on Christmas Eve) and going out to an Italian restaurant on Christmas Eve and ordering anything but fish. For me, that means veal. On the way home from dinner the kids and I would sing to anyone who would answer the phone while we drove, and then swear to them that we were not drunk and neither were the children. The kids sang in celebration of Christmas. I sang in celebration of not having to eat fish.

So, go ahead, take away my Italian membership card, but before you do that, you should know that this Italian-American did not drink wine, either, until the age of 45 (sweet, please). Good God, a 7-fish dinner with only dry wine to drink- what a terrible thought. blechhhh

Pasteen!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 09 Jul 2013 22:05:00 +0000

Actually it's called Pastina and my mom made it for me and my sister when we were kids and usually when we were not feeling well. I don't recall ever having it for dinner, but if we were home sick, my mom would make some "pasteen" with butter and Locatelli cheese for lunch. Years later (now 2 years ago) I saw it in the very non-Italian area where I live now and bought five boxes. It snowed the next day and I made some for my kids, just like my mom made it. When I put the first spoonful in my mouth I felt like a little kid in South Philly in the 70's again. It was unreal how the taste did that to me. My kids love it and ask for it often. Unfortunately the stores here don't always carry it so when I do see it, I stock up.

How did your mom prepare your pastina?

Bensonhurst Italian Spelling Bee

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 15 Feb 2013 05:11:00 +0000

Mark Consuelos (1/2 Italian and speaks it) and Kelly Ripa (also Italian) watch their son in the Bensonhurst spelling bee, hosted by Lorraine Bracco and Paulie Walnuts from the Sopranos. Enjoy!

Bensonhurst Italian Spelling Bee MADON!

My Philadelphia Accent?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 15 Feb 2013 04:50:00 +0000

Repost from 2008

I have been spending a lot of time with a certain New Yorker who, while he does not have many remnants of his Lawn Guyland accent (which I actually love) after spending way too many years in the Pittsburgh sticks, he does love to point out my Phluphian accent. So in his honor today I am reposting this.

For 38 years (now 44) of my life I spoke with a Philly accent and never realized how heavy it was. I had never paid attention to the way I chop the ends of my words off, or slur some words together. That was until I did an internet radio show early in 2007 and a friend of mine in Florida harrassed me about my thick Philly accent. So I started paying attention to how I speak and it's a wonder people know what I am saying! I'm way in the suburbs of Philly now and not many people speak like I do. But most of the people here are from New York or Joisey so they don't really notice. So now I catch myself saying words that other people pronounce correctly and I mangle. That's "cuz" I'm originally from "Sowfilly" (that would be South Philly, but to me, it's all one word).

I never realized that instead of saying "leg" I say "leyg." I do remember being teased by friends in high school because I couldn't (and still can't) pronounce "mirror." I say "mir-eh" and of course it's not "window" for me, it's "windeh." I say "anutheh" not "another" and "aready" not "already." My dad always corrected my pronunciation of "crayon" which was (and still is) "crown"' as if I had a speech impediment. Come to find out, it is no such thing! It's a product of my upbringing ovah deh! "Didn't" is "Dint" and "nothing" to me has neither an "o" nor an "ing." (Nuthin) If you bother me while I'm "writin" I'll say "whadyawan?"

For vacation, I just go "Downehshur" which means the Jersey Shore, and by the way, you don't go to the shore, you're not "at" or "on" the shore, you go down the shore and you are then down the shore. I pay the lectric bill, (it's a cuppela hundred dollahs but I wish it were only a cuppela corders) and I don't know what happens to the "E." I dry off with a tal after I showeh with wuhduh.

I never say "youse" or even "yiz" but I do call everyone "you guys."

There's a more complete list I found for more Philly pronunciations. I don't committ all of the crimes on the list but I have some not on there!. Check it out!

Check out this video of how Philldulphyuns talk- it's spot on!

And here is a great link for more detailed reasons as to why we tawk funny- at University of PA they actually study this phenomenon!

So, YO, next time you hear someone with a funny Philly accent speak, take a look at your own regional accent ovah deh.

