Kielbasa Was Not My Favorite Then - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli

Kielbasa Was Not My Favorite Then - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli

On Easter Sundays of my youth, I visited relatives to enjoy their hospitality and their old-style Italian food with frittata and pastiera leading the way. When we stopped at my Polish uncle’s, things were not quite the same. There, I was introduced to something else.

Uncle Al was a product of depression-era adversity, one who, like so many others in those difficult days, succeeded in overcoming hardship. He was proud of his roots. A clever, opinionated, self-educated, well-read man, he loved history, music, investing, and politics and ached to share stories with us.

When my aunt fell in love with him, they eloped. Imagine eloping in 1943! Aunt Vera was adventuresome in those early years when Italians usually married Italians. But when she met my uncle, she was smitten.

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Uncle Al worked defense jobs during World War II but told us he was a paratrooper. For years, we believed him. We wanted to. How exciting to picture him jumping behind enemy lines, saving lives, and liberating people. Alas, it was a joke he played on us kids for years. He loved it.

My aunt took me to his parents’ home in the Olneyville section of Providence. A different smell hit me when I entered the house and walked to their second-floor tenement. It was not the aromas of gravy or roasting meats. It was something new and intriguing that infused the stairway when I opened the outside door.

As we entered the tenement, I saw uncle’s mother, a diminutive lady with a gleam in her eye and a smile to match, standing on a stool near the stove, hands on a large spoon, stirring a huge pot from which arose the smell of spices and something savory. The rhythms of happy music in the background matched her sparkle and smile.

On Easter Sundays, my uncle opened our eyes to a hint of Polish culture. When we walked in the door of his home, we were treated to the catchy sounds of the polka. When they spotted us, aunt and uncle began to dance around the kitchen to that same music I heard in his parents’ home.

They served something different: kielbasa with boiled eggs. And babka, a delicious, sweet bread with swirls of chocolate that we slathered with butter.

“Edward, try this Polish sausage. It’s delicious. It’s our traditional Easter dish. You’ll love it.” Well, I never did because it had fat in it. I was not a fat eater. No, I knew nothing of the effects of cholesterol on the heart. What I did not appreciate was the texture of the fat.

To say the least, I was picky. The sweet braided babka, with its bakery aroma, was a different story, that I ate with gusto.

On those Easter Sunday visits to my uncle’s home, I learned to enjoy the music, the aromas, the babka, and a wonderful, vibrant and different culture with its new tastes. The dancing infused life into that home. So did the kielbasa, which, today, I enjoy.