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Mangia! Mangia!
I was sitting at the kitchen counter watching my Aunt Dorothy ladle steamy portions of her aromatic Neapolitan-style minestrone into the heavy deep sided-bowls. Many changes had taken place since the last the last time we all sat down to a meal. Aunt Dorothy had left what I called her “widow’s flat” in suburban Chicago and moved in to a specially designed mother-in-law apartment in the basement of my cousin’s Colonial style home. I hesitate in calling it a basement flat because that conjures up a picture of dark, damp and dingy quarters. Prudy and Jim had gone to great lengths to make certain Auntie’s living space was far from that stereotype. Her space was, in fact, a light, airy and comfortably private part of the house. Even the long flight of stairs was a positive influence because it forced Auntie to do heart-healthy, stair-steptype exercises several times a day. While she might not have recognized it, I could tell having Aunt Dorothy live with them was a blessing to my cousin’s family. Prudy and her husband Jim had traveled the world in their work for the government. Their children, Michelle and Jimmy, grew up outside of the United States away from grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. Brief times of family vacations at home came all too slowly and passed much too quickly. Finally, now in the autumn of her years, the doting Dorothy could spend quality time with her teenaged grandchildren. “But I feel like such a burden, Antoinette,” she quietly said to me. “Auntie, you help with the cooking and housework. You’re with the children while Prudy and Jim are working late. You’re far from a burden to the family,” I tried to convince her. But as expected, Aunt Dorothy’s mind was hard to change. With the table set and the soup ladled out, we all sat around the Sheridan style dining room table. The furniture, the house, the table service all seemed so proudly “American.” Grace was offered and I grated a mountain of flavor-masking Parmesan cheese on my soup. The only minestrone my mother ever served was out of a red-andwhite labeled can and, quite frankly, it was my least favorite. But, Mom taught me to be a good dinner guest and eat everything put before me. I was going to pretend to enjoy the meal if I had to. I dipped my spoon into the hot and hearty Neapolitan soup, careful to scoop out my favorite vegetables from the sea of red broth. I silently braced myself for the first taste and wow! Not only did Aunt Dorothy make the best cannoli in the world, she made the best minestrone this side of Naples. “This is really good, Auntie” I said, trying not to sound surprised. “I’ve got to get the recipe from you before I leave.” “Oh, Antoinette. It’s just soup. There’s nothing to it,” she humbly replied. My husband and I finished the first bowl and, with Aunt Dorothy’s encouragement, we had seconds. The meal and our time together with my aunt, my cousin and her family passed quickly and soon we were on our way back home to Texas. Before leaving, I forgot to ask Aunt Dorothy for her minestrone recipe. Unfortunately, I didn’t remember to ask her when we talked on the telephone many times thereafter. And, in time, it was too late to ask her for anything at all. A few years ago, when I started writing my family stories and recipes, I asked Prudy for the ingredients in her mother’s distinctly regional soup. “My mother didn’t write it down,” she answered. “Was it a family recipe? Do you think your cousins might have it?” I continued in desperation. “You can ask my cousin Marie,” she suggested. When I e-mailed Marie, she answered she also did not write it down. She eventually sent me her version, adding her husband’s regional flavors of Bari to the soup. It wasn’t the same. Not ready to admit defeat, I begged Prudy to keep probing her memory for the ingredients. One day this summer my cousin remembered her mother prepared some foods from a favorite cookbook. Prudy leafed through the pages and found a timeworn page with a minestrone recipe on it. She promised to copy and send it to me. Impatient, I went on line and, after one unsuccessful attempt, purchased the vintage 1961 cookbook. In November, I carried the book with me as my husband and I drove to Vienna, Virginia for the “third-best” (in deference to Mom and my mother-inlaw ’s) Thanksgiving meal I have ever eaten. The following Sunday, Prudy and I pulled out our cookbooks and studied the ingredients. Auntie would never have used butter or basil so we made some adjustments. Working side by side, we prepared the ingredients and simmered the special pot of minestrone. To our disappointment, while it was very, very close, to my aunt’s, it wasn’t the same. Like most cooks, Aunt Dorothy had added a personal touch to the Neapolitan soup that took it to a higher level. Once again, I wish I had remembered to ask for a recipe. As you gather with family and friends this holiday season, don’t make the same mistake I did. If something tastes good, ask for the recipe. The cook should be complimented. Aunt Dorothy’s Minestrone
Minestrone is a thick vegetable soup prepared with locally grown vegetables and simmered slowly so the uniformly chopped ingredients retain their shape. Heat the oil in a heavy 8-quart pot. SautØ onions, garlic, green pepper, celery and cabbage about five minutes. Add broth, tomatoes, paste, carrots, green beans, parsley, and seasonings. Cover and simmer gently for 45 minutes. Add potatoes and simmer an additional 15 minutes. Add remaining ingredients and simmer uncovered for a final 15 minutes. Serve with grated Parmesan cheese. Makes about 8 to 10 servings. Author’s Note: Prudy and I feel the minestrone is missing a vegetable and a layer of seasonings. If you have any suggestions, please e-mail me. ! Antoinette Jackson is a Bullard-area resident. You may reach her at Antojxn@aol.com. |
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