Don't Eat That, That's for Thursday!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 00:31:00 +0000

In October, Superman and I went to see Sebastian Maniscalco, possibly one of the funniest comedians I have ever seen, in Philadelphia. His act centers around being Italian... gee, I can relate to that like 1000%. He talks about everything from the horns hanging in his car to the bag for money the bride has to carry at the wedding. We met him after the show and he is a genuinely humble guy, and I wished the show had been longer. It was a riot. Here is a clip if you have never seen him before, by all means go to you tube and search for more. This is one of our favorites- Sebastian questioning tattoos. Enjoy!

My favorite Sigi, Pec, shared a video with me yesterday called "Sh*t Italian Moms Say." It's along the lines of the other videos that are out there on You Tube like "Sh*T Jewish Moms Say", etc. It's a collection of stereotypical expressions and sweeping generalizations of what Italian-American moms say and do. I watched it with my mom and my sister and we pointed out each expression that she was guilty of saying. It has more of a New York feel but there were plenty of expressions and mannerisms that the three Philadelphia-born Italians sitting at the table were guilty of as well. In fact, with nothing better to do last night, I went through it and counted. Twenty-eight of those gems were also either mine or my mother's. If you have an Italian mom from New York or South Philly or probably anywhere in between, take a look and tell me some of this doesn't ring true to you!

If you find an Italian mother portrayed by a burly dude in mismatched animal and floral print clothing wearing a wig and sporting a five o'clock shadow offensive to you, your mamma, your nonna or the Italian people in general, don't watch this. Oh, and get over yourself!

Enjoy- it's phenomenal!

Daniel Franzese, this is gold!

Butchered Italian Word of the Day

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 10 Apr 2011 05:40:00 +0000

Word of the day:

Cafone. In butchered Italian: "gavone," pronounced, "gavoan."
Meaning- someone who has no manners, someone who can't get enough. For example- at the deli counter there are sometimes free samples. Someone starts making lunch out of them. That's a gavone.

Pasta Fazool

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 26 Sep 2010 02:11:00 +0000

A recipe for the autumn.
Mangia bene!

Pasta E Fagioli

(Makes approximately 6 Servings)
1/2 cup olive oil
4 garlic cloves chopped
2 chopped carrots
1/2 onion, chopped
3 cups of crushed tomatoes (I prefer Tuttarossa for canned, if no fresh is available)
1 and a half tablespoon fresh chopped Parsley
2 cups small uncooked ditalini pasta
2 cups cannellini beans (rinsed)
1 cup of water

Salt, Pepper, Oregano & grated Pecorino Romano cheese (to taste)

Boil water
Heat olive oil.
Sautée carrots and onions until onions are transparent.
Add garlic, oregano and parsley, then tomatoes and a cup of water.
Add salt and pepper to taste
Boil then add beans and cook on medium for 40 minutes

Bring to rolling boil. Cook pasta until it's al dente and drain.
Add the pasta and the cannelini beans to tomatoes already cooking and simmer for about 7 minutes.

Who's in YOUR freezer?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 18 Jul 2010 12:31:00 +0000

I've blogged already about the Sicilian curse/supestition/hex whatever it's called, of "freezing" someone bringing negativity into your life and how, in spite of my Catholic upbringing and 12 years of parochial schooling, I believe in it. And although I am only 1/4 Sicilian, it still allows me to carry out this little ritual to keep your life free of energy vampires.

A recap. If someone in your life is causing you grief or anguish, or is so jealous of you that he or she has gone to lengths to turn others against you, or antagonizes you, vilifies you or picks fights with you and you are certain that you want nothing to do with him or her ever again, you do the following:

Get a photo of the person,
Place it face down in the freezer.
Forget about it.

The belief is that you will freeze the person out of your life. My belief is that the people's love lives will be cold and unfulfilling, or they will feel a chilly breeze all the time, or their skin gets really dry. But that's just my wishful thinking. :-)

I have a few people in my freezer who have caused me great anguish; I don't just stick people in there willy nilly. And while most of them are still peripherally in my life out of necessity, we no longer butt heads. The others have delighted me by disappearing from my life all together. They're probably too busy shivering to bother me.

I've also heard that only a person of Sicilian heritage can perform this "curse," if you will.

