I’m amazed at how many devout Catholics have had their faith shaken to the core because of the latest round of sex abuse scandals in the Church. Are they upset because their faith was based solely on what the Catholic clergy instructed them to believe and now many of their teachers, up to and including the Pope, are embroiled in this scandal? Most likely they held the clergy in such high esteem that the thought of sexual abuse and cover ups by the hierarchy is too much for them to bear. If this is the case then I can understand their frustration. It would be no different than having an adulterous parent preaching morality to his child while he lies and sins.
Why, I wonder, has this scandal not affected my faith? Is it because I never deified the clergy; I never placed them above all other men. While I do respect priests I don’t attribute to them qualities that make them superior to any other human male. I respect the fact that they have devoted their lives to teaching the Word of God but being able to preach the Word of god and being able to Live the Word of God are two very different things. I don’t believe that when a priest is ordained he is given any special powers to avoid sin. He is as vulnerable to sin as anyone else.
It would appear that some Bishops, Cardinals and even the Pope don’t share my views. Why else would they think that these abusers of children needed to be protected and their acts covered up. Why else would they think these criminals did not deserve the corporal punishment due them? Did they not realize that by protecting them they were bolstering the misconception that these men were Godlike and therefore untouchable? Did they not realize that by their actions they were not protecting the Catholic Church but helping to destroy it?
During my life I have known many priests; one has been a dear friend for years. Some give Christianity a bad name while others are compassionate and loving. It is this later group that my heart goes out to. They are suffering much for the sins of their brethren. Their lives have been tarnished by the actions of their leaders.
Since my book was published conservative Catholics have labeled me a Cafeteria Catholic;“ - a term our latest Pope likes to use to describe those who don’t buy into everything. The most devout Catholics have even referred to me as a heretic. I have been scolded and told that “One must believe everything handed down to us through the clergy in order to be called a Catholic.” There is no room among the faithful for anyone who concludes anything that differs from the teachings of the Church. Obviously I don’t agree with that.
For example, my suggestions that ordaining women priests and putting an end to celibacy as a way of revitalizing the Church is ridiculed because it conflicts with Church teachings. Still, when one examines the pros and cons of those suggestions it becomes obvious that the pros far outweigh the cons.
I can’t help but ask myself why the Church continuously tries to justify through debatable biblical references that maintaining a tight knit closed community of unmarried men with all its problems is a good thing? What can possibly be gained by continuing down this path for the next one hundred years. Does the hierarchy really believe that this is what Jesus wants?
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
Book Review
I finished your book about 2 hours ago and I want you to know that it is excellent! This actually is a practical philosophy book I could identify with almost every single passage in the book. It is important to pass on your wisdom (and this type of wisdom) to the next generation. We developed our own personal philosophies because of growing up around extended families who taught by example, and I might add loved by example. I grew up on the city streets of Pittsburgh, and I thought everyone was Italian and Catholic until I went to college! We moved to the suburbs in 1960 and I learned that there were all different types of people. My first ten years in the Italian enclave were the happiest years of my life.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Review of my book by the Italian American Press
How to Keep your Faith by Carl DiLorenzo
All his life Carl DiLorenzo was haunted by the memory of his father. Who was he? What was the source of his great faith? Why did he have to die so young?
Carl did not want his own children to be asking such questions about him some day. In 2000 he sat down to write the story of his life and his growth in the Roman Catholic Church. What emerged is more than a family keepsake. How to Keep Your Faith is a powerful statement of faith and hope for all Catholics, indeed, for all Christians. But it is more than a testimonial. This is the story of a young Italian American boy, growing up in New York City in the 1940s and 1950s, in the bosom of an extended Italian family who loved food, make their own wine in their Brooklyn tenement, danced and sang on Catholic feast days as they passed their faith from generation to generation. This is the story of a young man coming of age, learning awkwardly and hilariously about sex and love, work and faith, and the pain of losing loved ones before their time.
How to Keep Your Faith is the story of a man growing in faith, even as he questions his church's hierarchy and its decisions. And ultimately it is proof that a man of faith can also be a man of reflection and curiosity.
Visit the Italian American Press at http://www.italianamericanpress.com/IA%20Sites/IASP%20Writers.html for reviews of other fine books
All his life Carl DiLorenzo was haunted by the memory of his father. Who was he? What was the source of his great faith? Why did he have to die so young?
Carl did not want his own children to be asking such questions about him some day. In 2000 he sat down to write the story of his life and his growth in the Roman Catholic Church. What emerged is more than a family keepsake. How to Keep Your Faith is a powerful statement of faith and hope for all Catholics, indeed, for all Christians. But it is more than a testimonial. This is the story of a young Italian American boy, growing up in New York City in the 1940s and 1950s, in the bosom of an extended Italian family who loved food, make their own wine in their Brooklyn tenement, danced and sang on Catholic feast days as they passed their faith from generation to generation. This is the story of a young man coming of age, learning awkwardly and hilariously about sex and love, work and faith, and the pain of losing loved ones before their time.
How to Keep Your Faith is the story of a man growing in faith, even as he questions his church's hierarchy and its decisions. And ultimately it is proof that a man of faith can also be a man of reflection and curiosity.
Visit the Italian American Press at http://www.italianamericanpress.com/IA%20Sites/IASP%20Writers.html for reviews of other fine books
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Contradictions in the Catholic Church
We live in a society that loves to label people. Based on one or more of a person’s characteristics we are quick to call them a genius, a geek, a romantic, a jock, or a whole host of other names that describe their persona in one or two words. The current Pope and the more righteous members of the Catholic Faith have bestowed a label upon me. I am referred to as a Cafeteria Catholic. The label is used to denote one who is not in total agreement with all the teachings of the Catholic Church. If that be the case then yes, I am a Cafeteria Catholic. Those who claim to follow every teaching of the Church say that my position is due to a lack of understanding and knowledge of my Catholic Faith. They tell me that if I was better informed I would see the light. Well, I’m rapidly approaching my 70th birthday and I have studied Catholicism since the first day I entered All Saints Catholic grammar school many years ago. Instead of being enlightened by all that knowledge I found that it just raised more questions and more uncertainty. Following are some of the questions I still wrestle with. Maybe I am ignorant. You be the judge. These questions are what I call – “Contradictions in the Catholic Church.”
How can the Church make women Saints but not make them priests?
If the Blessed Mother wanted to be a priest today would the Church allow it?
Why are there seven Sacraments for men and only six for women?
If Jesus found it in His Heart to give Judas His Body and Blood at the Last Supper, knowing that he was going to betray Him, how can the Church deny Holy Communion to anyone?
If all Catholics are expected to obey the Pope why did Pope Benedict reinstate four Bishops excommunicated by Pope John Paul II?
If homosexuality is genetic and we are all made in the image and likeness of God why does the Church treat homosexuals like God’s junk?
If priests are not supposed to engage in sex why does the Church exclude homosexual priests from its ranks?
Is the rule of celibacy based on financial concerns?
How can committing adultery and using birth control during sex with your wife carry the same Mortal Sin stigma?
