Crazy in the Kitchen (20 page)

My mother takes over, serves our meal. Through the haze of alcohol, we see how much our guests are enjoying the food. We know
that what we have created is magnificent.

We make it through the meal. Through dessert— cannoli, which we've bought at the Italian pastry shop. We're not yet up to
scaling the dessert mountain of food preparation. Neither of us takes a bite.

We see our guests to the door, wave them away, rush to the bathroom, and vomit ourselves into oblivion.

Nonetheless, we are thrilled. We believe that we have joined a secret society of food lovers, and the pleasure we take in
making food and eating it, sees us through many difficult times in our marriage.

For years, when I thought about the first time I ate lobster, the night my mother cooked for Ernie for the first time, I always
became angry. I thought it was because what she cooked for him was better than anything she ever cooked for me. Which meant
she knew what good food was. Which meant she could have cooked a good meal for me if she chose. Which meant that her not cooking
a good meal for me was deliberate.

Now I see that I became angry because my mother was happy. I did not know my mother in this new manifestation. I had seen
evidence of happiness, in photographs of her smiling, something she rarely did. But she only smiled in photos of her with
other women (the women she called her girlfriends). Never in photos of her with my father, or with me, or my sister.

There they are, big-breasted women in bathing suits with little pleated skirts over sumptuous thighs, ranked together after
what must have been an exhilarating plunge into a turbulent sea.
(My
mother, swimming? Facing danger?)
Well-dressed women in tweed suits, stockings, pumps, long hair gathered into snoods, ranked together for the annual Kresge
company portrait.
(My mother, working,
talking with customers, selling shoes?)
Glassy-eyed women leaning into each other at parties while their husbands were away at war.
(My
mother tipsy, enjoying herself, telling jokes?)

With this young man seated across from her at the table (she had made sure of that), she seemed happier than I had ever seen
her. That sinkhole of sorrow I knew had disappeared for this young man. My young man.

He had a wonderful, engaging smile. An
I'm so glad to see you!
kind of smile. An
Aren't we going to have fun together?
kind of smile. A
Seeing
you just made my day
kind of smile. And so it was easy to smile back.

All that smiling had attracted me when we met while I was in college. But we had known each other since high school.

We despised each other. He rode a motorcycle (purple, with rusting wire wheels), wore a black leather jacket, hung out with
hoods even though he wanted to become a doctor. He played the Italian American thug, which masqueraded his success in school,
his quick and inquiring mind, his sweetness, his love of his mother— all liabilities where we came from.

He thought I was stuck up and collegiate, even though I had a bad reputation, spent most of my free time getting drunk at
parties and sleeping with a boy I wasn't dating, who had a "real" girlfriend. And I was nasty. Whenever I saw him, I insulted
him. He insulted me. Our banter was filled with mutual scorn and sexual innuendo.

We reconnect over a game of bridge at a mutual friend's, in the summer of my sophomore year in college. I'm surprised— and
none too happy— to find him there. But since I've last seen him, he's turned (surprise, surprise) into someone nice, cute,
smart, and funny, and he plays a mean game of bridge, finessing the ass off my partner. He's attracted to me (he tells me
later) because of my wise-ass comments through the game (not, now, directed at him), my brains, my independence.

I wonder what's happened to the thug I used to hate. He wonders what's happened to the brat who used to give him such a hard
time.

Later that evening, he comes to my house. We sit outside in his car and talk and listen to music. My grandmother shines a
flashlight out the window at us, which is what she always does when I sit in a car, outside my house, with a boy. But he's
not annoyed like my other boyfriends. He thinks it's funny. He knows the strange ways of Italian grandparents.

For the first month, we talk— about philosophy, existentialism, Sartre, Camus, psychology, religion. There is no sex.

We eat a lot of pizza (plain, extra cheese, well done) at Sano's Pizza Parlor. It sits on a plateau overlooking the Hackensack
River Valley. And because we are besotted with each other, the sun setting over the industrialized wasteland built in the
once pristine wilderness of the Meadowlands seems beautiful to us.

We talk about our future, our aspirations, our dreams. He's going to be a doctor. I'm going to be a high school teacher. Maybe
teach college someday, write books. We both want to have children, travel, eat wonderful food. We believe our lives will intertwine.

