Pomato Revival

Last month’s spaghetti with clams recipe got me thinking about neighbors. When I was growing up in Brooklyn, we had the kind of neighbors you’d share a stoop with on summer nights, killing time waiting for the ice cream truck to pass (at least, that’s what I was waiting for). Our stoop mates were Mr. Joe and Marie upstairs, and Helen and Tony downstairs. We shared a three-family house with them until I was seven. They were in their sixties and seventies at the time, but the age difference meant nothing. They were my friends. Tony and I, in particular, were great buddies. He was one of those retired guys who turned stoop-sitting into a way of life. I’d climb the living room couch every day to look out the window for his white, combed-over head. Everyone from the pigeons to the neighborhood kids knew Tony, and we were always happy to see him.

Although Tony talked to every kid on our block, I liked to believe I was special. For one, we shared a stoop. That had to mean something. And our close proximity meant more face time, which I figured also won me extra points. I was desperate to be his favorite friend. His best friend, even. He’d tell me stories about his son in Florida, where he planned to move one day to be with his grandkids. I secretly hated those grandkids, wondering if he’d rather be with them all those times he hung out with me. I worried I was just a kid fill-in. Sometimes I’d promise myself I wouldn’t go out there for a week just to see if he’d miss me. Would he ask where I’d been? Would he say the stoop hadn’t been the same without me? But it never lasted. I couldn’t resist running out the door every time I saw him on those steps.

Most of our time was spent feeding pigeons. There were tricks, he’d tell me. You can’t just throw bread onto the sidewalk, all willy nilly. To start, you had to break the bread down to the right size. Too big and the pigeons couldn’t hold the pieces in their beak. Too small and it turned to dust. Make the hunks the size of nickels. And don’t toss your whole supply at once. Sprinkle a little at a time. When one batch is almost done, sprinkle some more. That’s how they’ll get to know you. You have to stand there with the bread bag and talk to the pigeons while they’re eating. They’ll look up at you when supplies are low. Then—and only then—should you throw more. Make sure they see that you’re the one with the food. That way, they won’t forget you.

On the few nice days when Tony didn’t feel like sitting outside, he’d leave a bag of bread on the bottom step. I liked to believe it was for me—that it was our secret handshake of sorts. But I never actually used it since I wasn’t allowed to sit outside alone. And, anyway, those days were rare; Tony was usually there, warming the steps, and if he wasn’t talking to me or the other kids he had a little circle going with Helen, Marie, and Mr. Joe. I’d sit with them, even on those days, nodding and laughing at whatever they talked about. They complained a lot—about the careless teenage cashiers at CTown, about the new hair colors Helen tried that looked nothing like the picture on the box, about heartburn and blood pressure. Mr. Joe was hard of hearing, so everything he said came out in a holler. “IT’S LIKE THEY PUT THE EGGS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE BAG ON PURPOSE.”

I couldn’t believe how long they could go on talking about things like groceries (“SHORT RIBS WERE ON SALE, BUT YOU DON’T WANT THAT—THE MEAT IS GREASY”), TV (“I am so tired of that weatherman who always says partly cloudy/partly sunny”), and similarly fascinating topics (“You know you can go to the podiatrist and they’ll cut your nails for you. You shouldn’t bend down like that!”). They included me in their conversations, or, at least, they didn’t tell me to go away. They just kept talking, I fed the pigeons when I could, and they watched for traffic when I sprinted to the curb for ice cream.

I thought their mundane conversations were brilliant. Who would think to care about the placement of eggs in the grocery bag? And who knew people could bond over such a thing as toenails? I had yet to engage in the pleasures of everyday venting with friends, but my stoop-mates made me excited about the prospect. I never knew what to talk about with people. They made it look so easy.