Why should a newborn infant be denied Baptism in the Catholic Church because of what the Church considers the “sins of the parents?”
In a court of law lying under oath is called perjury and will get you thrown in jail. If you lie while taking your vows during matrimony you will not only invalidate your vows but you will eligible for an annulment and be free to lie and remarry again. Isn’t there something wrong with this picture?
Why do we need to shop around for priests who are willing to interpret the rules with love and compassion?
Why doesn’t the Church embrace all its members? Why does it appear that it goes out of its way to alienate the young, the divorced, women and homosexuals?
Why did the Church give sanctuary to Cardinal Law in the Vatican after all the pain and suffering he inflicted on young men by his irresponsible actions?
How can the Church come up with millions of dollars to settle pedophile lawsuits but not come up with money to build new churches or keep the current ones open?
As Catholics we are taught to seek guidance from the Holy Spirit. Why then are we not allowed to use His guidance when it conflicts with the teachings of the Church? Does the Holy Spirit only speak to the Church’s hierarchy?
Does the Church really care about its declining numbers in the United States?
Why do so many “good Catholics” and those in the hierarchy want to revert back to the Church before Vatican II? Doesn’t this make Pope John XXIII look like a fool?
Why can’t we receive the Sacrament of Matrimony outdoors surrounded by God’s work? Why must we be forced to marry in a building surrounded by man’s work? Would it be a financial loss to the Church if it allowed weddings outside a Church building?
These are just a few questions I have. Please feel free to post your comments to this blog. Carl DiLorenzo
How can the Church make women Saints but not make them priests?
If the Blessed Mother wanted to be a priest today would the Church allow it?
Why are there seven Sacraments for men and only six for women?
If Jesus found it in His Heart to give Judas His Body and Blood at the Last Supper, knowing that he was going to betray Him, how can the Church deny Holy Communion to anyone?
If all Catholics are expected to obey the Pope why did Pope Benedict reinstate four Bishops excommunicated by Pope John Paul II?
If homosexuality is genetic and we are all made in the image and likeness of God why does the Church treat homosexuals like God’s junk?
If priests are not supposed to engage in sex why does the Church exclude homosexual priests from its ranks?
Is the rule of celibacy based on financial concerns?
How can committing adultery and using birth control during sex with your wife carry the same Mortal Sin stigma?
Why should a newborn infant be denied Baptism in the Catholic Church because of what the Church considers the “sins of the parents?”
In a court of law lying under oath is called perjury and will get you thrown in jail. If you lie while taking your vows during matrimony you will not only invalidate your vows but you will eligible for an annulment and be free to lie and remarry again. Isn’t there something wrong with this picture?
Why do we need to shop around for priests who are willing to interpret the rules with love and compassion?
Why doesn’t the Church embrace all its members? Why does it appear that it goes out of its way to alienate the young, the divorced, women and homosexuals?
Why did the Church give sanctuary to Cardinal Law in the Vatican after all the pain and suffering he inflicted on young men by his irresponsible actions?
How can the Church come up with millions of dollars to settle pedophile lawsuits but not come up with money to build new churches or keep the current ones open?
As Catholics we are taught to seek guidance from the Holy Spirit. Why then are we not allowed to use His guidance when it conflicts with the teachings of the Church? Does the Holy Spirit only speak to the Church’s hierarchy?
Does the Church really care about its declining numbers in the United States?
Why do so many “good Catholics” and those in the hierarchy want to revert back to the Church before Vatican II? Doesn’t this make Pope John XXIII look like a fool?
Why can’t we receive the Sacrament of Matrimony outdoors surrounded by God’s work? Why must we be forced to marry in a building surrounded by man’s work? Would it be a financial loss to the Church if it allowed weddings outside a Church building?
These are just a few questions I have. Please feel free to post your comments to this blog. Carl DiLorenzo
Thursday, May 15, 2008
I Love to Cook
I have a passion for cooking and I do most of the cooking at home. When I prepare a meal I may ask my wife what type of mushrooms she prefers with her Risotto. When it’s her turn to cook she usually asks, “Do you want a Rotisserie Chicken from Piggly Wiggly or Krogers?” Oh well, I guess having different interests is what has kept our marriage alive for forty six years.
A few years ago I lived my dream by attending a one week cooking class at Toscana Saporita, a cooking school in the Tuscany Region of Italy. The school is run by Sandra Lotti, a very attractive Northern Italian woman whose blood pressure spikes off the charts when she is questioned about French cooking. Sandra is convinced that Catherine De Medici gave all Italian recipes to the French and they later claimed them as their own. The class was everything I had hoped it would be and I learned a lot about Tuscany style cooking. A few years later I attended an advanced class and a year after that I returned as an intern. The work was hard but the rewards are great.
At my lectures I promised to post some of my favorite recipes to this site. Here is the first in a series. This is Sandra’s version of Lasagna Bolognese which is Lasagna Northern Italian style. In the United States we are familiar with Lasagna that is laced with Ricotta Cheese and Mozzarella; two ingredients that aren’t used very much in Northern Italian cooking. Instead, they use a very rich meat sauce called Ragu Bolognese and a white creamy sauce called Besciamella Sauce. Notice I didn’t say Béchamel as the French pronounce it. If I did I’m sure Sandra would find me and have me killed.
I made this for my family when I returned from Toscana Saporita and they loved it. I couldn’t convince them that the Lasagna did not have Ricotta Cheese. Don’t be afraid to try it. It takes a little time but it can be prepared in steps. For example, the Soffritto, which is the foundation of the Bolognese Sauce can be prepared and stored in a container in the refrigerator for a couple of weeks or it can be frozen. As a matter of fact I wait for a rainy day and make the entire Bolognese Sauce and then freeze it. If you have time to make the homemade pasta, go for it. It’s wonderful. If not, use the No-Boil Lasagna strips which are becoming very popular today. I have included in the recipe steps for doing both. Try it. You will love it and let me know how it turned out.
LASAGNA WITH MEAT SAUCE
BOLOGNESE SAUCE
2 CUPS EXTRA VIRGIN OLIVE OIL
2 MEDIUM CARROTS, DICED
2 STALKS CELERY, DICED
2 MEDIUM ONION, CHOPPED
2 LEAVES OF BASIL
1 TEASPOON FRESH THYME
1/2 TEASPOON ROSEMARY
2 LEAVES OF SAGE
1 BAY LEAF
1 CLOVE GARLIC, MINCED
2 POUNDS GROUND BEEF
2 POUNDS GROUND PORK
1 CUP WHITE OR RED WINE
SALT AND PEPPER TO TASTE
1/4 TEASPOON NUTMEG, FRESHLY GRATED
3 POUNDS PEELED TOMATOES, SQUEEZED BY HAND
1 QUART WHOLE MILK
2 TABLESPOONS OF TOMATO PASTE (OPTIONAL)
POUR THE OIL IN A LARGE HEAVY GAUGE POT. MAKE A SOFFRITTO WITH THE DICED VEGETABLES AND HERBS FOR 10 TO 15 MINUTES, STIRRING FREQUENTLY. WHEN VEGETABLES ARE SOFT, REDUCED AND YOU SEE THE OIL BUBBLING, THE SOFFRITTO IS READY
ADD THE GROUND BEEF AND THE PORK, COOK OVER MEDIUM/HIGH HEAT FOR 15 MINUTES, STIRRING FREQUENTLY UNTIL THE MEAT IS ROASTED AND INFUSED WITH THE FLAVOR OF THE VEGETABLES
POUR IN THE WINE AND LET IT EVAPORATE
ADD TOMATO PASTE AND STIR
BLEND IN THE TOMATOES, LOWER THE FLAME AND CONTINUE TO COOK FOR 1 HOUR, COVERED
POUR IN THE WHOLE MILK AND COOK FOR ANOTHER 20 MINUTES
ADD SALT, NUTMEG AND PEPPER, STIR TO BLEND AND SET ASIDE.