When we start dating, Ernie's mother is as happy as mine, and for the same reason: he's never before dated someone she considers
suitable. "Don't screw this one up," she says. "If you hurt her, I'll kill you."

Ernie's parents take us to Amerigo's, a restaurant in the Bronx serving what his family believes is the best pizza in America.
On the drive there on the Cross Bronx Expressway, I sit in the back with Ernie. He puts his arm around me. His parents don't
object.

And the pizza at Amerigo's is memorable. (Still the best I've ever eaten, including the pizza I've eaten in Italy.) It's made
by the grandmother of the proprietor, baked in a wood-burning oven. Glorious crust. Chunks of tomato. Fresh mozzarella. Fresh
basil.

It's the pizza at Amerigo's that makes me sure I want to marry this man.

When I see my mother so happy to be serving Ernie lobster, I realize how unhappy she has been with me.

There we are, gathered round a nicely set table. There is good food. Good wine. Conversation.

My mother leans forward, smiles at Ernie across the table, asks him if he'd like another helping.

"Don't mind if I do," he says, and fills his plate a second time.

"Be sure to save some room," she tells him, pleased that he likes her food. "We're having something special for dessert, something
I know you'll like."

MATCHMAKING

Just before Ernie and I get married, we hatch a misbegotten plan to introduce his maternal grandfather, who has been living
with Ernie's family since the death of his grandmother, to my grandmother, who has been living with my family since soon after
the death of my grandfather.

Their spouses have died. They are lonely. They are unhappy living with their relatives. Ernie's grandfather didn't want to
move away from his apartment in the Bronx when his wife died. But his daughters insisted he couldn't live alone; insisted
he had to live with Ernie's mother so she could care for him. He refused; got sick; went into the hospital. When he was ready
to leave, they told him they'd given up his apartment, moved his belongings. He cries about this still.

"Maybe they'll get along, become friends," Ernie says.

"Maybe they'll get married," I say, and not facetiously.

The fantasy of these two old people setting up house together makes me happy. Now that I am preparing to get married, I view
marriage as the solution to every problem. It is certainly the solution to
my
problem— wanting to move out of my parents' house which, for the daughter of an Italian American family in the 1960s, isn't
possible without getting married.

That they are both Italian, Ernie and I are certain, will be enough, we're sure, to kindle a friendship, if not spark a love
match.

But what do Ernie and I know of the numerous dialects and regional differences among Italian-born Italians? Of the loathing
that people from one part of Italy have for people from other parts of Italy? What do we know of the fact that Italian-born
Italians don't think of themselves as Italians, but as people from Sicily, or from Puglia? And not only as people from Sicily,
but as people from Palermo (not Catania); not only from Puglia, but from Rodi Garganico (not Bari)? And not only as people
from a particular town, but as people from a particular neighborhood in that town. And not only as people from a particular
neighborhood, but as people with a certain
set
of affiliations within that that neighborhood. What do we know of the racism in the North towards people from the South (in
Turin, for example, no one will rent to a Southerner)? We don't know that the South is called Africa, that Italians born in
the North often believe Southern Italians are barbarians?

What do we know of the regional differences in Italian cooking? We don't know people from one part of Italy won't eat the
food of people from another part of Italy. That people from one village cook different specialties from people in another
village. That people from one family cook the village specialty differently from the people from another family. That each
thinks the other's food is a travesty, inedible.

And what do we know of the profound divide of class in Italy? We don't know landowners do not mingle with their workers. People
who are workers do not mingle with people who are artisans. People who are peasants do not mingle with shopowners.

About all of this, we understand very little. We were born and raised in the United States. Our families have taught us virtually
nothing about the country our ancestors came from. We have learned nothing about the history of Italy, the history of the
South of Italy, the reasons for the great emigration. Neither of us speaks Italian or dialect, though each of us understands
the dialect spoken in our households.

Ernie and I see ourselves as similar because our grandparents were born in Italy. We think of ourselves as being more alike
than different, although my grandparents are from Puglia and Campania, and Ernie's are from Sicily and the Abruzzi. Ernie
and I have often heard disparaging remarks about our being Italian. And each of us has gotten into fights over it— at school,
in our neighbourhoods.