Things started to change right before we moved to New Jersey. Mr. Joe died of a heart attack on an unassuming summer afternoon. Our apartment didn’t feel right without the hum of his evening news blaring through the ceiling. Marie stayed upstairs for a little while, then moved away to be near her kids. Helen and Tony stuck with their apartment for a good five years after we left. We’d still see Tony out on the stoop when we came back to visit my grandparents. Tony and I were excited as ever to see each other, but something was lost from our pigeon days, when we could sit in silence and just be pals. Now it was, “Oh, you got so tall,” that sort of conversation. They did make it to Florida, where Tony lived another decade with his grandkids. Helen is still there, in her nineties now. She and my grandmother share the occasional gossip when they call for holidays. And she always asks about us.

My grandparents still live across the street but our old house was sold. It’s strange seeing complete strangers in those windows, curtained in fabric we never would have chosen. And in all the years they’ve lived there, they’ve never embraced the house’s biggest selling point: that shared stoop. It just sits there, empty, waiting for someone to warm it up.

(c) Andrea Sparacio

My favorite dish on the menu at Joe and Ian’s beer pairing dinners for Slice was a Persian Soup-e jow inspired by our friend Saba. His mom Zarrin would make huge batches of this soup for household gatherings when he was growing up. I got to hang around while he and Joe made a test batch at our apartment last week, Saba calling his mom every few minutes for tips. It was pretty damn sweet. Folks who know her say she’s the best Persian cook around—and incidentally, she’s not Persian, she’s Indian. I have my eye on Saba for more of his family recipes, so stay tuned. That’s right, Saba. I’m looking at you.

Here’s the recipe the boys used for the benefit dinners, straight from Zarrin’s kitchen to 100 hungry Slice supporters.

(c) Andrea Sparacio

This weekend was something else.

I’ve talked about clams before. I like them. A lot. Okay, more than a lot. It’s a problem. Sometimes, they’re all I can think about. When I get it in my mind that I want them, nothing else will suffice. It’s like a nervous tick. I’m sure it has to do with my childhood. I’ve mentioned how clams are always on my family’s table for mini celebrations—so much so that we can hardly celebrate anything without them. They’re more essential than a birthday cake. And I don’t like eating them with anyone other than my family. It’s just not the same without my dad cutting lemon wedges at the kitchen counter, digging the Tobasco bottle from that dark corner of the fridge before he sits down. A very special meal will include the triple header: raw clams for an appetizer, then pasta with clams, followed by baked clams.

My husband Joe has experienced the Gagliano clam extravaganza at my parents’ house, but I decided recently that I have to master this fine art now, before we have a family of our own to continue the madness with. I was also feeling a little homesick, so I broke my own rule and made spaghetti with clams without my parents. It was amazing, but I really did miss the big family table, my mom scrunching her nose at the raw clams, and the inevitable stories that emerge over dinner. It often goes back to Brooklyn, sharing memories of clam nights with the neighbors who lived above and below us. Mr. Joe and his wife Marie lived upstairs. Mr. Joe loved clams–almost as much as me. He would call us up for clam dinners at least once a month. And what could be better? Tony and Helen, who lived downstairs, and also shared the love.

They were all elderly and treated my parents like their own kids. My brothers and I were their honorary grandkids, even though our grandparents lived right across the street. We didn’t mind. We had so much in common—our love for clams most of all. We’d all gather in our cramped kitchens, noses running from too much Tobasco, pasta water boiling over, shouting at one another, men arguing over shucking methods, like one big dysfunctional neighborly family.

Tony, Helen, Mr. Joe, Marie, this one’s for you, wherever you are.

Spaghetti with Clams
1 dozen fresh cherrystone clams
3 to 4 tablespoons olive oil
½ medium white onion, diced
4 cloves garlic, diced
Approximately 10 sprigs of fresh parsley, chopped
1 pound spaghetti
Romano cheese, grated
freshly ground black pepper, to taste

Shuck the clams, taking special care to reserve the juice. This is the trickiest part. I use a neurotic two-bowl method created by my mom. Keep one large bowl, where all the juice will eventually end up. But open each clam over a smaller, separate bowl. Catch the juice in the small bowl and give it a good sniff. If it doesn’t smell funky, pour it into the large bowl. That way, if you happen upon a bad clam you won’t ruin the entire batch.