*LEFTOVER SAUCE CAN BE FROZEN
LASAGNA PASTA (OPTIONAL OR USE NO_BOIL PASTA)
FOR BASIC PASTA
1 CUP UNBLEACHED, ALL-PURPOSE FLOUR
3/4 CUP SEMOLINA FLOUR
2 EGGS
PINCH OF SALT
1 TABLESPOON EXTRA-VIRGIN OLIVE OIL
2 TABLESPOONS WATER
HEAP THE FLOUR ONTO A FLAT WORK SURFACE AND CREATE A WELL IN THE CENTER
ADD THE EGGS, SALT, OIL AND WATER TO THE WELL
USING A FORK, BEAT THE EGG MIXTURE, INCORPORATING INCREASING AMOUNTS OF THE FLOUR WALL UNTIL A SMOOTH DOUGH HAS BEEN CREATED. KNEAD WITH FLOURED HANDS FOR 5 MINUTES
PINCH OFF A LEMON-SIZED PIECE AND PASS THROUGH THE WIDEST SETTING ON A PASTA MACHINE
DUST LIGHTLY WITH FLOUR, FOLD INTO THIRDS AND PASS THROUGH THE MACHINE THREE TIMES MORE
NARROW THE SETTING ON THE MACHINE, DUST THE SHEET LIGHTLY WITH FLOUR AND PASS THROUGH THE MACHINE
CONTINUE TO PASS THROUGH EVEN MORE NARROW SETTINGS UNTIL YOU HAVE REACHED THE DESIRED THICKNESS (GENERALLY 5 ON THE MACHINE WILL DO IT)
ONCE YOU HAVE REACHED THE DESIRED THICKNESS, CUT THE SHEETS OF DOUGH INTO 6 INCHES BY 6 INCHES LASAGNA.
LASAGNA BESCIAMELLA SAUCE
1 STICK OF UNSALTED BUTTER
1 CUP ALL PURPOSE FLOUR
1 QUART WHOLE MILK, WARM
FRESHLY GRATED NUTMETG (OPTIONAL)
SALT
MELT THE BUTTER IN A SKILLET (A SAUCIER WOULD BE BETTER) AND USING A WHISK GENTLY STIR IN THE FLOUR UNTIL ABSORBED. THIS IS THE ROUX
WHISK UNTIL YOU HAVE A SMOOTH AND THICK CREAMY MIXTURE
ADD THE WARM MILK, POURING IT IN A STEADY STREAM
COOK OVER LOW HEAT, STIRRING CONSTANTLY UNTIL THE SAUCE IS THICK AND CREAMY. IF YOU LIKE YOU CAN ADD SOME FRESHLY GRATED NUTMEG AS WE DO IN TUSCANY.
IF IT IS TOO THICK, WHISK IN ADDITIONAL WARM MILK, IF IT IS TOO THIN, ADD A COUPLE OF TABLESPOONS OF ROUX. (MELTED BUTTER AND FLOUR) SEASON WITH SALT.
ASSEMBLING LASAGNA (HOMEMADE PASTA)
BRING ABOUT 4 QUARTS OF WATER TO A BOIL
ADD SALT AND 1 TABLESPOON OF OLIVE OIL TO PREVENT LASAGNA FROM STICKING.
COOK THE LASAGNA DOUGH IN BATCHES FOR ABOUT 2-3 MINUTES
USING A STRAINER TRANSFER THE COOKED LASAGNA TOA BOWL FILLED WITH COLD WATER TO SHOCK THE TEMPERATURE, THEN DRAIN AND ARRANGE THE LASAGNA ON A CLEAN KITCHEN TOWL TO DRAIN SLIGHTLY
PUT A LAYER OF BESCIAMELLA SAUCE IN A BAKING DISH. ADD A LAYER OF COOKED LASAGNA AND THEN A LAYER OF MEAT SAUCE. SPRINKLE WITH PARMIGIANO REGGIANO. KEEP LAYERING UNTIL YOU HAVE USED ALL YOUR INGREDIENTS. TOP WITH MEAT SAUCE, BESCIAMELLA AND GRATED PARMIGIANO THEN BAKE AT 350F FOR ABOUT 40 MINUTES.
SERVE HOT.
ASSEMBLING LASAGNA NO-BOIL STYLE (USE BARILLA IF POSSIBLE)
ADJUST OVEN RACK TO MIDDLE POSITION
HEAT OVEN TO 425 DEGREES
PLACE PASTA IN A 13 BY 9-INCH BAKING DISH AND COVER WITH VERY HOT WATER; SOAK FOR 5 MINUTES AGITATING OCCASIONALLY TO KEEP FROM STICKING
REMOVE PASTA FROM WATER, PLACE IN SINGLE LAYER ON TOWEL AND PAT DRY
DRY BAKING DISH AND SPRAY WITH NONSTICK COOKING SPRAY
STIR BESCIAMELLA TO RECOMBINE (BE SURE THAT THE SAUCE HAS COOLED FOR AT LEAST 30 MINUTES AND IS JUST WARM TO THE TOUCH)
MIX 1 1/2 CUP WARM BESCIAMELLA INTO WARM MEAT SAUCE UNTIL THOROUGHLY COMBINED (BE SURE THAT THE SAUCE HAS COOLED FOR AT LEAST 30 MINUTES AND IS JUST WARM TO THE TOUCH)
DISTRIBUTE BESCIAMELLA ENRICHED BOLOGNESE SAUCE IN BAKING DISH
PLACE 3 SHEETS OF PASTA IN A SINGLE LAYER ON TOP OF THE SAUCE, BUT NOT TOUCHING
SPREAD BESCIAMELLA ENRICHED BOLOGNESE SAUCE EVENLY OVER PASTA, SPREADING SAUCE TO EDGE OF PASTA BUT NOT TO EDGE OF DISH
DRIZZLE A LITTLE BESCIAMELLA SAUCE OVER MEAT SAUCE
SPRINKLE THE LAYER WITH PARMESAN CHEESE
REPEAT THE LAYERING 3 MORE TIMES
COVER TOP WITH BESCIAMELLA SAUCE
SPRINKLE WITH PARMESAN CHEESE
SPRAY LARGE SHEET OF FOIL WITH NONSTICK COOKING SPRAY AND COVER LASAGNA
BAKE UNTIL BUBBLY; ABOUT 30 MINUTES
REMOVE FOIL AND INCREASE HEAT TO 450
CONTINUE TO BAKE UNTIL SURFACE IS SPOTTY BROWN; ABOUT 15 MINUTES
COOL 15 MINUTES; CUT AND SERVE
A few years ago I lived my dream by attending a one week cooking class at Toscana Saporita, a cooking school in the Tuscany Region of Italy. The school is run by Sandra Lotti, a very attractive Northern Italian woman whose blood pressure spikes off the charts when she is questioned about French cooking. Sandra is convinced that Catherine De Medici gave all Italian recipes to the French and they later claimed them as their own. The class was everything I had hoped it would be and I learned a lot about Tuscany style cooking. A few years later I attended an advanced class and a year after that I returned as an intern. The work was hard but the rewards are great.
