I Loved, I Lost, I Made Spaghetti (6 page)

By the time he saw us at the end of the day, my father was usually worn out by the demands of his work and patients. When
my brothers and sisters and I were growing up, family dinners could be tense affairs. On the odd evening when a Scotch on
the rocks loosened him up, he liked to indulge in the activity that most relaxed him besides golf: the
Reader’s Digest
Word Power game. Though Italian was his first language, my father had an English vocabulary that rivaled those of most English
literature professors. He never spoke Italian at home, and subsequently we never learned it. (I’m still annoyed about this.)
The only time we heard him speak his native language was when dinner was interrupted by a call from an Italian patient whose
child had a fish bone caught in his throat or some such dire malady. If we made it through uninterrupted, my father would
quiz us afterward with the help of the
Reader’s Digest
game, making sure our word skills were up to par. While my mother took care of the dishes, he would sip an espresso or eat
a peach cut up and dropped into a glass of red wine, while we ate whatever dessert my mother was offering. I’m sure he appreciated
the care she took with our meals, but he never said so, at least not in front of us. He was serious, and there was little
light banter between them. He was profoundly interested in our education, and dinner conversations often prompted him to send
one of us for the encyclopedia whenever a subject came up that warranted further exploration. He bought us all manner of analog
teaching tools. It kills me that he missed the Internet completely; how he would have loved it, especially Wikipedia, which
would have saved my brothers and sisters and me countless trips from the kitchen to the library with heavy books in our arms.

If my father revealed affection for us, it was in the smallest ways. On summer evenings after dinner, he took us for walks
around the neighborhood to check out the local clothing boutiques; a naturalized American through and through, he was particularly
fond of a vintage clothing store, called Lulu’s Back in Town, that sold antique Levi’s jeans. He enjoyed buying clothes for
us and was especially fond of those old jeans with patches made of colorful bandannas stitched onto the knees. When he needed
to go to the hospital for evening rounds, he would con one of us into accompanying him with the promise of a stop for ice
cream at Carvel, his favorite.

My mother and father went out for dinner by themselves every Wednesday night—his penance for playing golf three days a week.
They would go to one of the excellent local Italian restaurants: Tommaso’s or Ponte Vecchio. I always wondered what my family-focused
parents would have to say to each other at a table without us kids around. My mother always remarked that they were one of
the few couples that were always talking, unlike those many sullen ones who just sat across from each other chewing and staring
into space, but I never believed her. On Saturdays, they’d go someplace smarter with other couples, usually in “the city.”
On those nights, my father would spend a longer time than my mother primping in front of the mirror on the door to his closet.
He’d try on one tie, then take it off and try another, then he’d decide maybe he should go with a bow tie. My mother would
stand by watching, ready to tear out her curly brown hair that had been coiffed hours before.

“I must be the only wife in the world who waits for her husband to finish dressing before they go out,” she would nag.

Because my father grew up in Europe during World War II, when food was scarce, he hated to see anything in our house go to
waste. He cooked one thing: minestrone that was born out of his deep fear of food spoilage. Any Saturday that was too wet
or cold for golf would find him riffling through the refrigerator, pulling out anything that seemed in peril to put in his
soup. No matter what the base, his creation consistently had the same wonderful flavor of tomato, smoky bacon, and vegetables.
He always added barley to give it a lovely richness. The most remarkable thing about my father’s minestrone was that all the
elements were cut with the precision of the surgeon that he was. This I cannot duplicate no matter how I try, but maybe you
can.

My Father’s Minestrone

2 slices bacon, cut into ¼-inch pieces (optional)

3 tablespoons olive oil

1 medium onion, chopped

1 shallot, chopped (optional)

3 Yukon gold potatoes (or any white waxy potato), cubed

2 small carrots, thinly sliced

2 stalks celery, chopped

1 teaspoon salt, plus extra salt to taste

1 yellow squash, cut into ¼-inch slices and then quartered

1 green squash, cut into ¼-inch slices and then quartered

6 ounces string beans, cut into ¾-inch pieces

½ pound button mushrooms, quartered

4 plum tomatoes, seeded and chopped (or 1 cup canned whole tomatoes, drained of juices and chopped)

½ cup corn kernels (drained, if canned)

1 cup fresh or frozen green peas

1 cup canned chickpeas, drained

1 small head savoy cabbage, outer leaves removed, chopped

2 tablespoons butter

¼ cup barley (or farro) (optional), uncooked

¼ cup torn basil leaves

¼ cup chopped parsley

Freshly ground pepper

Freshly grated parmigiano

In a small skillet over medium heat, cook bacon until it takes on a little color and gives off some of its fat. (Whether to
add the fat to the soup base or drain it is between you and your Weight Watchers leader. I keep about half of it.) Heat the
oil in a large stockpot (8 quarts or more) over heat that is just a notch over medium, then sauté the onion and shallot until
they are translucent, about 2 minutes. Add the potatoes, carrots, celery, and 1 teaspoon salt; let the vegetables get a little
soft, stirring regularly so they don’t stick to the bottom of the pot, about 5 minutes (if it gets too sticky, add a little
water). Add squashes, string beans, and mushrooms and continue to stir regularly.

