Iannuccilli: My Italo Turkey Day

Iannuccilli: My Italo Turkey Day

I know many of you have seen this before, but because it seems to rekindle memories, be you of Italian roots or not, I thought I might publish it at least one more time; first time here on GoLocal. For those who have read it before, thank you. For those who have not, please take a moment to reflect on your Family Day and what it means to you.

Dad said, "They don't have turkey in Italy." I wasn't sure what he meant. It was Thanksgiving, there was a high-school football game, a chill in the air and our family was about to have a feast. The only differences between this day and the usual Sunday dinner were that we ate turkey rather than chicken, there was cranberry sauce and it was Thursday.

My grandparents knew nothing of Thanksgiving when they arrived in America. "But they found a way," my aunt said. "My mother was progressive. She learned how to stuff a turkey. She learned about yams and cranberries." The grandparents were assimilating, more so now that the war was over and they were no longer considered enemy aliens.

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Grandmother never saw a turkey before arriving here from Pollutri, a small town in Abruzzo, Italy. She knew nothing of Pilgrims and how they celebrated their good fortunes in America. She was comforted, however, when she learned that she shared something with those early settlers; they also arrived in fear, ignorance, expectation, and hope. Perhaps she felt this bond. She became more involved, more American. Thus she learned how to cook a turkey dinner for Thanksgiving not because she had to, but because she wanted to. And she was becoming more proficient in English for the same reason. She wanted to. She was American.

I returned from the football game to the wonderful aromas infusing the rear staircase of our Providence three family tenement home. Our families sat around a huge table. The warm light streaming through the dining room windows brought something magic that made every Sunday and every holiday dinner beautiful. The children had their own table in the adjoining parlor, just as splendid as the adults' table.  The feast began after a thankful prayer. Antipasto first, followed by lasagna and hot dumpling soup. The turkey, carried by grandfather, was presented as king.

Mashed potatoes, turnips, sweet potatoes, and cranberry sauce accompanied. Grandfather scooped out the stuffing, carved and served the turkey. We ladled out brown, not Italian red, gravy. When finished, we thought that we neither could, nor would, eat another thing.

Oh those desserts; pumpkin, apple and custard pies, torrone, spumoni, confetti (candy almonds), biscotti, noce (nuts), mandorle (almonds), nocciole (hazelnuts) and gelato. Stovetop-roasted chestnuts followed. Coke and Nehi sodas and grandfather's homemade wine washed everything down.

My grandparents did what people in America have always done for Thanksgiving. They appreciated and embraced it and added their culture. They taught us that it was our holiday, our American holiday, new and now familiar. It may have been “Italianized," but it was now clearly American.

 

Ed Iannuccilli is the author of "Growing up Italian" and "What Ever Happened to Sunday Dinner?" and "My Story Continues"  can be found here.