At my lectures I promised to post some of my favorite recipes to this site. Here is the first in a series. This is Sandra’s version of Lasagna Bolognese which is Lasagna Northern Italian style. In the United States we are familiar with Lasagna that is laced with Ricotta Cheese and Mozzarella; two ingredients that aren’t used very much in Northern Italian cooking. Instead, they use a very rich meat sauce called Ragu Bolognese and a white creamy sauce called Besciamella Sauce. Notice I didn’t say Béchamel as the French pronounce it. If I did I’m sure Sandra would find me and have me killed.
I made this for my family when I returned from Toscana Saporita and they loved it. I couldn’t convince them that the Lasagna did not have Ricotta Cheese. Don’t be afraid to try it. It takes a little time but it can be prepared in steps. For example, the Soffritto, which is the foundation of the Bolognese Sauce can be prepared and stored in a container in the refrigerator for a couple of weeks or it can be frozen. As a matter of fact I wait for a rainy day and make the entire Bolognese Sauce and then freeze it. If you have time to make the homemade pasta, go for it. It’s wonderful. If not, use the No-Boil Lasagna strips which are becoming very popular today. I have included in the recipe steps for doing both. Try it. You will love it and let me know how it turned out.
LASAGNA WITH MEAT SAUCE
BOLOGNESE SAUCE
2 CUPS EXTRA VIRGIN OLIVE OIL
2 MEDIUM CARROTS, DICED
2 STALKS CELERY, DICED
2 MEDIUM ONION, CHOPPED
2 LEAVES OF BASIL
1 TEASPOON FRESH THYME
1/2 TEASPOON ROSEMARY
2 LEAVES OF SAGE
1 BAY LEAF
1 CLOVE GARLIC, MINCED
2 POUNDS GROUND BEEF
2 POUNDS GROUND PORK
1 CUP WHITE OR RED WINE
SALT AND PEPPER TO TASTE
1/4 TEASPOON NUTMEG, FRESHLY GRATED
3 POUNDS PEELED TOMATOES, SQUEEZED BY HAND
1 QUART WHOLE MILK
2 TABLESPOONS OF TOMATO PASTE (OPTIONAL)
POUR THE OIL IN A LARGE HEAVY GAUGE POT. MAKE A SOFFRITTO WITH THE DICED VEGETABLES AND HERBS FOR 10 TO 15 MINUTES, STIRRING FREQUENTLY. WHEN VEGETABLES ARE SOFT, REDUCED AND YOU SEE THE OIL BUBBLING, THE SOFFRITTO IS READY
ADD THE GROUND BEEF AND THE PORK, COOK OVER MEDIUM/HIGH HEAT FOR 15 MINUTES, STIRRING FREQUENTLY UNTIL THE MEAT IS ROASTED AND INFUSED WITH THE FLAVOR OF THE VEGETABLES
POUR IN THE WINE AND LET IT EVAPORATE
ADD TOMATO PASTE AND STIR
BLEND IN THE TOMATOES, LOWER THE FLAME AND CONTINUE TO COOK FOR 1 HOUR, COVERED
POUR IN THE WHOLE MILK AND COOK FOR ANOTHER 20 MINUTES
ADD SALT, NUTMEG AND PEPPER, STIR TO BLEND AND SET ASIDE.
*LEFTOVER SAUCE CAN BE FROZEN
LASAGNA PASTA (OPTIONAL OR USE NO_BOIL PASTA)
FOR BASIC PASTA
1 CUP UNBLEACHED, ALL-PURPOSE FLOUR
3/4 CUP SEMOLINA FLOUR
2 EGGS
PINCH OF SALT
1 TABLESPOON EXTRA-VIRGIN OLIVE OIL
2 TABLESPOONS WATER
HEAP THE FLOUR ONTO A FLAT WORK SURFACE AND CREATE A WELL IN THE CENTER
ADD THE EGGS, SALT, OIL AND WATER TO THE WELL
USING A FORK, BEAT THE EGG MIXTURE, INCORPORATING INCREASING AMOUNTS OF THE FLOUR WALL UNTIL A SMOOTH DOUGH HAS BEEN CREATED. KNEAD WITH FLOURED HANDS FOR 5 MINUTES
PINCH OFF A LEMON-SIZED PIECE AND PASS THROUGH THE WIDEST SETTING ON A PASTA MACHINE
DUST LIGHTLY WITH FLOUR, FOLD INTO THIRDS AND PASS THROUGH THE MACHINE THREE TIMES MORE
NARROW THE SETTING ON THE MACHINE, DUST THE SHEET LIGHTLY WITH FLOUR AND PASS THROUGH THE MACHINE
CONTINUE TO PASS THROUGH EVEN MORE NARROW SETTINGS UNTIL YOU HAVE REACHED THE DESIRED THICKNESS (GENERALLY 5 ON THE MACHINE WILL DO IT)
ONCE YOU HAVE REACHED THE DESIRED THICKNESS, CUT THE SHEETS OF DOUGH INTO 6 INCHES BY 6 INCHES LASAGNA.
LASAGNA BESCIAMELLA SAUCE
1 STICK OF UNSALTED BUTTER
1 CUP ALL PURPOSE FLOUR
1 QUART WHOLE MILK, WARM
FRESHLY GRATED NUTMETG (OPTIONAL)
SALT
MELT THE BUTTER IN A SKILLET (A SAUCIER WOULD BE BETTER) AND USING A WHISK GENTLY STIR IN THE FLOUR UNTIL ABSORBED. THIS IS THE ROUX
WHISK UNTIL YOU HAVE A SMOOTH AND THICK CREAMY MIXTURE
ADD THE WARM MILK, POURING IT IN A STEADY STREAM
COOK OVER LOW HEAT, STIRRING CONSTANTLY UNTIL THE SAUCE IS THICK AND CREAMY. IF YOU LIKE YOU CAN ADD SOME FRESHLY GRATED NUTMEG AS WE DO IN TUSCANY.
IF IT IS TOO THICK, WHISK IN ADDITIONAL WARM MILK, IF IT IS TOO THIN, ADD A COUPLE OF TABLESPOONS OF ROUX. (MELTED BUTTER AND FLOUR) SEASON WITH SALT.
