Agrigento for antipasto: Family tales
ANTOINETTE JACKSON Mangia! Mangia!

The ride from our hotel on the outskirts to my cousin's home in Agrigento wasn't the peaceful drive along the countryside I had envisioned.

John, his wife Anna Maria, my husband Bob and I were crowded into his small fourdoor blue Italian car.

With darkness now enveloping the Island of Sicily, it was impossible to catch glimpses of the terrain.

John was driving along the curving highway at speed bordering on Mach II.

I told myself, if this was to be my last day on earth, at least I'm with my husband in the homeland of my parents.

My fears were unfounded and before long we were at the upscale condominium complex John and his family shared with his parents and uncle.

As we walked into their apartment, the ornate Victorian furniture appeared to be in direct contrast to the 10-foot tall ceilings, white walls and modern architectural features.

Yet, for some reason, I felt instantly at home in these surroundings.

John led us to the living room to see his father.

There, seated in a large Italian carved wing chair covered with ornate floral tapestry, was my Uncle Phillip.

Not only did he look 30 years older than when he had visited our family in California, but now in the late stages of cancer, he appeared weary from the battle. Uncle managed a smile and lifted his heavy arms to welcome me.

"Antonetta," he labored to say as he hugged me. "How is your mother?" he asked in Italian.

Gazing fondly at the once-strong man before me, I said gently, "In buona salute, Zio Filippo. Fine, Uncle. She sends her love to you."

As I turned to introduce my husband, a gentleman in his late seventies entered the room.

"This is your Zio Peppino," said John.

His appearance sent a chill through my bones. Except for his receding hairline and baby blue eyes, he was a mirror image of my father.

This youngest brother made me feel like Daddy, who had passed away a year ago, was in the room with us.

"Zio Peppino was a politician, you know," he told Bob and me in English.

Daddy never talked about this younger brother with the blue eyes.

Wanting no part of the Mafia, my father disowned him years ago when Peppino was exiled for clandestine activities.

Now an old man, my uncle appeared to be kind and gentle, with a smile that hinted he truly might have been a politician in his youth. After hugs and kisses on both cheeks, we all sat down to visit.

Uncle Peppino told me since my father was the oldest son, it was his responsibility to help support the family.

At age 16, Daddy crossed the ocean to Chicago where their mother's brother lived. Daddy lived with Uncle Onofrio, who sponsored him, and was hired as an apprentice tailor soon after his arrival in 1916.

Ironically, my Grandfather Giovanni died during an epidemic that struck all of Europe just one week before Daddy's first paycheck arrived in Italy.

Now their sole support, my father continued to send money back home to his mother who was now left alone to raise two young sons and a daughter.

My cousins John and Guiseppina, who were close to the ages of my brother and me, told us how much they appreciated the packages my father sent them after World War II ended.

I flashed back to the times when Daddy, my brother John and I stood in the basement of our home on the South Side. We watched while my father put clothes, shoes, toys, Hershey bars and bottles of aspirin into an 18-inch square cardboard box.

He meticulously covered the sturdy container with white furniture muslin. Using an arched upholstery needle threaded with heavy black thread, he finished off the edges with blanket-stitch.

He then dampened the fabric and, with a purple indelible ink pencil, carefully addressed the package to his brother and children halfway across the world.

Fifty years later, here we were, all grown up and talking about those caring packages.

Almost unnoticed, Zia Rosa and Anna Maria slipped out of the living room one at a time, they returned giving my husband and me gifts of marzipan candies, a gold pendant, a black hematite necklace and a diamond studded heart. I felt embarrassingly outdone for having brought only bandanas, Texas T-shirts and small Western souvenirs from home.

Leaving a tray of antipasto for the crowd to feast on, Zia Rosa and Anna Maria disappeared into the kitchen to start dinner.

John apologized, saying he had to run an errand in town.

He took Bob with him leaving me to get better acquainted with my two uncles and cousins.

Later at our hotel room, Bob said it was foggy as John drove down narrow cobblestone streets up to a darkened storefront.

He knocked on the door of the trattoria where the proprietress cautiously looked out to see who was there, then let them in.

She handed them pieces of fresh marzipan candies to sample while she boxed and tied the sugared bakery goods for our dessert.

My husband said he regretted I missed out on this eerie part of the visit that was like a scene from an old black and white scary movie.

More about our family meal next time.

Zia Rosa's Eggplant Antipasto

1 firm large Eggplant
2 cups milk
2 cups flour
1 / 2 teaspoon garlic powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 / 4 teaspoon black pepper
Extra virgin olive oil

Leaving the skin on, slice eggplant in to 1-inch slices. Soak in milk for two minutes (okay to use non-fat milk for this). Dredge in seasoned flour. Fry in olive oil until golden brown.

Drain on paper towels before serving.

!

Antoinette Jackson is a Bullard-area resident. You may reach her at Antojxn@aol.com.