So, if you've crossed a Sigi lately and you're sitting at home on a Saturday night in your pj's because your dating pipe line has frozen up, or you find your teeth chattering for no reason, or you find yourself craving warm, oven-made foods to make you feel good...maybe you're under a pork loin in someone's freezer.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

A Tasty Birthday for Dad

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 14 Jun 2010 01:13:00 +0000

This weekend my family and I celebrated my awesome dad's 77th birthday. (Due to technical issues I did not post on his actual birthday this year.) I am so grateful to have him for another birthday. He's been dodging bullets for the past several years (as has been my mom).

Yesterday everyone came to my house for the party. My sister made a special point of bringing his very favorite cake- Italian cream. Actually, this cake is the only cake we ever had for birthdays growing up. A close friend of the family was a baker and every year my dad brought home an Italian cream cake- rum flavored and covered in tiny peanut bits.

I never cared for it all that much.

But don't get me wrong. I ate it. Duh! It was CAKE, after all. My favorite memory was the year my dad had "Uncle Joe" put Beatles figurines on the top for me. I wish I had saved them. But to tell you the truth, as an adult I'm not much of a cake person. I like carrot cake and ice cream cake a lot but that's the only kind I really go crazy over. I don't care much for cupcakes either. I just don't feel like wasting the calories on something I don't really like. It's too hard to work it off.
Anyway, so yesterday my sister brought this beautiful cake from an Italian bakery outside of Philly called Testa's:

It was a work of art.

Needless to say, my dad was pleased as punch.

Bocce time!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 03 May 2010 14:19:00 +0000

Growing up in suburban Philadelphia, I spent a lot of tine at my grandfather's house. We moved from Philly to a house two doors down from his and that's where the family parties always were held. As one of 12 kids, he always invited all his siblings for a yearly barbecue.

At those barbecues there were three givens. Only grilled food would be edible, as his second wife could not cook (nor was she Italian but the two are not mutually exclusive), his lawn would be meticulously manicured, that thick type of grass you could step on and lose your foot in, and there were games. Notably, horseshoes and bocce. No Italian-American outdoor gathering would be complete without a game of bocce. Just ask my dad, who broke his foot when a bocce ball fell on it! Those things are heavy!

When I got my own house with a lawn, I bought a bocce set. Last night in the 80 degree weather my set made it's 2010 debut. My daughters love it and are very competitive. It's a lot of fun and I'm happy they are taking part in the tradition. As long as they don't drop it on my foot!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Word of the Day- SCOOCH!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 14 Apr 2010 02:25:00 +0000

Growing up, if there was one word in Italian (or butchered Italian) that I heard over and over, it was the word "scooch." It means "pest," or "pain in the neck" and I believe it comes from the Italian verb "scocciatore," which means to bother.

As you can see, the poor word has been bastardized like so many other Italian words, by Italian-Americans. But when you're not a first or even second generation Italian, and you pick up words from your grandparents or even their parents, it's kind of like whisper down the lane. You know how what the original version gets all twisted up by the time it reaches the last person? It's kind of like that.

It can be used in verb or noun form.

"Claudia, don't scooch me while I'm cooking!"
"Hey, don't be a scooch- I'm trying to concentrate and you keep talking."

Enjoy your butchered word of the day.

Memories of Nonna

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 14:15:00 +0000

My little Sicilian grandmother died in 1998 at the age of 95, devastating our family. Though she was tiny, she was mighty, and left me with many great memories.
Last week I was sick with one of the worst colds I've ever had. I missed 3 days of work and could barely get out of bed on Wednesday. Nighttime was especially bad, trying to use any comfort measure I could to keep my symptoms at bay. A vapor bath, hot tea, Zicam, Dayquil, Nyquil, breathing strips, and of course, Vicks Vapor Rub.
When I was a kid and I was sick, my grandmother would always rub Vicks on my chest then pin a piece of flannel to my pajamas so the Vicks wouldn't absorb or smear. I forever associate Vicks not just with mentholating action and relief, but with being cared for and loved.
Every time I use Vicks or even smell it, I think of my little Nonna, Santa, (her name just happens to mean "saint" in Italian) and I smile. It took a long time for me to smile and not get choked up when I think of her but it's true, time heals all wounds.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

My favorite site in Philly

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 05:07:00 +0000

This is Boathouse Row in Fairmount Park, on the Schuykill River next to the Philadelphia Museum of Art. These are not residences, they house shells for crew for the Schuykill Navy. At night they turn on the Christmas lights and they look like gingerbread houses. Ever since I was a little kid I loved driving past this place, which is a national historical landmark. I finally got around to taking pictures of it this summer and again last weekend. Next I want to see a regatta there and take photos of that.