Set the actual clams in a separate dish for later. If you need a quick lesson in clam-shucking, I refer you once again to our good friends in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn.

Once you have a good bowl of juice, filter out the sand. The fine pores in a plain cotton handkerchief are perfect for this. Line a new bowl with a (clean!) handkerchief large enough to cover the entire bowl, with room to fold over the rim. With the handkerchief securely in place, pour the clam juice into the bowl, making sure the cloth doesn’t fall in.

Gather the handkerchief’s four corners and lift, creating a sack. The juice will drip slowly through the fabric, leaving the sand behind. Set aside.

You can adjust your clammy levels depending on the severity of your clam obsession. I, for one, would name my firtborn Littleneck if it were socially acceptable. But seeing as how it’s not, I choose, instead, to make a super clammy pasta. If you’re like me, cut the dozen clams you’d set aside into bite-size pieces. If you want a slightly less clammy experience, use half the clams (or however many you want, really). You can bake the rest, or call me and I’ll come pick them up.

In a large saucepan, sauté the onions and garlic in the olive oil. Add ¾ of the parsley and sauté until it begins to soften, then add the clam juice. Cover the pot and let it simmer on low heat for about 15 minutes. In the meantime, get your pasta water boiling and make the spaghetti. I’ll spare you the step-by-step on how to boil pasta, but if you need help, visit this lovely blog.

Set the cooked spaghetti aside and tend to your sauce again. Its base is essentially ocean water, so it’s going to be really salty. Taste it and add water as needed. Your pasta water is perfect for this if you haven’t already dumped it. Once you get the liquid to your liking, add the chopped clams. They only need about a minute to cook, so add them at this very last stage. Overcooked clams will get rubbery.

Pour the clam sauce over the cooked pasta, mix, and serve. Top each serving with a dash of the remaining parsley, Romano cheese, and pepper. Call and invite me over for dinner.

A kid’s universe really unfolds when they start to see things in the world that they’d previously only known at home. Like the first time I’d heard people speaking Sicilian who weren’t my family or neighbors. Obviously, I knew we hadn’t invented the language. I understood that millions of immigrants brought it with them from Sicily. But still, hearing it outside my little bubble was unsettling. Even worse was hearing other variations—dialects from other regions that were similar enough for me to understand, but certainly not the Sicilian I knew. Something primal and territorial would kick in. Who are you, and what do you know about that world? I’d wonder.

I’ve moved on from such childish reactions, but I often surprise myself when I get “what do you mean this wasn’t invented in my house?” feelings. They still creep up, but now I’m more shocked at myself than I am at the world. Who am I kidding? It’s all been done before. And I say that with affection for all those who share traditions. It’s nice to remember that even though we don’t know one another, the same dishes cover our tables; the same values bind our families; and the same roots brought us to where we are.

I wasn’t expecting to feel that territorial response toward my Netflix queue. But there it was, smack in the middle of a No Reservations episode. There was Tony, hanging out in the fields of Sicily with some old caper farmers when they sat down to lunch. And right there, among the pasta and wine and bread was my parents’ tomato, onion, and cucumber salad. The salad they’d invented in our kitchen for Sunday lunches back in the ’80s. Hmph. My world. Shattered again. Oh, well.

In truth, I’m happy to see this masterpiece out and about. It deserves the credit. It reminds me of Sunday nights growing up, when we’d flip meals and have lunch at dinnertime since “Sunday dinner” was at noon. This salad was always on our Sunday night lunch table.

Maybe my parents and those caper farmers knew the same guy—the guy in Sicily who invented this. Or maybe it’s just one of those things that we all share without knowing.

Tomato Cucumber Salad
I didn’t have capers and olives when I made this recently, so they’re not in the picture. But if you can, add them! It wouldn’t be Sunday night lunch without them.