ASSEMBLING LASAGNA (HOMEMADE PASTA)
BRING ABOUT 4 QUARTS OF WATER TO A BOIL
ADD SALT AND 1 TABLESPOON OF OLIVE OIL TO PREVENT LASAGNA FROM STICKING.
COOK THE LASAGNA DOUGH IN BATCHES FOR ABOUT 2-3 MINUTES
USING A STRAINER TRANSFER THE COOKED LASAGNA TOA BOWL FILLED WITH COLD WATER TO SHOCK THE TEMPERATURE, THEN DRAIN AND ARRANGE THE LASAGNA ON A CLEAN KITCHEN TOWL TO DRAIN SLIGHTLY
PUT A LAYER OF BESCIAMELLA SAUCE IN A BAKING DISH. ADD A LAYER OF COOKED LASAGNA AND THEN A LAYER OF MEAT SAUCE. SPRINKLE WITH PARMIGIANO REGGIANO. KEEP LAYERING UNTIL YOU HAVE USED ALL YOUR INGREDIENTS. TOP WITH MEAT SAUCE, BESCIAMELLA AND GRATED PARMIGIANO THEN BAKE AT 350F FOR ABOUT 40 MINUTES.
SERVE HOT.
ASSEMBLING LASAGNA NO-BOIL STYLE (USE BARILLA IF POSSIBLE)
ADJUST OVEN RACK TO MIDDLE POSITION
HEAT OVEN TO 425 DEGREES
PLACE PASTA IN A 13 BY 9-INCH BAKING DISH AND COVER WITH VERY HOT WATER; SOAK FOR 5 MINUTES AGITATING OCCASIONALLY TO KEEP FROM STICKING
REMOVE PASTA FROM WATER, PLACE IN SINGLE LAYER ON TOWEL AND PAT DRY
DRY BAKING DISH AND SPRAY WITH NONSTICK COOKING SPRAY
STIR BESCIAMELLA TO RECOMBINE (BE SURE THAT THE SAUCE HAS COOLED FOR AT LEAST 30 MINUTES AND IS JUST WARM TO THE TOUCH)
MIX 1 1/2 CUP WARM BESCIAMELLA INTO WARM MEAT SAUCE UNTIL THOROUGHLY COMBINED (BE SURE THAT THE SAUCE HAS COOLED FOR AT LEAST 30 MINUTES AND IS JUST WARM TO THE TOUCH)
DISTRIBUTE BESCIAMELLA ENRICHED BOLOGNESE SAUCE IN BAKING DISH
PLACE 3 SHEETS OF PASTA IN A SINGLE LAYER ON TOP OF THE SAUCE, BUT NOT TOUCHING
SPREAD BESCIAMELLA ENRICHED BOLOGNESE SAUCE EVENLY OVER PASTA, SPREADING SAUCE TO EDGE OF PASTA BUT NOT TO EDGE OF DISH
DRIZZLE A LITTLE BESCIAMELLA SAUCE OVER MEAT SAUCE
SPRINKLE THE LAYER WITH PARMESAN CHEESE
REPEAT THE LAYERING 3 MORE TIMES
COVER TOP WITH BESCIAMELLA SAUCE
SPRINKLE WITH PARMESAN CHEESE
SPRAY LARGE SHEET OF FOIL WITH NONSTICK COOKING SPRAY AND COVER LASAGNA
BAKE UNTIL BUBBLY; ABOUT 30 MINUTES
REMOVE FOIL AND INCREASE HEAT TO 450
CONTINUE TO BAKE UNTIL SURFACE IS SPOTTY BROWN; ABOUT 15 MINUTES
COOL 15 MINUTES; CUT AND SERVE
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
In The Neighborhood
I lived my pre-teen years on the third floor of a four-story tenement, at 276 Floyd Street, in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. This was where “Forget about it” was pronounced, “Fogedabodid.” A guy usually said it while holding one hand on his crotch and running his fingers through his hair with the other. No one ever used three words when one would do, like “Wheruben?” Someone not from Brooklyn might actually say, “Where have you been?” Not us, we were too busy.
My grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins were the main occupants of this eight family brownstone. Other relatives were scattered throughout the block and when we all got together we were a large, noisy group. Most of what I tell you about my life in Brooklyn is what I remember as a boy between the ages of ten and thirteen.
Floyd Street was narrow and crowded, with a hodgepodge of buildings all abutted up against one another. To see the sky you had to stand in the middle of the street and look straight up. The city block I called home contained apartment houses of all shapes and sizes, a synagogue, a horse stable, a seltzer factory, a grocery store, a tea packing company and a candy store with a soda fountain that sold a drink made with milk, chocolate syrup, and seltzer called an Egg Cream. It cost only a nickel and single cigarettes sold for a penny. Hollywood couldn’t have built a better set.
The street was alive with the sounds and smells that made their way from the buildings, and with the parade of people going about their lives like actors on a stage. Men on their way to work would greet those who were coming home from the night shift. These were not blue collar or white-collar workers – they were men just trying to survive. They had lived through the Great Depression and were trying to provide the basic needs of food and shelter for their families. Their hands were deeply calloused from hard labor and their faces were creased and dried from exposure to the elements. Women in their floral housedresses would start early for the grocery stores and butcher shops in order to get the best pick of produce and meat for that evening’s meal.
The pool hall around the corner was filled with young tough guys from the neighborhood who would convince mama that they were out looking for a job, but would actually spend their days shooting pool, betting on the ponies, and drinking beer until mama called them home for the dinner she prepared for her “little Joey, who’s having so much trouble finding a job.” Poor Joey. There is no way to describe the relationship between an Italian mother and her sons. Insult her daughter and she will probably be angry but insult her son and you made an enemy for life.
Italians are defined by some distinct attributes. I have listed some of them here. If at least ten of them describe you, then you’re Italian. I don’t care if your name is Hymie Goldberg.
Stickball was our major summer sport. We used a pink Spaulding rubber ball and a broomstick for the bat. The length of the field was usually from one manhole cover to another (thus, the other name for stickball – “Sewer to Sewer”). The fenders of parked cars were the bases. No Little League fields back then. When it got hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, an open fire hydrant became our swimming pool. The sounds of screeching trolleys, elevated trains, car horns and police sirens lulled me to sleep each night. My school and Church, the focal points of my life, were within a ten-block radius. Walking was the primary means of transportation. Manhattan, Ebbets Field, and Coney Island were short subway rides away.
Most tenements had a front stoop where people would gather to gossip. The stoops were to us what front porches were to those lucky people who owned their own homes. On hot summer nights the old women would chat late into the night, passing along secrets about Zia Theresa’s daughter that were, of course, not to be repeated to anyone. Everyone’s problems, real or imagined, were discussed at great length. Your business was everyone’s business and these women made the Internet look slow when it came to passing news along. If, in the course of conversation, it was determined that someone was the victim of the “mal occhia,” or evil eye, plans were made to remove it. The tools for this ritual were olive oil, garlic and other ingredients that probably would have made a great salad dressing. The women who participated in the ritual to remove the “evil eye” were religious enough and didn’t see any conflict with this practice and the teachings of their Church. They never viewed this ritual as superstition. When I visited New Orleans many years later and learned that some Catholics in that city practiced voodoo, I wasn’t surprised. It brought back memories of my Italian relatives and the “mal occhia.
