Celebrating my Italian heritage
Mangia! Mangia!
ANTOINETTE JACKSON

If I had to pinpoint when my bias started, it was probably in 1968 during my junior year at California State, Los Angeles. In order to get a good grade in Mrs. Chaberlain's demonstration techniques class, we had to demo foods, and preferably ethnic foods.

At the time I was miffed, but in retrospect, I'm grateful. It helped me to collect family favorite recipes from my aunts in Chicago.

If you're much of a Food Network fan, you know you don't just say, "I'm sifting a cup and a half of flour for the cannoli dough."

What you do is sift the flour while giving some background on the pastry. There was no Internet at the time, so I searched the meager supply of books at the library for interesting facts.

While perusing "The Cooking of Italy" by Time-Life Books, I discovered the history of Italian cooking. It was just what I was looking for.

I wove the information into the demonstration of my Aunt Dorothy's Cannoli recipe.

While filling the cannoli shells, I said the Italians' "fully developed cuisine . . . made it possible for Italy to teach France . . . the meaning of good cooking and eating. . . (when) in 1533 Catherine de' Medici journeyed from Florence to France for her marriage to the future King Heni II . . . and brought teams of expert cooks to France . . . who delivered the secrets of the most sophisticated cookery that had ever been developed."

Grandpa Giovanni Falcetta c.1920

I don't know if Mrs. C. took this as an attack on French cooking, or the fact that there was a ricotta-laden string dangling from the end of my pastry bag as I squeezed through the filling, but my grade was less than stellar.

The second thing that happened at Cal State was a comment I made to one of my other professors for whom I worked in the afternoon. Interestingly, the student body of Cal State was composed of many cultures.

Dr. Patricia Wright asked me my ethnic background. At the time I wasn't necessarily proud of my heritage and sheepishly answered, "Italian."

"Well, you don't look Italian and your name isn't Italian," she said.

"What do I look like?" I asked.

"You could be Spanish, or French," Dr. Wright responded.

"French? I was born in a hospital run by French nuns and they misspelled my name. Don't call me French!"

And from that life-defining moment forward, I was proud to be Italian.

That's why I had the shock of a lifetime when I got together with my four first cousins in Florida two years ago. It had been 40 years since we all sat around the same table. We were poolside under his screened-in sunroom, when Cousin Richard said, "You know our Grandfather was half French."

"French? No, I never heard that. Who said he was French?" I asked.

"Oh yes," chimed in cousin Prudy. "He was French. My father told me."

"I never heard that story from my mother or Grandma. Are you sure?"

"Yes, we're sure," agreed cousin Gene. "Both my father and Uncle Frank knew Grandpa was half French. Look at our features. We're not typically Sicilian."

"I never heard about being French. How did it happen?" I demanded.

Richard answered, "Pa said our Grandmother was on holiday in France and from that came our Grandfather Giovanni."

"I don't believe it. I am not French. Let's call my brother John and see if he knows anything about this genetic bastardization."

So I pulled out my cell phone, called my brother John and handed the phone to Prudy. "You break him the news."

Prudy, then Richard, then Gene all repeated the same story. When they handed the phone back to me I asked him if he believed it. He answered he certainly had never heard it and he definitely was not French, especially in light of recent U.S.- Franco politics.

"I'll call you next weekend when we get home," I said.

Taking advantage of my disdain over the possibility of having French blood in my veins, for the next hour my cousins and our husbands teased me unmercifully.

I was still in denial when I called my brother the following Sunday. "How are you doing, Fratello?" I asked.

"I've been depressed all week," he answered.

"I understand," I empathized.

We agreed never again to talk about the possibility that we were one-eighth French.

Now, what exactly does all this have to do with this week's recipe?

My mother regularly prepared a winesimmered chicken dish she named "Coq au Vin". That is noticeably French and I have this bias, so I am changing her title to "Pollo al Vino Bianco."

Mom's Pollo al Vino Bianco

The coating is moist, the chicken is tender and all the flavors blend deliciously in this family favorite. Because they were more readily available year around, Mom used canned mushrooms. When I skin the chicken to remove the fat calories and use fresh mushrooms, the end product just doesn't taste the same to me.
1 2 to 3 pound fryer, cut up
1 / 2 cup flour for dredging
1 teaspoon garlic powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 / 2 teaspoon black pepper
1 / 4 cup light olive oil
3 scallions, chopped
4 ounce can sliced mushrooms
1 / 4 cup white wine

Roll the chicken pieces in four until covered. Shake off excess flour and season with garlic powder, salt and pepper.

Heat the oil in a skillet and brown the chicken over medium heat.

Transfer the pieces to a Dutch oven.

Brown the scallions. Add mushrooms and wine, scraping the pieces from the bottom of the skillet. Pour over the chicken in the Dutch oven. Bring up to a simmer, cover and cook over low heat until the chicken is tender, about 30 to 40 minutes.

Serves 4.