However, we have also heard from our relatives the disparaging remarks that people from various parts of Italy make about
people from other parts. We have heard our grandparents call people from Calabria hardheaded; people from Naples thieves;
people from Liguria penny-pinching; people from certain parts of the North
polenta eaters
(which means they are bland, colorless, without passion or excitement). And we have heard everyone say that anyone from anyplace
else in Italy is not to be trusted. So perhaps we should know that bringing our grandparents together is not as simple as
it seems.

On the day that has been fixed for their meeting, Ernie's grandfather arrives punctually. Ernie's mother drives him, and she'll
pick him up after she does a bit of shopping. My mother goes shopping with her; they are future in-laws; they are getting
to know each other.

(The closer we get to my wedding day, the more congenial my mother becomes, the more time she spends with Ernie's mother.
As much as I can't wait to move out of the house, so, too, it seems she can't wait for me to leave. "You are a thorn in my
side" is what my mother says when she gets mad at me.)

The plan is that we will leave the two "old folks," as my mother calls them, alone together, so they can get to know each
other. I am home, but I plan on staying upstairs, at my desk at the top of the stairs, from which I can hear what's going
on but stay out of the way.

My grandmother has refused to change her clothes for the occasion, has refused, even, to wash up or tidy her hair, irritating
my mother beyond measure. And she is a mess, her apron all stained with blood from the tripe she's been preparing. "Ma," my
mother has pleaded, to no effect, "at least change your apron, for Christ's sake." Wearing her blood-stained, battle-stained
apron, my grandmother chops her onion, her carrot, her celery stalks, her garlic, her tomatoes for the sauce for the tripe,
doing all the things she would do on a normal day.

She puts the tripe into a pot of salted water to cook it until it's tender. She ignores the time. Ignores my mother, who follows
her around, haranguing her. Ignores me, as I urge her to clean up. Ignores the fact that Ernie's grandfather will arrive shortly.

When Ernie and I planned this meeting, I had imagined my grandmother would welcome it as a change from her dull routine, which,
I had hoped, would change her life. But no.

My grandmother, exasperated with my mother and me, shouts at us in dialect. Something that sounds like "Fatifatadoi," which
I know means something like "Mind your own business." And continues stinking up the kitchen with the tripe for her supper.
When she meets Ernie's grandfather at the front door, she's red-faced and sullen from her battle with my mother.

Ernie's grandfather has dressed nattily for the occasion. He wears his good brown tweed three-piece suit, a heavily starched
white shirt with an old-fashioned rounded collar, and a cravat. He carries a small clutch of flowers from Ernie's mother's
garden for my grandmother. And he has doused himself with the cologne he always wears, which Ernie's mother complains about
because it gives her a headache.

Ernie's grandfather enters, bowing slightly. He is a very dapper dude. How can my grandmother not like him? But how could
he ever like her?

My grandmother wipes her dirty hands on her blood-stained apron, pushes a few steel-gray strands of hair away from her eyes.
Grunts a few syllables I can't understand. She takes one look at the flowers, makes a face, grabs them from his hand. She
mutters under her breath that he smells like a whore, retreats to the kitchen, where she is cooking.

Ernie's grandfather bows to me, pinches my cheek, laughs. I've met him a number of times; we can't converse, but he shows
me he likes me. He makes his way past me, and follows my grandmother into the kitchen.

As soon as he enters, she begins smashing the pots and pans down on the stove the way she does when she's furious at my mother,
although my mother has already escaped out the front door.

I'm beginning to see that this wasn't a very good idea. I'm beginning to see how different they are.

Ernie's grandfather doesn't know what to do. He hesitates. Turns. Should he retreat to the porch? Stay in the kitchen? He
hasn't even been offered a chair, and he's too much the gentleman to pull one out for himself. Should he continue standing?
Should he sit?

I want to return upstairs. But I want to see what transpires. Want to make sure my grandmother behaves herself. I go over
to her by the stove, gesture towards the refrigerator, suggest that she gives him something to eat, something to drink. But
she ignores me. I turn to leave, but hover in the doorway to the kitchen. I don't know what to do, and I don't have enough
Italian to speak to Ernie's grandfather myself.