Our apartments on 276 Floyd Street were called railroad flats, because one room followed another like connected railroad cars. To get to my apartment I had to walk up two flights of stairs, through a narrow hallway that was lit primarily from the skylight on the top floor. Although they were dark and narrow, our halls were always clean; the bronze mail slots and doorknobs shined as bright as the fixtures in the finest Manhattan hotels. At dinnertime I would rarely make it to my apartment without stopping at my grandmother’s or aunts’ apartments to see what they were cooking. It was part of my daily routine to sit at a few dinner tables and eat a little here and a little there before finally arriving at my own apartment for the family meal. It was great being a skinny little kid and being told by all the elderly women in the building, “Eat! You too thin.” I think they liked having me join them. I talked a lot as a kid and wasn’t shy about joining in adult conversations. I usually made myself the center of attention around everyone’s table and didn’t take it personally when they told me to “shut up and eat.” It was like having five or six of the finest Italian restaurants in one building. Mrs. Pellegrino’s hot polenta with a thick tomato sauce topped with Italian sausage was, as they say, “to die for.” Grandma’s rabbit cacciatore, the signature dish of Ischia, Grandpa’s hometown in Italy, was fabulous – even if my friends made fun of me for eating rabbit. The people in this building didn’t have a lot but they were happy to share the little they had. An important lesson I’ve never forgotten from these families at 276 Floyd Street is that sharing the little you have is much more meaningful than sharing from your excess.
Everyone in the building loved parties. What else could we do? There was no television. Most of our celebrations were centered on Church holy days: Easter, Christmas, Saints’ Name Days, receiving the sacraments. Being Catholic was fun! We had lots of excuses to party. When someone made their First Holy Communion or Confirmation, we had a party. Making the sacraments was a big deal with my relatives. There was always an abundance of great food, lots of music, lots of people. All the women joined in the cooking. Caterers were unheard of in those days. Besides, who could cook better than those women? Our small apartments would be overflowing with people.
The men supplied the music. Mr. Pelligrino, our next-door neighbor, would bring his trumpet. Someone else would grab a mandolin and the Italian songs would begin. They weren’t great musicians but they definitely made a joyful noise. I never understood what they were singing but I knew they were probably love songs. Italians are always singing love songs. They’re either singing about some girl they love, a town in Italy they love or some Italian food they love. Who cared what the songs meant? Everyone was having fun. When they say Italians would rather make love then war – believe it. It was amazing the parties you could throw in such small apartments. Today we all have gigantic houses and entertaining at home seems like a lot of work.
The big Church holy days, like Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, were the best. On those days our apartments would be filled with people. Relatives would come from all over Brooklyn. Dinner for 30 in Grandma’s apartment was no big deal. When I think of the size of our apartments, I can’t imagine how everyone fit. Having expensive dinnerware wasn’t important. Getting together as a family and celebrating was. The best crystal glasses in the world wouldn’t have made Grandpa’s wine taste any better. God, it was awful! We never referred to Grandpa’s wine by the year it was made. It was more like the week. Grandpa would order his grapes from California in the early fall. When they arrived he would stack the cases of grapes inside the fence in the front of our building. Unlike commercial wineries where the time between picking the grapes and pressing them is measured in hours, Grandpa’s grapes would sometimes sit for days until he could find time to press them. Any wine aged more than a month was considered vintage. It wasn’t uncommon to drink it out of old jelly jars. Whatever wasn’t drinkable became vinegar for salad dressing. I don’t think Grandma ever had to buy a bottle of vinegar as long as Grandpa made wine. There was no dishwasher but there were enough hands to pitch in and get the dishes done. Furniture was shifted to the back room, which in winter was so cold that perishable food could be stored there for days without fear of it going bad. The women prepared the meal while the men built the “dining room” table using sawhorses and plywood. I spent the day running up and down the stairs, jumping from one apartment to the other, meeting with my cousins.
A few minutes before midnight on Christmas Eve, my mother’s uncle Frank would begin a procession throughout the building carrying a small statue of the Baby Jesus. All the kids would follow. At the end of the procession he would place the statue in the stable of the large Nativity scene he built every year before Christmas. None of us one was embarrassed to publicly display our devotion to Jesus.
Easter was also cause for celebration. I always anxiously awaited the Saturday before Easter. On that day, when the clock struck twelve noon, it meant that Lent was officially over and I could break my fast and eat chicken and ice cream, the two things I had given up for Lent and hadn’t touched since Ash Wednesday. I guess I was a weird kid. Who the hell gives up chicken for Lent? To celebrate the end of Lent, my mother would prepare different types of pizza. There were ricotta meat pies loaded with prosciutto, salami and half dozen different cheeses; spinach pies overflowing with spinach, capers and olives; and Italian cheese cake. It is still a family tradition. We still celebrate and refer to the Saturday before Easter as “Pizza Saturday.” Don’t look it up on a Church calendar; it won’t be there.
Once a year, on a Sunday in July, Our Lady of Pompeii Church, on Siegel Street, in Brooklyn, would sponsor an Italian Feast Day in honor of the Madonna Della Grazie, another name for the Blessed Mother. The feast would begin in the early afternoon with a parade through the streets of our neighborhood. The centerpiece of the parade was a statue of the Madonna, sitting atop a big wooden platform that men would take turns carrying on their shoulders. Men and women dressed in their Sunday finery would march in front of the platform, proudly displaying the banners of their Church organizations. The Altar Society, Children of Mary and The Holy Name Society were well represented. They were followed by a band of musicians dressed in their black pants, white shirts and black ties, playing Italian marching songs. Lots of young girls, in their First Holy Communion dresses, followed the statue. People from the neighborhood would line the streets and the parade would stop when someone wanted to pin a dollar bill to a ribbon around the statue. By the time the procession reached Floyd Street the Blessed Mother was pretty well covered with money. After the parade, we returned to the Church grounds, where we stuffed our faces with food prepared by the women of the neighborhood, listened to music, watched fireworks and finally went home very full and very tired.
My family was involved in this feast. For weeks before the feast my father would come home from work, eat dinner, then head down to the cellar, where he would work on the platform that would be used to carry the statue of the Blessed Mother. This platform had to be particularly attractive since it was the centerpiece of the parade. He took great pride in this work and the end result was a testament to his skill as a craftsman. My aunt and grandmother worked for days preparing the garments for the statue and the food to be consumed after the parade. Once again, the Church had provided us with another opportunity to party.
The memories of my life in the neighborhood are some of the happiest of my life. If I had to do it all over again I wouldn’t change a thing.
My grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins were the main occupants of this eight family brownstone. Other relatives were scattered throughout the block and when we all got together we were a large, noisy group. Most of what I tell you about my life in Brooklyn is what I remember as a boy between the ages of ten and thirteen.