Historical tidbit- this part of the area is called Kelly Drive, named after the brother of Philly's own Princess Grace of Monaco. John Kelly, former Philly councilman, was an oarsman and an Olympian.

I Was a Fraudulent Philadelphian

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 20 Jan 2010 08:43:00 +0000

When people think of Philly they think of the birthplace of Independence, the historical buildings,

the World Champion Phillies (1980, 2008), ill-tempered sports fans (guilty, but we just want ONE Superbowl ring!), soft pretzels, Will Smith, and of course, the movie Rocky. If there were any doubt about the latter, a stop at the Philadelphia Museum of Art will prove it. There, according to one of the events coordinators, tour buses pull up to the curb, dozens of people get out, run up the steps toward the museum, jump up and down in victory as Sylvester Stallone did in the movie Rocky, and run back to the waiting bus, and leave. On my visit this weekend I saw this with my own eyes. I counted eight people within a few minutes, rushing up the steps to reenact this iconic scene. One of those not entirely sane or physically fit people was me.

Understand that the Rocky series (Rocky 3 at the top of the list) are among my favorite movies of all time, from when I was a kid. And since then I have always wanted to run those steps. Not only did I never run up them, I never even walked them. For some inexplicable reason, yours truly, a former art student, never stepped foot inside the museum. I've been in others around the world and the USA but not the one in my own hometown. Not the one made famous in my favorite movies, by one of my favorite actors. I had never seen the iconic Rocky statue from Rocky 3 that Stallone had donated to the city. I was a fraudulent Philadelphian.

Finally this summer, I visited the museum. It was 90 degrees and while I stared at the steps, envisioning rushing up them, I also envisioned passing out from heat stroke at the top and being carted off to the ER. As I was with an out of town friend that day, I didn't think a trip to the hospital would be a good addition to the itinerary. So I took photos of the statue and the Greek-styled museum
and skipped the steps.

But this past Saturday, camera gear in hand and children in tow, over thirty years from Stallone's run, I did it. At age 41. And while I work out 5 times a week, I didn't expect to make it up the steps with my busted knees intact. While my daughter filmed and added commentary, I braved the winter chill and ran those damn steps. Man, there were so many! I took the second half two at a time to finish quicker, though not quite as earnestly as Rocky had. I got to the top what seemed like 4 hours later and looked down at my kids jumping up and down, happy that I had done something that I had talked about doing since I was 10 years old. Then I tasted the lactic acid build up in my mouth and felt my heart pounding in my throat. Wow, I'm going to have a heart attack because I waited until I was middle-aged to do this, I thought. I slumped against the wall and waited until my heart made its way back to its proper location. Ten minutes later I walked back down then up again after filming my daughter do the run, but with ease. Teenagers!

So now I can say that I've been to the museum, run up the steps and seen the statue. I don't know how much of a real Philadelphian that makes me, especially when the guy at the bottom of the steps was selling fake Philly soft pretzels along with Rocky t-shirts, but it made me a real Rocky fan and I got to cross off an item on my bucket list.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Get Your Red Undies Ready!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 02:42:00 +0000

(Fireworks display under Brooklyn Bridge, October, 2009)

As an Italian-American, I can't say I have followed the Italian traditions for New Years, perhaps out of laziness or because my kids don't like sausage and I don't like lentils very much. (Ok, it's not the taste as much as the after effects, but I digress) So we don't eat anything special in my family on New Year's Eve. But in Italy, New Year's Eve is celebrated with a meal consisting of a special type of spiced sausage called cotechino, it is said to symbolize fat wallets in the coming year, and lentils, which, because of their shape, symbolize coins, and as such, prosperity for the coming year.

