The Three Sisters

My Mother Loved to Cookand there was joy in each moment she was preparing and even more joy in enjoying her feasts – everything from a simple homemade chicken broth with quadretti to her legendary chicken cutlets to her almond biscotti to her Sunday sauce that will always be the favorite dish of her grandchildren in subsequent years.

During these winter months in Connecticut, I hit the jackpot of truly observing my mom in the kitchen.  I was not working at the time. Without a car or much to do except care for Zoë, I became acutely interested in everything my mom was doing with her vast knowledge of making extraordinary dishes.  And, it was during this time that I would dedicate a part of each day to handwriting her recipes in a journal that, 28 years later, I still have and use all of the time.  

Dani (aka Daniela)

As the middle daughter of the three girls brought into this world by my immigrant parents, I worked hard at quietly fitting into a larger than life Italian scene that played out in a childhood home filled with happy moments and special memories. There were endless events to observe from my seat at the table, where I often just listened and watched to see how things would play out. I learned that big decisions, important conversations, and Italian drama often began and ended in our warm kitchen that was outfitted with a red brick fireplace handcrafted by my dad and Nonno.

I was most certainly defined by a mother who was so nurturing and clever that on cold winter mornings our parochial school uniforms were tucked into baseboard heaters, for warming up, so that they didn’t feel cold when she dressed me and my sisters (in the kitchen) for school. Right after getting dressed we were treated to a latte (decades before they became an American popularity) and a breakfast of sweet homemade delights that often featured Italian cookies or panettone bread.

We often hear that moms are filled with wisdom, but our mom’s amazing wisdom came with an Italian “it will make you feel better” meal or snack worthy of re-telling and sharing in this sisterly blog, honoring a mother who almost never called us by our given names and instead called us “Gioia di Mamma.” Now the joy is all ours as Elle, Nadia and I set out to share her unforgettable recipes, traditions, superstitions, and upbringing in our extraordinary Italian-American home.

Nadia

The first house we lived in was in a modest neighborhood in New London, Connecticut. Our neighborhood was the kind of place every kid dreamed about.  It was warm and safe and real.  It was a feast for the senses.  Like us, all of our neighbors had great gardens of flowers, fruits and vegetables, all in vivid colors.  You could hear exactly what was going in the three houses closest to you (when Angie was doing laundry or Mrs. T was picking her apples). And you could smell Mom’s cooking within a ten foot radius of our house.  That smell was home.  When Mom called for dinner, we ran.  

Our kitchen was seldom quiet.  People came in and out all day.  Everyone said that Mom should put in a revolving door because there was so much foot traffic.  It was our normal.  Little old Italian ladies (though they were probably younger than I am now) would pop in and stay most of the day while we drifted in and out ourselves.  So many recipes were shared during those visits and we were all three completely oblivious to the details, too busy taking off for games of kick the can and hide and seek to pay much attention to the oral history (those recipes were seldom written down) that was playing out in our little kitchen.  

When we were actually in the kitchen, we were helpers, not apprentices.  We were called over here and there to stuff the tortellini, cream the butter and sugar, or stir the sauce.  As children, sitting through a whole recipe was rare.  Mom never required that.  She never shooed us away, but when we were all done helping, she gave us a warm kiss on the cheek, called us “Gioia di Mamma” (Italian for “Mom’s joy”), and let us go off and be kids, while she continued to work some sort of magic in that modest kitchen.  To this day, I miss that kitchen, I miss Mom, and I miss her cooking.  Over time, each of us collected Mom’s recipes, in her writing, in Dad’s writing, and in ours.  And every time we cook one of Mom’s recipes, we are back in that kitchen with her, for a little while.