Ritual Before Recipe

My Nana in her kitchen circa 1954. I know it was her happy place too!

PROLOGUE: As I wrote this, at about 2 paragraphs in, the post took a turn, and with that, a long walk down a very happy memory lane. What it didn't do was provide you with the type of recipe you're used to from the Kitchen Rabbit Hole.

I apologize in advance, but here goes:

Antipasto with the goodies I found at Micucci's Grocery.

This is more of an adventure than a recipe. Literally, antipasto means 'before the meal', some define it as the first course of a formal Italian meal, and in my world, it was simply the first course of the 5 -7 hour Sunday dinner at my Nana's. Unlike the French charcuterie that focuses on mostly cured meats and cheeses, antipasto offers a more balanced selection that, in addition to the meats and cheeses, includes fresh and marinated vegetables, sometimes canned tuna or anchovies, and in this case grilled marinated octopus.

YIKES! You know you've been blogging too long and working too hard when you're a paragraph into a post and you get that nagging feeling that you've been there before. After a little search of the Rabbit Hole, I see that I wrote about antipasto back in December of '24 (can't believe I'm coming up on 2 years). Anyway, this is more about the adventure than the dish.

It all started when a friend asked if I would accompany her on a shopping trip to southern Maine on a day off from work. Now I LOVE this friend and spending the rare time we can together, but I have grown out of shopping in malls and outlets. I think I simply shopped myself out years ago and have become very used to the more relaxed pace of life here on the border of the Midcoast and Downeast Maine where I live.

After considering the invite for a bit, I offered to join Julia on the condition that after the clothing shopping was complete, we stop at my favorite place to shop in Portland, Micucci's Grocery. When I visit Micucci's, it reminds me of when, as a little girl, I would shop with my Nana.

Crittenden Street (today) in Newark where my family owned 3 of these 5 row homes in the 1960s. BTW, the yellow house was theirs and it was blue aluminum sided after my Pop ditched the asphalt fake brick siding.

Nana Ida lived in the '1st or North Ward' of Newark, NJ a.k.a. "the Italian section" or Little Italy by some. Although there was as Acme supermarket around the corner where some of Nana's shopping was done, the bulk of it happened in the vicinity of Summer Avenue where there were all sorts of family run Italian businesses -- some in shops and some in homes -- bakers, cafes, candy shops, fresh pasta, Italian ice, cheeses, and cured meats.

Pop finished the basement in the house to include a summer kitchen, and full wet bar with a mirrored back-bar that was like a little speakeasy. Clearly his happy place. It was there that we ate Sunday dinner at a table adjacent to the bar.

We would walk up there -- it felt like a giant uphill hike for my little legs, I recently looked it up on Google Maps, and it turns out it was about a mile --- with one of those folding metal shopping carts and go from place to place to get whatever she needed.

The excursion was a long one because at every stop there was an exchange of what I'm guessing was pleasantries, news, and local gossip. Since they were all talking Italian, this is total conjecture on my part. The only time anyone broke into broken English was when they wanted to feed me -- which happened at every stop.

One of those shops was the Celentano Family Store for pasta.

As I write and reminisce, I can't help but wonder whether those pilgrimages up Summer Avenue planted the seeds of my lifelong love of food. Shopping for ingredients wasn't simply an errand—it was part of the meal itself. Every stop offered another conversation, another taste, another connection to family and community.

This in my Nana Ida and Pop Mike, I'm guessing at Branch Brook Park in Newark probably in the mid 1930s.

Preparing Sunday dinner became its own ceremony, with mostly Nana at the helm in the kitchen before everyone finally settled around the table to enjoy the results together. I often tell people that no one ever taught me to cook in the traditional sense. No one stood over my shoulder explaining techniques or handing me a written recipe.

Looking back now, I realize they were teaching me all along. They taught me that great food begins long before anyone turns on the stove. It starts with knowing where to shop, taking the time to choose good ingredients, sharing stories while you gather them, and understanding that every meal is really about the people who will eventually gather around the table. That's the lesson I carried away from Summer Avenue, and it's the feeling I rediscover every time I walk through the door at Micucci's.

Thought for Food

The older I get, the more I realize that the recipe has never been the whole story, which might explain why Nana never wrote her recipes down. I try to share the backstory with every recipe here, but the real backbone to all of it is remembering how Nana made a meal feel, and by virtue of that, how it made all who shared that meal feel.

That's the recipe I strive to recreate.

Speaking of tables, I have this on that belonged to my great grandmother Dora, Nana's mom. I am told that she used it to prepare food, roll dough, cut fresh pasta, and serve Sunday dinner for 6-8 ever week.

THE RECIPE:

Good food

A table

People willing to sit around it

Time

Conversation

A willingness to linger

Shopping

Choose ingredients thoughtfully.

Talk to the people selling them.

Be open to buying something you didn't plan on bringing home.

Prepare

For years, I literally twitched if I had to give up control in my kitchen -- likely because Mom and Nana were really particular about who helped in the kitchen. I am learning that with a glass of wine to temper the Type 'A', I do enjoy having help in the kitchen, so in this 'recipe' I am recommending the buddy system when you put the meal together.

Serving

Always family style; passing bowls; passing your dish to whoever is closest to what you want on your plate; plenty of wine; shouting across the table because everyone is talking at once; you always have room for one more at the table, and food for 4 more.

Above All.....

Don't rush the ending.

One of my favorite parts of Sunday at Nana's was the lingering at the table after everyone was full. No one rushed to clear the plates or start cleaning up. We just sat and talked—or more accurately, the grown-ups sat and talked while I tried to sponge up every word, every story, and every bit of family gossip I could -- until, of course, they switched to Italian when they wanted to ensure that I didn't.