Italians frequently drink spumante as their wine of choice on Capodanno (New Year's Eve), and their underwear of choice is traditionally red- it's supposed to bring luck in the new year. So, after a meal of sausage and lentils, washed down with some spumante, you take in the traditional fireworks display wearing your red underwear. If you have the time, you can toss some old items you don't need anymore out of your window to get rid of the old and ring in the new.

So, to everyone, Felice Anno Nuovo! And if you want to try the cotechino and lenticche recipe, here's one, courtesy of florencevillas.com

1 1/2 cups green lentils
2 tablespoons olive oil
1/4 pound prociutto, pancetta, or bacon, diced
1 medium onion, diced
1 carrot, diced
1 small fennel bulb, diced
1 shallot, minced
2 or 3 cloves garlic, minced
1 pound sweet Italian sausage with fennel
1 medium can of chopped tomatoes
1 small dried chili pepper, or red pepper flakes to taste
1 bay leaf
salt and pepper to taste
Most lentils sold these days do not need to be soaked ahead, but it is best to follow any package directions that come with the lentils you buy. Put lentils in a pot of boiling, salted water; when the water boils again, cover and simmer for about 30 minutes or according to package directions. Drain..

Saute the bacon, onion, carrot, fennel, shallot and garlic in the olive oil in a large skillet. When vegetable are soft, remove and brown the sausage in the same skillet. Set sausage aside on paper towels.

Remove all fat from the skillet and return the bacon and vegetables to the pan; add the tomatoes, hot pepper, and bay leaf, and simmer for 20 minutes. Add the sausage and heat through, simmering for 5 minutes or more.

Season with salt and pepper and serve on a large platter accompanied by mashed potatos.

Serves 4 to 6 people

PIXIE MAGIC

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 04:00:00 +0000

One day in 1964, my mom left work on her lunch break and went to Market Street in Philly bought a collection of pixie knee hugger dolls for Christmas decorations. They were made in Japan and were decked out in sparkly outfits and hats. She still lived at home with my grandparents then and she began hanging them from the chandelier at Christmastime. When she and my dad got married, she took the pixies with her and hung them from the chandelier in her new home. They have been dancing from the chandelier for over 40 years.

My mom, who is the consumate Christmas decorator and should really be doing the window dressing at Barney's, begins decorating the day after Thanksgiving. She sends my dad up to the attic and the procession of boxes begins. She carefully unpacks everything and places them in their pre-arranged spots. As kids, she would direct me and my sister as to where to place each decoration. But it was watching my mom hang up those pixies that I most looked forward to every year. They were my favorite Christmas decorations and I used to watch them sway and turn as they dangled. When Christmas dinner got boring, I would stare at the pixies and blow up towards the chandelier when nobody was watching so I could make them dance. I don't know if as a kid I thought they were magical or just mesmerizing, all glittery and sparkly, but to me, they represented the holidays at home.

One year, as an adult, I was discussing decorations with my mom. She had recently had surgery and didn't feel up to the usual lavish decorating marathon. I said "you're going to put the pixies up, aren't you?" "I don't think so, it's a lot of work." I said "You have to put them up! I'll come do it for you! It's not Christmas without them!" I was actually whining! Well, she put them up afterall, without my help. WHEW!

In 2006 I decided that in my new home where I finally had a chandelier, I wanted some of those pixies. I began to look online because I had never seen then in any stores. I couldn't find them anywhere online except eBay- and those were all used. There were no new ones to be found- they hadn't been made in years! Rats! So I did the only thing I could, because by then I was hell bent on getting those pixies- I started bidding on other people's throw aways! But guess what? Many other people had the same idea! The ones I wanted- the sparkly, blingy-outfitted ones, were rare- I could only find the ones dressed in felt. So the prices were high and I kept getting outbid. In 2006 I managed to win a few but not enough for my chandelier. The next year I went through the same thing- I won a few auctions and had to salvage a few good ones from each lot because some were filthy or just really battered. I won some more in 2008 after Christmas and by then I had about a dozen. I was already excited for Christmas 2009.

