FOOD ON THE FOOD

Cookbook Friday: Italian Bread

This is my dad, Freddie Donroe, in grammar school in the mid-1950s.  He has this story to share about bringing home the Italian bread:

Hot, freshly baked Italian bread.  Now that’s Italian!  For me, no meal is complete without one or more loaves of Italian bread fresh from the oven.

My infatuation with the long loaf with the crispy, light brown crust began at a young age.  In 1956, my family moved out of New Haven and into one of its growing suburbs, Hamden.  It was part of a larger migration of ethnic, mostly European groups out of the city.  Many Italians were part of this migration and an awful lot of family names in our new community ended with a vowel.  For this reason, a number of shops and stores sprung up that catered to Italian tastes and habits.  Bakeries were among them, and it was there that as a youngster I first delighted in both the taste and aroma of bread straight from the brick oven.

Over the years, I made my way to a number of these establishments to pick up a loaf or two for my mom.  Most of them were storefront type businesses located on Dixwell Avenue, the main street in the town.  But the bakery I remember most was located on Church Street, a small side street where my grammar school sat.  This neighborhood was made up of mostly two- and three-family homes with garages in the back.  One enterprising family had converted part of the garage into a bakery.  It held only one small counter, a tiny prep station, and a large brick oven.  As a result, every part of the preparation was done right out in plain view.

It was a treat to watch your own loaves being prepared from scratch, from the kneading of the dough to placing it in the oven with the large, wooden paddle.  The wait was excruciating, as the aroma of baking bread swallowed me up.  Finally, the loaves were removed from the oven, slipped into long paper sleeves, and placed, piping hot, into my eager 8-year old hands.  Then came the hardest part: how to walk all the way home with two deliciously hot loaves of Italian bread under my arm without snatching a hunk for a quick snack!  To be honest, I couldn’t always resist the temptation.  But my mom was pretty understanding.  I always suspected that she ordered two loaves specifically so that one might make it home unscathed.

Eventually, the little backyard bakery went the way of all such ventures.  Either the enterprise failed or was so successful that it moved to larger quarters in a more commercial environment.  I hope it was the latter.  Whatever the reason, I was forced to start frequenting more conventional establishments.  And although the fantastic aroma still accompanied the loaves I brought home, the overall experience was never quite the same again.

Freddie Donroe
Hamden, Connecticut
1948 –

And that’s the reason why we don’t have a family recipe for Italian bread.  So sorry to disappoint!

Next Recipe: Chicken Potacchio

     (Previous Recipe: Stuffed Artichokes)

Cookbook Friday: The Cherry Tree

One of my favorite features of this family cookbook I’m writing (besides the recipes, themselves) is the collection of stories from family members.  Usually, they’re short anecdotes that I relay in the context of a specific recipe.  But, sometimes the stories have special significance, so they deserve their own space and to be told in the voice of the original storyteller.  This is one of them, written by my dad, just in time for cherry season:

I grew up in New Haven, Connecticut during the early 1950’s.  My family rented the lower floor of a triple-decker in a lower middle-class, ethnic neighborhood in “the Hill.” Originally called Sodom’s Hill, it was initially the Irish section of town before the Irish moved on and the neighborhoods were turned over to the newer Italian and German immigrants.  My childhood address, 163 Spring Street, was very much a part of the Italian community, which was centered on Columbus Avenue about four blocks away, with its beautiful parish church, Sacred Heart.

Our landlords were a wonderfully ethnic Italian family known as the Mell’s.  The house itself was a wonder to me, with its high ceilings and wood floors.  The stove in the large kitchen was huge and had a very large vent pipe (according to my parents, that was the way Santa Claus got into the house since we had no fireplace).  My sister and I shared a bedroom with a walk-in closet, long before we thought it was anything special.  The cellar was old and unfinished, and one of the highlights of the day was evening time when my Dad took me down to put coal in the old coal-burning furnace.  TV was an old black and white nine-inch RCA set and the memories of my donning a red towel around my neck and flying around the living room during and after “The Adventures of Superman” are still vivid.

Outside, a very long driveway ran to the left of the house.  It continued on past the main yard and Mrs. Mell’s vegetable garden before widening out to a gravel-surfaced area leading to a three-car garage, a chicken coop, and a rabbit hutch.  I, of course, assumed that the Mell’s chickens and rabbits were pets, and I loved to help feed them.  Near the garden was an ornate birdbath that I would fill to overflowing whenever someone would be nuts enough to give me the hose.