When all the vegetables have softened and the squashes are translucent, add the tomatoes, corn, green peas, and chickpeas,
enough water to cover and salt to taste, and cook another 10 minutes, continuing to stir. Then add cabbage and 2 quarts of
water, salt to taste, and 2 tablespoons butter. Bring to a simmer, add the barley (if using), then lower heat and cook partially
covered for 45 to 50 minutes.

When all the flavors are melded and you’re ready to serve, test for salt, add herbs, and serve with ground pepper and freshly
grated parmigiano.

Yield: 8 to 10 servings.

During my father’s last years, when I was away at school, he and my mother cultivated a new Saturday night ritual. My father
made his soup, my mother made a simple pizza from dough bought at a local bakery, then they would rent a 1960s Italian comedy
(
Divorce, Italian Style,
starring Marcello Mastroianni, was a particular favorite) and sit in the living room, eating and laughing their heads off.
Whenever I spent a weekend at home, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Where the heck did my parents go? This couple was
having fun together. I didn’t know them.

At college I studied Italian language and art history; because of this, my relationship with my father grew closer. He was
delighted with the interest I took in his native culture and tongue; in the summer between my sophomore and junior years,
we traveled to Italy together so I could get to know my aunts, uncles, and cousins in Salerno. On that trip, my father had
a hard time walking up the hills of his hometown or up the big marble staircase at the Uffizi Gallery. He had a heart condition;
there were tests and medications, but he didn’t say much about it, and we didn’t ask.

I spent the first semester of my senior year studying in Florence, Italy. The night before I went away, my father and I stayed
up late together, ordering sale items from the L.L.Bean catalog (another one of his favorite things). I wanted blue-and-white
boxers that were going for $5, but they were available only in size forty-six. “That’s fat!” my father said. But never mind,
I wanted them and he got them for me. (I used to wear those shorts with a belt. I thought it looked punk.) My father seemed
reluctant to part with me that night. I got the feeling that he thought it might be the last time he would ever see me.

From Florence, I wrote my parents long letters describing all the enchanted experiences I was having—more often having to
do with a bottle of Brunello and a bowl of ribollita than with Brunelleschi’s dome and the sonnets of Petrarch. When I was
in Florence, I was sent the most beautiful love note I have yet received. My father wrote it on the back of an envelope containing
a card from my mother. Here is what he wrote:

Dearest Giulia,

Mother had already sealed this letter before I had a chance to write anything so I write outside. In fact I am glad to do
so, and let everybody see that I think about you and love you very much.

Dad

My father’s exacting print was unmistakable, but the sentiment was utterly foreign. I had to read it a few times to make sure
it was real.

I had the option to stay in Florence for another semester. I was having the time of my life; I had even developed a crush
on a history professor who was engaged but seemed to have real admiration for my thoughts on the hierarchical divisions within
the Medici court. I returned to New York because I feared my father would die before the term was up.

It was Christmas when I got back, and our house was filled, as it always was at the holiday, with Bolla wine gift sets and
boxes of panettone—gifts from my father’s many Italian-American patients. Panettone is a cross between bread and cake, dotted
with dried fruits and laced with the scent of sweet liqueur. I never touched it as a child, but in January, when I returned
to campus for my last semester, my father sent me off with a couple of bottles of Barbaresco and an enormous panettone in
a modernist black-and-red tin. Students with late night munchies will eat just about anything, so my friends and I cut into
the panettone one night. Accompanied by the red wine and enhanced by other exotic substances, it wasn’t bad. Maybe it was
the container, maybe it was the chemicals, but that panettone stayed soft and palatable the entire winter. We had some every
night, and we never seemed to make a dent in it. We ate it well into Lent.

The morning after I finished writing my last paper, my father underwent emergency heart surgery. He did not survive the operation.
He died three days before my graduation. I still have the envelope with the note he sent me when I was in Florence. It has
a permanent place on top of my box of letters. I pick it up and read it every now and then to remind myself of love’s many
surprises.

I do not have a recipe for panettone. For the past few years, I have scoured the bakeries of Little Italy and the upscale
patisseries of the Upper East Side to find a cake as delicious as the one my father sent me to school with that year. I pick
up a few each holiday season and eat a piece every morning (and occasionally evening) of the week between Christmas and New
Year’s Day. Sometimes I’m disappointed with what I’ve brought home, other times I’m quite pleased. I still haven’t found one
that’s perfect. It’s possible that I never will.