DINING ITALIAN STYLE
'Pranzo' in Lipari

Camille and I have been incredibly fortunate to have been the recipients of lavishly displayed Love by being invited to 'Pranzo' (midday meal) in many, many homes from those of city friends in Milan and Firenze to the quaint village kitchens of cousins in Oppido Mamertina, Calabria and Villafranca Sicula, Sicilia, and also to lovely, romantic, sea-view roof tops of Lipari, one of the seven Aeolian Islands, an archipelago off the north east coast of the Island in the Sun, Sicilia. A meal in any of these amazing places will not be soon forgotten and are often day-dreamed about as my heart longs to return.

Oh, the commotion of one of these feasts! Three generations of Martha-like women working together seemlessly to present only their best, perhaps in crowded kitchens on crowded tables with their menu, hands in pockets, standing, swaying behind the woman at the stove, and commenting on the contents of the pan over the heat. Ha! As if he's ever even thought to do it himself. But, I'll guarantee you, if he had to, he could...so many meals watched and discussed as they are readied.

Once, Camille and I had the great fortune of spending six weeks on that amazing, beautiful Island in a third floor, winding, cement stair walk-up roof top flat where we spent time hanging out our hand-washed clothes, hearing music and accompanying voices that made another's day lighter. One of her visitors, brought us a vine of sweet, sweet 'cherry' tomatoes and a jar of his mother's preserved tuna. He proceeded to guide me through the process of melding those simple ingredients with the common ones to make a luscious pasta condiment I was proud to have accomplished. Oh, you cook, Roberto? No, never, I've just watched my mother. And, so it goes.
 
In Marinella's kitchen three tables were placed end to end and covered with two different tablecloths. It was a tiny place and yet there was not just room for those present in my family but also her and 'Mario Calabria's' and another friend or two. Standing around the appetizer laden table I just wanted to dig in. With a small glass of Campari in my fingers, my eyes were in Heaven over the big balls of fresh, fresh Mozzarella di Bufala, thinly sliced Prosciutto di Parma, coppa, boiled ham with olives, home preserved Melanzane sott'Olio, pickled vegetables. OK, truth is that I'd eaten enough by the time we actually sat down that I should have just talked the rest of the meal...but I hadn't had enough wine to do that. My Italian isn't (yet) that good, and only better after a couple of glasses of wine.

After much discussion, bread cut, and steamy water poured into a colander, 'orders' were given to sit. OK, sister, you aren't going to have to ask me twice. When he was comfortable at the head of the table, Papà reached over to pour everyone a glass of homemade wine from the barrel conveniently close to his place at the table while Mamma served each a small bowl of pasta. Seriously, my mind was screaming, 'What? Is this all you are going to give me?' Oh, oh, oh...the sweet lusciousness of perfectly seasoned tomatoes, onions and herbs. Simply amazing. How long did she cook that sauce anyway?

I must mention about the time I got the flu while visiting Lipari in the Spring. Mamma would not have me eating with the rest of the family. Oh, I got to sit at the table, but my menu was completely different with regards to the pasta. Mangia en bianco. Eat white. What? No tomato sauces? It sounded like a horrible sentence until the first of 10 days produced a steaming bowl of spaghetti with only fresh sheep's milk ricotta and a drizzle of olive oil. My mouth waters as I recall the fragrance and creaminess. THIS is sick people food? OK! Or lightly sauteed zucchine flowers or freshly shelled peas or olive oil and grated cheese or boiled then smashed artichoke hearts and olive oil. OK! Take me to prison.

At my most memorable meal in that house I honestly ate 7 (they counted) triglia (red mullet). Hey, they weren't huge, maybe seven inches. Seven of them, though. The boys were giving me their extras...well, at least they said they weren't hungry anymore...should I not have believed them? The greatest thing when you are at a fisherman's table is that you get to eat fish you will never see again. Strange critters get caught in the nets, and they are not wasted, no, no, no. Marinella fries them up like she's cooked them a million times. Once when I was out to lunch with this same family as I was about to depart on the ferry, we stopped at a friend's restaurant for lunch. The appetizer was a plate of fish done in so many ways I can't begin to remember except the marinated swordfish, calamari tentales, and tiny fried-whole (including the eyes so I imagine everything else, too) fish. What's the name of this fish? I stupidly asked. Shoulders shrugged around the table of the fisherman and his fishermen sons. The waiter was asked who asked the cook who'd asked the fisherman who'd brought them in this morning. No one knew. Awesome!

OK, that was cool, but even cooler was this: It was the first time Camille and I had been to Lipari. It was summer, and I was way younger than I am today, my hair wasn't grey and I had just lost 10 pounds so I was OK with going out on a sightseeing boat...even if I had to lounge next to 18 year old Camille. Bartolo (the name of virutally one half of all the men born on this Island as San Bartolo is the fishermen's patron) was the captain. Smiley, sweet, fast-driving Bartolo. Cruise? Not exactly, but we got to Salina in time for lunch...another fabulous lunch, but I won't go into that right now other than there were so many freshly caught shrimp cooked in a very succulent, lightly white wine-laced broth that I ate myself silly. Yeah, so what's new? The point is that at the end of the meal, Bartolo wrapped up all the bread scraps in one of the lovely white damask napkins and tucked it into a compartment on the bo-at (which is the way these Italian fishermen and tour boat captains say 'boat').

We took a little more leisurely drive back and eventually cruised around to a lagoon with the most amazing deep turquoise, see-to-the-bottom water I had or yet have seen. The engine was cut and Camille and I dove in as the boat drifted and rocked. Splashing around we noticed Bartolo and a couple of other men dive in with snorkels. Later Bartolo called us in. No. We like it out here. Come over here. Reluctantly we swam to the side of the boat, climbed in and were greeted by homemade Malvasia, the leftover bread and an open sea urchin. It was a minute before I had the courage to wipe out the inside of this little critter with the bread crust. Bread and sea. I love both.

In this house, the vegetable isn't as important. Maybe some broccoletti sauteed with olive oil, but always separate from the fish or meat. Fishermen's households eat fish 6 days a week, and this one has chicken or turkey on Sunday. Speaking of turkey. Once Mario and Marinella's son Angelo's, wife's mother roasted a stuffed turkey roll. She pounded the thigh meat very thin, layered it with a meatball-like mixture, rolled it up, shut it up with toothpicks, poured a bottle of white wine over it, and then we ate the most wonderful and juicy turkey I've ever had. Some years ago I was determined to re-create this turkey roast at Thanksgiving...and I had heard about boning a turkey. Camille, who had by now, graduated from the American University of Roma and was now in culinary school at the Art Institute in Philadelphia, told me I had to start at the back. So that's what I did and believe it or not, it wasn't that hard...time consuming, but not that big of a deal. Luckily I had written down the recipe from Rosaria's mother and we all enjoyed this special dish.

After the meat and vegetable, the salad is served. Very simply romaine or some other leafy, often bitter, green such as puntarelle, is dressed with olive oil and a small amount of red wine vinegar or lemon juice. Perfect.

The table is cleared of dishes yet again. One wouldn't want to interfere with the flavors of one course with that of the previous. Piles of dishes wait on and in the sink for methodical hand washing. Now the cleared table is laden with fruit and nuts are strewn along its center length. What a feast! And, how did all that go down? Easily, over hours of conversation with some very life-loving people.