Floyd Street was narrow and crowded, with a hodgepodge of buildings all abutted up against one another. To see the sky you had to stand in the middle of the street and look straight up. The city block I called home contained apartment houses of all shapes and sizes, a synagogue, a horse stable, a seltzer factory, a grocery store, a tea packing company and a candy store with a soda fountain that sold a drink made with milk, chocolate syrup, and seltzer called an Egg Cream. It cost only a nickel and single cigarettes sold for a penny. Hollywood couldn’t have built a better set.
The street was alive with the sounds and smells that made their way from the buildings, and with the parade of people going about their lives like actors on a stage. Men on their way to work would greet those who were coming home from the night shift. These were not blue collar or white-collar workers – they were men just trying to survive. They had lived through the Great Depression and were trying to provide the basic needs of food and shelter for their families. Their hands were deeply calloused from hard labor and their faces were creased and dried from exposure to the elements. Women in their floral housedresses would start early for the grocery stores and butcher shops in order to get the best pick of produce and meat for that evening’s meal.
The pool hall around the corner was filled with young tough guys from the neighborhood who would convince mama that they were out looking for a job, but would actually spend their days shooting pool, betting on the ponies, and drinking beer until mama called them home for the dinner she prepared for her “little Joey, who’s having so much trouble finding a job.” Poor Joey. There is no way to describe the relationship between an Italian mother and her sons. Insult her daughter and she will probably be angry but insult her son and you made an enemy for life.
Italians are defined by some distinct attributes. I have listed some of them here. If at least ten of them describe you, then you’re Italian. I don’t care if your name is Hymie Goldberg.
- You have at least one relative who wore a black dress every day for an entire year after a funeral.
- You were surprised to discover that the FDA recommends you eat three meals a day, not seven.
- You eat pasta for dinner at least three times a week, and every Sunday.
- You were as tall as your grandmother by the age of seven
- You were surprised to find out that wine was actually sold in stores.
- You thought Catholic was the only religion in the world.
- You have at least six male relatives named Tony, Frank, Joe or Louie.
- You drank wine before you were a teenager.
- Your grandparents’ furniture was as comfortable as sitting on plastic. Wait! You were sitting on plastic.
- You thought that talking loud was normal.
- There was a crucifix in every room of the house.
- You dreaded taking out your lunch at school.
- Every condition, ailment, misfortune, memory loss and accident was attributed to the fact that you didn't eat something.
- You’re 45, you’re over six feet tall, weigh 250 pounds and still cry when your mother yells at you.
Stickball was our major summer sport. We used a pink Spaulding rubber ball and a broomstick for the bat. The length of the field was usually from one manhole cover to another (thus, the other name for stickball – “Sewer to Sewer”). The fenders of parked cars were the bases. No Little League fields back then. When it got hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, an open fire hydrant became our swimming pool. The sounds of screeching trolleys, elevated trains, car horns and police sirens lulled me to sleep each night. My school and Church, the focal points of my life, were within a ten-block radius. Walking was the primary means of transportation. Manhattan, Ebbets Field, and Coney Island were short subway rides away.
Most tenements had a front stoop where people would gather to gossip. The stoops were to us what front porches were to those lucky people who owned their own homes. On hot summer nights the old women would chat late into the night, passing along secrets about Zia Theresa’s daughter that were, of course, not to be repeated to anyone. Everyone’s problems, real or imagined, were discussed at great length. Your business was everyone’s business and these women made the Internet look slow when it came to passing news along. If, in the course of conversation, it was determined that someone was the victim of the “mal occhia,” or evil eye, plans were made to remove it. The tools for this ritual were olive oil, garlic and other ingredients that probably would have made a great salad dressing. The women who participated in the ritual to remove the “evil eye” were religious enough and didn’t see any conflict with this practice and the teachings of their Church. They never viewed this ritual as superstition. When I visited New Orleans many years later and learned that some Catholics in that city practiced voodoo, I wasn’t surprised. It brought back memories of my Italian relatives and the “mal occhia.
Our apartments on 276 Floyd Street were called railroad flats, because one room followed another like connected railroad cars. To get to my apartment I had to walk up two flights of stairs, through a narrow hallway that was lit primarily from the skylight on the top floor. Although they were dark and narrow, our halls were always clean; the bronze mail slots and doorknobs shined as bright as the fixtures in the finest Manhattan hotels. At dinnertime I would rarely make it to my apartment without stopping at my grandmother’s or aunts’ apartments to see what they were cooking. It was part of my daily routine to sit at a few dinner tables and eat a little here and a little there before finally arriving at my own apartment for the family meal. It was great being a skinny little kid and being told by all the elderly women in the building, “Eat! You too thin.” I think they liked having me join them. I talked a lot as a kid and wasn’t shy about joining in adult conversations. I usually made myself the center of attention around everyone’s table and didn’t take it personally when they told me to “shut up and eat.” It was like having five or six of the finest Italian restaurants in one building. Mrs. Pellegrino’s hot polenta with a thick tomato sauce topped with Italian sausage was, as they say, “to die for.” Grandma’s rabbit cacciatore, the signature dish of Ischia, Grandpa’s hometown in Italy, was fabulous – even if my friends made fun of me for eating rabbit. The people in this building didn’t have a lot but they were happy to share the little they had. An important lesson I’ve never forgotten from these families at 276 Floyd Street is that sharing the little you have is much more meaningful than sharing from your excess.
Everyone in the building loved parties. What else could we do? There was no television. Most of our celebrations were centered on Church holy days: Easter, Christmas, Saints’ Name Days, receiving the sacraments. Being Catholic was fun! We had lots of excuses to party. When someone made their First Holy Communion or Confirmation, we had a party. Making the sacraments was a big deal with my relatives. There was always an abundance of great food, lots of music, lots of people. All the women joined in the cooking. Caterers were unheard of in those days. Besides, who could cook better than those women? Our small apartments would be overflowing with people.
The men supplied the music. Mr. Pelligrino, our next-door neighbor, would bring his trumpet. Someone else would grab a mandolin and the Italian songs would begin. They weren’t great musicians but they definitely made a joyful noise. I never understood what they were singing but I knew they were probably love songs. Italians are always singing love songs. They’re either singing about some girl they love, a town in Italy they love or some Italian food they love. Who cared what the songs meant? Everyone was having fun. When they say Italians would rather make love then war – believe it. It was amazing the parties you could throw in such small apartments. Today we all have gigantic houses and entertaining at home seems like a lot of work.
The big Church holy days, like Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, were the best. On those days our apartments would be filled with people. Relatives would come from all over Brooklyn. Dinner for 30 in Grandma’s apartment was no big deal. When I think of the size of our apartments, I can’t imagine how everyone fit. Having expensive dinnerware wasn’t important. Getting together as a family and celebrating was. The best crystal glasses in the world wouldn’t have made Grandpa’s wine taste any better. God, it was awful! We never referred to Grandpa’s wine by the year it was made. It was more like the week. Grandpa would order his grapes from California in the early fall. When they arrived he would stack the cases of grapes inside the fence in the front of our building. Unlike commercial wineries where the time between picking the grapes and pressing them is measured in hours, Grandpa’s grapes would sometimes sit for days until he could find time to press them. Any wine aged more than a month was considered vintage. It wasn’t uncommon to drink it out of old jelly jars. Whatever wasn’t drinkable became vinegar for salad dressing. I don’t think Grandma ever had to buy a bottle of vinegar as long as Grandpa made wine. There was no dishwasher but there were enough hands to pitch in and get the dishes done. Furniture was shifted to the back room, which in winter was so cold that perishable food could be stored there for days without fear of it going bad. The women prepared the meal while the men built the “dining room” table using sawhorses and plywood. I spent the day running up and down the stairs, jumping from one apartment to the other, meeting with my cousins.