Past the garden, two white stone blocks bordered the driveway.  They appeared to be crude benches, but Mr. Mell told me the terrible, secret truth: they were the tombs of Mr. and Mrs. Mussolini!  Back then, I didn’t know who the heck the Mussolinis were or why they were buried in the Mell’s yard, but I knew they must be important, for just to the left of one of the “tombs” was a very large and very old cherry tree.  It was the only cherry tree in the entire neighborhood, to the best of my knowledge.  It seemed so out of place as it towered over the more typical elms and chestnuts. 

For most of the year, the tree was like any other on the property.  Since I was too young for climbing, trees were just obstacles to be avoided while motoring around on a tricycle or pedal toy car.  Then, in the spring of 1951, something enchanted happened.  Roger Mell, the landlord’s eldest son, climbed the tree and began raining bright red cherries down on to the ground.  At first, my sister and I didn’t quite know what to make of it all.  But Roger invited us to help ourselves and we did.  We gorged on the juicy, fresh cherries, laughing out loud and running around, grabbing them off the freshly cut lawn as Roger threw some here, some there, so we all got a share.  My sister and I competed for who got the most.  She was bigger, but I was quicker, and we both got all we could eat.

The tree became my treasure.  I became so protective of it that I once rashly challenged some high school kids who were picking cherries from the branches that had grown over the fence into the next yard.  Thank goodness it was 1953 or those kids would have found a way to stuff me into Mussolini’s tomb!

To this day, I have never tasted cherries as good or as fresh as that.  I spent the whole year waiting, often pelting poor Roger with the hopeful question, “Is it time, yet?”  I was afraid he wouldn’t remember, but he did.  The cherry festival went on every spring for a few more years and was as anxiously anticipated as Christmas or my birthday.

My last memory of the cherry tree is circa 1955, when our family was evicted so the Mell’s newly married daughter could move into the apartment.  Still, it’s hard to be mad at them: they gave me something worth remembering for a lifetime!

Freddie Donroe
New Haven, Connecticut
1948 –

Next Recipe: Italian Cream Pie

     (Previous Recipe: Pignoli Cookies)

Cookbook Friday: Meatballs

With Freddie Donroe a casualty of the war in 1944, my grandmother, Dora Barbaresi, was left a widow with their infant daughter.  So, how is it that I carry the name Donroe two generations later?  Let me explain.

After a long period of grieving, Freddie’s brother, Albert Donroe, stepped in to ask Dora to marry him.  Albert was actually the Best Man at Dora and Freddie’s wedding (he's standing to the right of Freddie in the picture of the wedding party).  In my mind, I’ve concocted all manner of noble reasons for this proposal.  To provide for Dora the way his brother would have wanted.  To bring up his brother’s child as his own.  To help keep Freddie’s memory alive.  It may have been all of those things, but, let’s face it, she was also cute. 

In an attempt to pick up the pieces of her life, Dora wed Albert and, in doing so, retained Donroe as her married name.  So, Freddie wasn't my grandfather — Albert was.  That marriage turned out to be, um, less blissful.  But the union did produce two sons. 

               

This is my dad, who was born in 1948.  He was named Freddie in memory of the late Freddie who would have, in effect, been his uncle.  Indeed, as adults, there is a striking resemblance between the two.  His brother, Eddie, was born six years later. 

As family lore has it, when my dad was born, the doctor declared him to be not only the most beautiful baby in the nursery, but also the most beautiful baby the doctor had ever seen over the course of his career, and maybe even in the history of the world.

Albert was very proud of his newborn son and was swaggering around by the nursery window when another proud papa and his entourage arrived on the scene.  That father was singing the praises of his newborn son, but he was pointing at baby Freddie.  Albert turned around and said to him, in no uncertain terms, “Who the hell do you think you are?  That’s my son.  That scrawny one over there is yours.”

And maybe now my dad will stop complaining about how I never write about him on my blog, anymore.  Here’s a manly recipe to boot.

 

Meatballs

Nonni serves these with her lasagna and manicotti.  They are the best.  There’s no convincing me otherwise.

½ lb. ground beef
½ lb. ground pork
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 Tbsp. Italian parsley, finely chopped
1 handful fresh breadcrumbs
1 handful Parmesan cheese
1 egg
Salt and pepper
Canola oil

Using your hands, mix together all of the ingredients in a large bowl.  Roll into round balls.  Heat oil in a large frying pan, and cook, turning meatballs often to maintain their shape, until browned and cooked through. 

Dora [Barbaresi] Donroe
Hamden, Connecticut
1918 –

 

Next Recipe: Pignoli Cookies

     (Previously: World War II)