For the salad:
2 ripe tomatoes (vine tomatoes are great, but anything will do)
½ red or sweet white onion, sliced into thin moons
2 cucumbers, peeled and sliced into half moons
1 tablespoon capers, rinsed
1 handful cracked green olives

For the dressing:
1 to 2 tablespoons red wine vinegar
3 tablespoons olive oil
dried oregano, to taste
salt, to taste

Throw it all together. Taste. Adjust any ingredients until you love it. And please don’t let that vinaigrette at the bottom of the bowl go to waste! Something happens after the vegetables have been hanging out in it for a while. It would be a mortal sin if you didn’t soak it up with a hunk of crusty bread. A sin. What would your grandparents think? Please, don’t let us down. Get the bread. Make us proud.

This week I introduced my dear friend C to the Feast of Santa Rosalia, Bensonhurt’s annual street fair honoring the patron saint of Palermo, Sicily. “The feast” was the highlight of our summers growing up. Yes, we loved getting out of the city, hiking, swimming, etc., but nothing thrilled us more than a sticky August evening at the feast. It was just a few blocks from my Nonna Rosalia’s house (yes, she had an entire feast dedicated to her), so we’d go on Sundays after everyone–all 18 cousins, plus aunts and uncles–piled into her apartment for dinner. We’d spend the night trying to win goldfish; eating fried dough, gelato, sausage, and clams; listening to terrible Sicilian folk bands; watching people tuck dollar bills into the Santa Rosalia status. It was chaotic, ridiculous, and delicious: like most good things in my life.

It’s amazing how differently things from childhood look after so many years. This feast was HUGE when I was a kid. Walking up those seven blocks of 18th Avenue took all night, it seemed. You were always sandwiched by people; getting poked in the back by someone’s canolli, some stranger’s gelato dripping on your shoe. I once lost track of my family thanks to the fat guy with that giant snake draped over his shoulders every year. They were gone for a full few seconds (i.e., eternity) when I found my brother Sal and attached myself to him. I don’t think they realized I was missing.

Snake guy wasn’t there this year, and the crowds were a little thinner than I remembered. The neighborhood’s changed—immigrant groups come and go and the Sicilians are fewer and fewer—but it was still as magical as ever. Only this time, those seven blocks took about 30 minutes to cover, and that included a stop at the venerable Villabate Bakery. I know I’ve gotten bigger, but did the feast also get smaller? No matter. Here’s our night, in pictures.

First stop, stuffing dollar bills into Santa Rosalia’s skirt. C and I didn’t do this, nor did my family ever do it. Seems like a strange ritual, no?

First on the menu, some high-quality cheese sauce and sausages. We didn’t partake in this, though, because we were saving ourselves for…..

THIS thing of beauty. We call them sfingi in Sicilian, but they’re also known as zeppole by some.  (Another pastry with the same name is made for St. Joseph’s day. It’s confusing.) Call them what you want, they’re fried dough balls. Funnel cake in ball form, if you will.

You can’t walk 18th Avenue in Bensonhurst without a stop at Villabate, the best bakery in town. After sfingi, our dinner consisted of….

Chocolate and coffee gelato. But not just any old gelato cup…

Gelato on a brioche roll. If you’re going to do gelato for dinner, this is really the only way to do it.

We decided to be nice and bring something home for our boys…

The canolli won. They fly in their ricotta  from Palermo for these babies every day. Not exactly eco-friendly, but….still a beautiful end to an evening.

I’m not one to obsess over the day I have kids. I’m excited about it eventually, yes, but I’ve tried not to latch on to ideals of how I plan to raise them, or what I swear I will or will not do as the perfect parent. Lord knows I’ll probably start messing up my kids the first day we meet, in those subtle ways we never realize. I’m okay with that.

But I have thought a lot about the things I’d like for my kids to associate with me. I don’t mean when I’m dead or anything. Just little things that will make them think of me. For example, the smell of sautéing garlic and parsley brings me straight to my parents’ kitchen. Oil of Olay on a freshly washed face is my mom completely.