A few minutes before midnight on Christmas Eve, my mother’s uncle Frank would begin a procession throughout the building carrying a small statue of the Baby Jesus. All the kids would follow. At the end of the procession he would place the statue in the stable of the large Nativity scene he built every year before Christmas. None of us one was embarrassed to publicly display our devotion to Jesus.
Easter was also cause for celebration. I always anxiously awaited the Saturday before Easter. On that day, when the clock struck twelve noon, it meant that Lent was officially over and I could break my fast and eat chicken and ice cream, the two things I had given up for Lent and hadn’t touched since Ash Wednesday. I guess I was a weird kid. Who the hell gives up chicken for Lent? To celebrate the end of Lent, my mother would prepare different types of pizza. There were ricotta meat pies loaded with prosciutto, salami and half dozen different cheeses; spinach pies overflowing with spinach, capers and olives; and Italian cheese cake. It is still a family tradition. We still celebrate and refer to the Saturday before Easter as “Pizza Saturday.” Don’t look it up on a Church calendar; it won’t be there.
Once a year, on a Sunday in July, Our Lady of Pompeii Church, on Siegel Street, in Brooklyn, would sponsor an Italian Feast Day in honor of the Madonna Della Grazie, another name for the Blessed Mother. The feast would begin in the early afternoon with a parade through the streets of our neighborhood. The centerpiece of the parade was a statue of the Madonna, sitting atop a big wooden platform that men would take turns carrying on their shoulders. Men and women dressed in their Sunday finery would march in front of the platform, proudly displaying the banners of their Church organizations. The Altar Society, Children of Mary and The Holy Name Society were well represented. They were followed by a band of musicians dressed in their black pants, white shirts and black ties, playing Italian marching songs. Lots of young girls, in their First Holy Communion dresses, followed the statue. People from the neighborhood would line the streets and the parade would stop when someone wanted to pin a dollar bill to a ribbon around the statue. By the time the procession reached Floyd Street the Blessed Mother was pretty well covered with money. After the parade, we returned to the Church grounds, where we stuffed our faces with food prepared by the women of the neighborhood, listened to music, watched fireworks and finally went home very full and very tired.
My family was involved in this feast. For weeks before the feast my father would come home from work, eat dinner, then head down to the cellar, where he would work on the platform that would be used to carry the statue of the Blessed Mother. This platform had to be particularly attractive since it was the centerpiece of the parade. He took great pride in this work and the end result was a testament to his skill as a craftsman. My aunt and grandmother worked for days preparing the garments for the statue and the food to be consumed after the parade. Once again, the Church had provided us with another opportunity to party.
The memories of my life in the neighborhood are some of the happiest of my life. If I had to do it all over again I wouldn’t change a thing.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Excerpt From Carl's Soon To Be Published Book
My father was a man of faith – I think. I will never know for sure because he died when he was forty-three years old and I was fifteen. I never got the chance to ask him questions about his faith. As a child, I watched him say his morning and evening prayers, go to Mass on Sunday, and bless himself with the Sign of the Cross when he drove past a church. As best I could tell, he followed the teachings of the Catholic Church. Even as a child I recognized that he had a devotion to his faith that other male members of our family didn’t have. Somehow he seemed different.
A few years ago I went to see my mother, Dolly, in the nursing home where she lived, day after day, not knowing where she was or why she was in this strange place. The home gave meaning to the expression, “God’s Waiting Room.” I dreaded these visits and hoped this wouldn’t be the one when she failed to recognize me at all. She began, as usual, asking if I had come to take her home to her house on Floyd Street, in Brooklyn, New York – the place of her birth, torn down fifty years before to make way for housing projects. Before she drifted into silence she asked why her mother and my father hadn’t come to visit her, completely unaware that they had passed away years before.
Trying to make conversation, I asked her, “What made dad a religious person? He seemed to have great faith. What drove that faith?”
My mother’s reply astounded me. She said, “I don’t know.”
I kept questioning her, hoping to extract a little more family history before dementia locked it away in her mind forever.
“How could you not know?” I asked. “You were married to him for seventeen years before he died. Didn’t he ever share his faith with you?”
She said, “No, he didn’t, he just prayed every morning and every night and went to Mass on Sundays.”
I believe her answer had nothing to do with dementia. My mother either didn’t know or wasn’t willing to share what she knew of my father’s beliefs with anyone – not even her oldest son.
It occurred to me after that visit that a person’s faith can be as personal as their sex life and shared just as sparingly. I realized that while some people wouldn’t hesitate to proclaim that they didn’t believe in God, or that Jesus was their Lord and Savior, or to make some other defining declaration of their faith, the full depth of their beliefs stayed locked inside them. My experience has been that even priests, rabbis and ministers, while telling us what we should believe, rarely share the strengths and weaknesses of their own faith with us. What a shame. Why would we not want to share this part of our lives with those we love? Is it because we are equally afraid of coming off the sinner or the saint?
It occurred to me after that visit that a person’s faith can be as personal as their sex life and shared just as sparingly. I realized that while some people wouldn’t hesitate to proclaim that they didn’t believe in God, or that Jesus was their Lord and Savior, or to make some other defining declaration of their faith, the full depth of their beliefs stayed locked inside them. My experience has been that even priests, rabbis and ministers, while telling us what we should believe, rarely share the strengths and weaknesses of their own faith with us. What a shame. Why would we not want to share this part of our lives with those we love? Is it because we are equally afraid of coming off the sinner or the saint?
I was determined not to leave my children and grandchildren with the same questions I had about my father. I was sixty years old and I didn’t want them to remember me this way. I was also concerned that, like so many young people today, my children were distancing themselves from their Church because they disagreed with some of its teachings. I wondered if they knew that I have disagreed with some Catholic Church’s teachings for many years but I still consider myself a Catholic and would never think of leaving the Church. Did they understand that it’s okay to disagree? Did they realize that you don’t have to give up just because you have a different opinion? So many people don’t.
With that in mind, I began a project to document to my children and grandchildren the things I believe regarding God, Jesus, my Church, prayer, etc. The result is “How To Keep Your Faith when all around you are losing theirs.”
While writing I realized that it wasn’t enough to tell them what I believed. I needed to tell them why I believed and how my faith was formed. I needed to share with them the people and events that helped shape that faith. I had to also be brutally honest or else the whole project would be a sham. This new direction took me all the way back to my childhood growing up as an Italian kid in a tough neighborhood in Brooklyn New York I recalled for them the hilarious and tragic events that made me believe in God one minute and doubt His existence the next. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.
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