Home Made

Her hands moved so quickly and that is what really fascinated me. I would kneel down on a kitchen table chair and just watch this rhythm she had. The whole event to me was like a dance. On Friday’s she made pasta’s

I only got to watch this event in the summer when there was no school. My sister always wanted to be outside. She was the tomboy who loved to get dirty and be on her bike and just play. I preferred hanging with my mom. I loved movies, music, books and just plain hanging out. Those were her things too so to me it was fun. I didn’t consciously think, Oh I want to stay inside with Mom. It just seemed like more fun to do. Oh I liked to ride my bike and explore and all the things outside that kids did back in the day when kids played outside. But if I had my druthers it would be to stay indoors and “help and hang” with mom.

I didn’t help her one bit but I so enjoyed the day of pasta making and Saturdays the day of baking. Okay I admit I did not enjoy laundry day or cleaning days. I went outside for those days. My love was food even then. Looking back on my life and family all of the memories revolve around family, food, laughing and of course liquor. I say of course but I do know most families don’t make wine in their basement.

As I climbed onto my kitchen chair perch on Friday’s I would see her make a big well of flour. Inside that well were the eggs and if there were other ingredients I don’t recall. I just remember how she tucked her thumb under her palm and used her 4 fingers in a rapid fire manner and moved some of the wall of the flour and mixed it with the egg. Left, right, forward, backward. To me this was done like magic. The wall never collapsed but slowly incorporated with the eggs. Her hand moved so quickly that you didn’t see the flour move.

I would put my elbows on the table and my chin in my hands and be completely mesmerized. I drove her crazy with questions. I remember one time she told me to just try to be quiet for awhile and watch because if I was quiet I would be able to see everything. In other words, “shut the hell up kid you are driving me nuts” But she never made me feel that way even though looking back I am sure I was bugging the hell out of her.

Once the dough was made then the flying hands with knives would begin. She had this very long wooden rolling pin. No handles just a long wooden dowel of sorts. It had to be 3 ft long. After the dough was rolled out she cut the pastas. Spaghetti style was done 1st with a regular knife and quickly. Again this would fascinate me at the speed in which she cut and how precise they were. I would have no digits left if I tried this at home!

They were all the same length and width to me. I am sure they were varying thickness but it never seemed to be. Then she would cut some that were more like Fettuccini…..my favorite. All with the same little kitchen knife and in rapid fire succession. When she was done with the spaghetti she would throw some flour over them and take her two hands and toss them like it was salad. She would then lay them out on the table with dish towels and cheese cloth over them to allow them to dry. My sister and I would love to eat them. We would always be sticking our hands under the cheese cloths and grabbing a noodle to eat as she would tell us to stop in Italian with a laugh.

Then the whole process would begin again. Now the dough was rolled out and I could help at this stage. It meant ravioli’s. She would let me take a water glass and cut out dough. She would put the filling in and I would fold it over and pinch the ends with a fork dipped in flour. I absolutely loved doing this. Looking back I wonder did I really love this because I don’t enjoy it so much anymore or did I just love doing it because my mom was doing it? I don’t really know. But as I even type this the feeling of that time comes back to me and it is warm and happy.

My favorite pasta is gnocchi. Oh I could eat those little potato dumplings until I burst. On my birthday this was my favorite meal to ask for. My husband thinks they are carp bait and that makes me laugh. I see what he means but I just love them. I have never been able to make them as light as my mom. God knows I have tried. Mine were generally heavy, like paper weight heavy, and that isn’t what they are to be like.

These pasta’s she made sat on our huge farm table in the kitchen drying until it was close to dinner time. Then they were put in the freezer or fridge. Come Sunday we had fresh pasta for dinner and then for the rest of the week. In my family pasta was a staple in soups, main course or a side dish. When I went out into the world on my own I didn’t eat it for a long time. I wanted to eat American food - you know good ole American processed foods. I remember when I discovered Velveeta at age 20. I was thrilled that you could get a brick of cheese in a box. We bought cheese from this man behind a deli counter who barely spoke English. Big hunks of cheese. I was very impressed that there was cheese in a box in a cube. So I went through a Velveeta stage that now makes me howl.

On Saturdays my sister and I had to attend CCD classes. (Catholic religious classes like Sunday school only on Saturday) We went to a public school so we had to get that Catholicism in us somehow so my father would be happy. Every Saturday when we came home we knew what our mom was doing. Baking and listening to Dean Martin records. Our father was working and our mom was in the kitchen baking so we had baked goods for the week. Dad loved sweets and because he took his lunch to work mom always had to have “goodies” in his lunch.

When Mom cut the pie crusts off the sides after filling the pie plate she would put all the pieces in a pile. When my sister and I got off the bus from CCD classes she would let us roll them out and make a cinnamon roll a piece. Not a Cinnabon type roll but a long roll. We would get them in the oven and then change our clothes from school clothes to play clothes. (do kids still do that?)
Once they came out of the oven Mom would pour us a glass of milk and we would devour our personal cinnamon rolls while still warm.

My mom made doughnuts, cookies, cakes and pies. She made these waffle like things like the funnel cake you see at the county fair and sprinkle powdered sugar over. Oh how I loved those. But they were usually saved for company or when their friends were over to play cards. They would drink, smoke and eat these funnel cakes.

My sister and I loved when they had card night. We would be in the other room watching TV in our pj’s and when they took a break the men would fire up their cigars and my mom would get the oil hot and make these. The other women would sprinkle on the powdered sugar and they would put them on the table and call the men back to eat ‘em while they were hot. My sister and I always knew that was our call to run into the kitchen.

I can’t even fathom this life. Her life was so domestic and God knows I so far from that. While I don’t eat processed food anymore now that I must eat gluten free, I still can not imagine all that baking and cooking all the time. Some weeks I just want to have a night off. My husband cooks and is much better than me. Thank Goodness!

Last week I made a plate of cheese, some meats and some great gluten free crackers. I opened a bottle of wine and we called that dinner. Thankfully there are no kids who have to have a good balanced meal here. We can be lazy. To me it was a great dinner.

My mother on the other hand would call that an appetizer.