It's now 2009 and I finally have my complete collection of other people's used Christmas decorations. Today I decorated the house and the tree and the first thing I did was the chandelier. It took over an hour to get the clear string attached to their little hats if they didn't have their original string, then position them. They are larger than the ones my mom has, but this year I got to recreate a little childhood magic in my home for my children. I hope these don't disintegrate from age because when they are married, they will only have a pile of pixie dust!

Where's the Lasagna?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 15:05:00 +0000

Sigh. I don't like turkey much. I'll eat it but given my druthers I'd rather not. When I was young and we used to go to my late Aunt Rita's house and she always made the American food- turkey, potatoes, veggies, etc. But in a nod to our Italian-ness she always had a huge dish of lasagna, too. Now that's what I eyeballed when the table was heaped with "cibo.". Everyone else took some of everything. Not me. Just lasagna. And my Aunt Carole's ( rest her soul) cranberry nut mold. Madon! I was a happy camper.

Today turkey day is at my younger sister's house and it's all American. I'm bringing sweet potato casserole with pecan topping- my dad loves it. I'm working out extra this morning so I have no guilt later, needless to say.

At dinner I always ask everyone to name something they are grateful for besides health. As I said in my previous post, I'm grateful for my family and friends who have made my 40th year on earth very meaningful.

I'm also grateful for my wonderful career that I absolutely love. Eighteen years of teaching and only one tough one. Not bad. A student asked me last year if I knew when I'd stop teaching. I said "when they pry the chalk out of my cold, dead hands."

I wanted to make special mention today of my dearest friends. I'm grateful, in particular, for Michael, Stephanie, Julio and Sharon who have given me such happy moments and memories this year.

I wish I could be grateful for lasagna today but I think not having it will make me grateful tomorrow at weigh-in at the gym.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! Think about what you have to be grateful for today and don't forget it!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

The Maloik (Malocchio) or the "Evil Eye"

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 17 Jan 2009 03:19:00 +0000

While not Italian in origin, many Italians believe in il malocchio (often pronounced "maloik.") Part superstition, part tradition, it is the belief in the evil eye, placed on someone when someone else is jealous or envious of the other's good luck. The malocchio then manifests itself in some sort of misfortune onto the cursed person, usually some physical ailment.

It can also be done involuntarily, like when you see a beautiful baby and you compliment the parent. That could be construed as envy and the parent must then say something like "God bless her" right after it to ward off a possible malocchio, many believing that even though the compliment may have sounded sincere, its real motive was envy. That's why my cousin made me put a red ribbon over the threshold of my new home and told me to throw salt out of all the doors- to protect us from envious people. The person who gives the evil eye is not necessarily evil, but does indeed harbour jealousy.

One can also ward it off by wearing a horn (cornuto) around the neck
or making a gesture with your hand (mano cornuta-which you may know from heavy metal concerts). It is said that Italian men wear the cornuto to protect their genitalia from the malocchio, as the curse is said to harm sperm.

I can't say that I believe or disbelieve the malocchio and I only have one indirect experience with it...

When my mom was in her twenties, she got a great job with the government. Soon after, she began getting terrible headaches that aspirin would not relieve. She suffered with them intermittently for a few weeks when it dawned on my litte Sigi grandmother what the problem was.

"Someone gave you the maloik. (malocchio).""You're crazy. Who would do that?" my mom responded, not telling her she was crazy for believing in "stregheria" or Italian witchcraft, but, rather, for thinking someone would put the curse on her. (The irony that my grandmother was a devout Catholic whose church forbids belief in witchcraft is not lost on me.)
"Who knows? You have that nice job now- someone is jealous and put it on you."
"Nobody is jealous of me."
"I want you to go see the strega down the street." The local strega, or Italian witch, was known to be capable of removing the horrible malocchio that afflicted unassuming Italians in the South Philadelphia neighborhood where they lived.
"I'm not going to the strega. Forget about it. The headaches will go away."
My grandmother never mentioned the malocchio again to my mother.

About a week after the strega conversation, my mom could not find her watch when she was getting ready for work. She asked my grandmother if she had seen it but she had not. My mom, a very organized and detail-oriented individual (you say anal, I say detail-oriented) who never misplaces anything, was disturbed by the missing watch. She looked everywhere for it and finally resigned herself to the fact that it must have slipped off to or from work. The stress only contributed to her constant headaches. (Knowing my mom like I do, I don't for a minute believe that she accepted that her watch was gone, and she probably continued to search for it for at least 24 hours more.)