Though my grandmother and Ernie's grandfather are both " Ita­lian" in our eyes, neither is, of course, Italian. Ernie's grandfather
is a highly skilled, cultivated man from the metropolis of Palermo, in Sicily. When my grandmother has been apprised of this,
she raises an eyebrow, mutters "Siciliano," and shrugs. She knows everything she needs to know about him.

Ernie's grandfather is well-read and well-informed. He reads the newspaper //
Progresso
from cover to cover every day. Though he doesn't understand English, he watches the news on television avidly. He has opinions
about everything. He is loquacious even if the person he's with doesn't understand what he's saying. He holds forth at Ernie's
family's supper table, which annoys Ernie's father, who insists upon silence at meals. But when he lived in the Bronx, his
opinions were highly respected and he was regarded as an orator. He sat in coffee bars catering to Italians with his admiring
cronies, and articulated his beliefs about politics, mores, and opera.

He likes President Kennedy, although he thinks he'll run into
biga
trouble; he
wonders whether the Cuban missile crisis was really a showdown; he thinks the cost of medication is an obscenity; he believes
rock and roll is nothing but noise.

He was a stone carver. He was invited to come to the United States to work on the adornments of St. Patrick's Cathedral, and
never experienced the hardships my grandmother faced. He is proud of the work he did, and talks about it often. Now, though,
he is ill with emphysema, a result of his lifelong profession, and can't live alone, though he would like to.

My grandmother ignores current events and she cares nothing about politics or world affairs, in spite of her anarchist family.
She can write her name, and she knows how to read some Italian. But she never reads. She believes that no matter who is in
charge, the people will get screwed— you have to look out for yourself, look out for your own. She is a farmworker from a
very small village in Puglia, and is superstitious and a believer in the evil eye. She attends the local Catholic church for
its ritual and to get away from our house, rather than for its system of belief.

My grandmother always earned her own living, though she never talks about her jobs. Her life with us consists of fighting
with my mother, making bread and pizza, crocheting, knitting, cooking, protecting me from my father's rages. She is tough,
spirited, and vulgar. Apart from the time she spends on Long Island with her sister, she prefers being alone, although she
doesn't mind when I sit near her, and we sometimes bake bread, make pasta, or knit together. But what she thinks about when
she sits in her chair by the window in her room, saying her rosary, staring at the New Jersey meadows, I don't know.

Ernie says everyone knows what his grandfather's thinking, what he's feeling, because he's always telling them— how much he
misses his wife, how awful it is to have been taken away from his friends, how he'll never forgive his daughters for what
they've done to him, how he loves Ernie's mother better than his other daughter with whom he fights all the time, how glad
he is that Ernie is getting married to me, how proud he is that Ernie is going to be a doctor.

I see them still. Ernie's grandfather, ever the gentleman, even in these peculiar circumstances, is politely standing in the
kitchen, his hands clasped behind his back, at a safe distance from my grandmother's vengeful splashings and spatterings.
She stands at the stove, stirring, ignoring him profoundly, looking at the wall, gazing into her pot, at her tripe, hoping
she will not ruin it. She knows she will eat it alone. She knows she will not offer him any. She knows that soon his daughter
will come to pick him up and that all she needs to do is ignore him until that time.

Ernie's grandfather edges closer to the stove, closer to the pot, closer to her, repelled by the aroma, or seduced by it,
who can say, wanting to see what my grandmother is cooking, but not wanting to provoke her. He has never met anyone like her
before, though he has seen women like her from afar. It is his job not to roil this old woman; he senses that she can become
dangerous. It is his job to be as inconspicuous as possible until his daughter returns.

Sensing the old man's nearness, my grandmother stirs even more furiously than before. Splatters of tomato sauce fly from the
pot. The tripe will take at least an hour to become tender. She will stand here and stir until it's finished. The time will
pass. And he will leave.

Ernie's grandfather retreats, afraid that his best suit will be stained. He glances at his flowers, which my grandmother has
unceremoniously thrown on the kitchen table. She has no time for such nonsense. She has work to do. Who does he think she
is?

Ernie's grandfather stands there, not knowing what else to do. Stands there until an hour has passed and his favorite daughter
comes back from doing her shopping, to rescue him. Stands there, as still and silent as the angels he has carved for St. Patrick's
Cathedral.

I retreat to my desk. This is too painful to watch.