A few days later my mom woke up and found her watch on her bureau. She put it on and asked my grandmother how it got there. My grandmother told her she didn't know. When she got home from work she grilled my grandmother about the watch.

"Are you sure you didn't borrow it and not put it back?"
"Bah, why do I need a watch? I don't go anywhere!"
"Did Daddy find it and put it in my room?"
"I don't think so. So... how are your headaches?"
"Funny, I didn't get one today."
My sigi grandmother smiled but did not say anything.
"Why are you smiling?"
"I took your watch to the strega since you wouldn't go yourself. She took off the malocchio."
"Mom!" she yelled
"It worked, didn't it?" My mom didn't know what to say to that. It was more troubling to her that someone had put the malocchio on her then the fact that there was a Sicilian witch living on their street who claimed to be able to both curse and remove curses.

How did the strega allegedly remove the malocchio. Probably by inserting the tip of a needle into the eye of another needle while saying: “Occhi e contro e perticelli agli occhi, crepa la invida e schiattono gli occhi." That means “Eyes against eyes and the holes of the eyes, envy cracks and eyes burst.” She then dropped the needles on top of three drops of olive oil in water and sprinkled three pinches of salt into the water. The strega would then jab scissors into the water through the oil three times and cut the air above the bowl three times and POOF! The spell was FINITO!

...or the aspirin finally kicked in.

You Know You're Italian When...

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 13 Dec 2008 06:23:00 +0000

Are you unsure of your Italian-ness? Have you been living among medagons so long that you think you may have lost your identity? Well here is a "simple" check list to prove that you are Italian.

You know you are Italian if, during your childhood, at least 30 of these things ocurred:

1.You called pasta "macaroni."

2.You spent your entire childhood thinking what you ate for lunch was pronounced "sangwich."

3.Your family dog understood Italian.

4.Every Sunday afternoon of your childhood was spent visiting your grandparents and extended family.

5.You've experienced the phenomena of 150 people fitting into 50 square feet of yard during a family cookout.

6.You were surprised to discover the FDA recommends you eat three meals a day, not seven.

7.You thought the pig each year and having salami, capacollo, pancetta and prosciutto hanging out to dry from your shed ceiling was absolutely normal.

8.You ate pasta for dinner at least three times a week, and every Sunday.

9.You grew up thinking no fruit or vegetable had a fixed price and that the price of everything was negotiable through haggling.

10.You were as tall as your grandmother by the age of seven.

11.You thought everyone's last name ended in a vowel.

12.You thought nylons were supposed to be worn rolled to the ankles.

13.Your Mom's main hobby is cleaning.

14.You were surprised to find out that wine was actually sold in stores.

15.You thought that everyone made their own bottled tomato sauce.

16.You never knew what to expect when you opened the margarine, after all you thought washing out and reusing margarine containers was normal.

17.You never ate meat on Christmas Eve or any Friday for that matter.

18.You ate your salad after the main course.

19.You thought Catholic was the only religion in the world.

20.Your were beaten at least once with a wooden spoon or broom.

21.You thought every meal had to be eaten with a hunk of bread in your left hand.

22.Your grandmother never threw anything away, you thought seeing washed plastic bags hanging on the clothes line was normal.

23. You dreaded taking out your lunch at school, you would pray that you didn't have melanzane again.

24.You can understand Italian but you can't speak it.

25.You have at least one relative who came over on the boat.

26.All of your uncles fought in a World War.

27.You have at least six male relatives named Tony, Frank, Joe or Louie.

28.You have relatives who aren't really your relatives.

29.You have relatives you don't speak to.

30.You drank wine before you were a teenager.

31.You relate on some level, admit it, to the Godfather and the Sopranos.

32.You grew up in a house with a yard that didn't have one patch of dirt that didn't have a flower or a vegetable growing out of it.

33.Your grandparent's furniture was as comfortable as sitting on plastic. Wait!!!! You were sitting on plastic!

34.You thought that talking loud was normal.

35.You thought sugared almonds and the Tarantella were common at all weddings.

36.You thought everyone got pinched on the cheeks and money stuffed in their pockets by their relatives.

37.Your mother is overly protective of the males in the family no matter what their age.

38.There was a crucifix in every room of the house, including the cellar.

39.Boys didn't do house work because it was women's work.

40.You couldn't date a boy without getting approval from your father. (Oh, and he had to be Italian)

41. February 14th is VALENTIMES Day

42.Your Christmas tree was silver.

43.You have at least one irrational fear or phobia that can be attributed to your mother.

44.Every condition, ailment, misfortune, memory loss and was attributed to the fact that you didn't eat something.

MMMMMMM MEATBALLS!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 04 Dec 2008 01:32:00 +0000

Meatballs. I love them- well, not just any meatballs, there are only a few people's whose I will eat. Part of that is the skeeve factor- I won't eat them in restaurants, houses where cats are allowed to roam the counters, or people who have questionable hygiene- nose pickers, ear pickers, people who rinse instead of use soap after using the bathroom. I'm not exactly a germophobe but since you make meatballs with your bare hands, you don't want to worry about the cleanliness of the chef. And I really hate picking hair out of my food. You get the idea.

I don't really have a preference as to the degree of softness of the meatballs. Mine tend to be a little crisp on the outside and soft inside.

My meatballs are delicious. I say that completely immodestly because even my fussy children stand next to me while I am cooking them to eat them right out of the pan, blowing on them so they don't burn their mouths. Plus my mom said they are good and to me, that's the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval.

So here is my recipe for meatballs.

One pound of ground triple meat mix (also called meatloaf mix- veal, pork and beef)
two eggs
two cups of cubed bread (bakery section) OR stale Italian bread, coarsely ground in blender (not too fine)
1/2 to 3/4 cup of Locatelli cheese (if you don't have that, get a pecorino/romano blend, I'm serious, the secret is in the cheese) Do not, I repeat, DO NOT BUY THE CHEESE IN THE GREEN CAN- THIS IS NOT ACTUAL CHEESE! I highly recommend you try some Locatelli if you have not tasted it- you will never go back. You can order it here right from Philly. All you have to do is grate it.
2 cloves of fresh chopped garlic OR if you are desperate and cannot get fresh garlic, use about 6 teaspoons of garlic powder (NOT garlic salt)
2 tablespoons of dried parsley
1 teaspoon of dried basil
1/2 half to 3/4 cups of water to moisten bread
1/4 tsp. of salt
1/4 tsp of black pepper
olive oil for frying

Add the water to the cubed bread, slowly, and mix it together until the bread sticks into a ball. If you use too much water the bread won't form a ball. (If you are using bread crumbs instead of cubed bread, skip this step until later)
Mix the meat with the eggs. You have to use your hands, not utensils, it's just easier.
Add the garlic, parsley, cheese, basil, salt and pepper
Mix the meat well to blend everything.
Mix the wet bread mixture with the meat thoroughly.
**If you are using bread crumbs, mix them into the meat mixture and add the water to the mixture slowly. The meat should stick together. If it falls apart, you used too much water- add more bread)

Roll the meat into balls.
Heat the olive oil until fragrant. **If the oil is not hot when you place the meatballs in the pan, the bottom of the meatballs will stick to the pan and come apart. I learned this the hard way!

Place meatballs in frying pan, don't crowd them, they need their space, and cook until the meatball is brown and the outside is a little crispy. You'll need to repeat this step two or three times unless you want to use multiple frying pans.

Again, give "Lucatell" a try. If you can't find it in your grocery store (depends on where you live- I spent 6 years without it when I lived in Lancaster, PA!!) You can order a big wedge from DiBruno Brothers, located in Philly's Italian Market and have it shipped to you. You will not be sorry!

Postscript: Avid reader Joe Gabagool wrote me to say that under no circumstances should garlic powder be used in place of fresh garlic and that anyone who would use garlic powder has no business making meatballs. I disagree with this- if you're stuck, as I have been with ground meat in a bowl and oil heating when I realized the garlic was shriveled, garlic powder can substitute fine. And to prove it, when Joe Gabagool comes ovah for dinner in a few weeks, I'll make him try both kinds of meatballs. I'll even serve them in a cup.