I’d like to begin by doing something I NEVER do: butchering a line of one of my greatest heroes to suit an occasion. Forgive me, Mr. Shakespeare:“So long as we can eat and mouths can feed, so long live we and we give life to thee”
That was for you Grandpa. And so is this:
Having the great fortune of growing up in Grandpa's house, I had the greater gastronomical fortune of growing up FED in Grandpa's house.
Spaghetti and meatballs, Capicola, ricotta, Mortadella, mozzarella, Prosciutto, and provalone; osso bucco, gnocchi, ravioli, lasagne, Italian sausage, and pepperoni pizza --homemade of course. The meat and cheese list is long.
Yes, I think I was the only girl in elementary who brought salami sandwiches for home-lunch.
Those of you who are here cannot not know that Grandpa--also known as “Gps,” Daddy, Papa T, Tony Di, Mr. D, Anthony George DiBuongrazio-- was indeed . . . Italian. On one of fellow Paesano, Tony Manzo's recent visits with Grandpa, they volleyed around the usual boisterous broken-Italian --between gentlemanly mouthfuls of aged Parmesan from the Bronx. And Mr. Manzo urged me to start working Chianti back into his good friend’s daily diet. Per resistenza! For strength! Indeed, Grandpa was not just a father and grandfather, but a real life Godfather and Goodfella. You know this, because you all have been fed by him. To be fed by him is to have been loved by him.
So, can you imagine the dysfunction I caused when I gave up eating meat?
"What kind of ______ Italian are you?"
(This “tame” impersonation has been censored for obvious reasons. Besides, we all know how to fill in the blank)
You see, in Grandpa's eyes, I was not just cutting out a food group; I was cutting out “food”; I was cutting off my umbilical cord to Umbria. Or more appropriately, I was cutting off my abruzzical cord to Abruzzi. And he was proud of Abruzzi. He used to call himself “the FBI”-- "Full -Blooded- Italian." As a result, his grandkids are all a quarter-- “FBI” only by way of the dinner-plate. Except me--at the time. So to bridge this gap I had created, Grandpa and I began a weekly lunch date out on the back patio. He would pick the wine and supply his famous fresh baked bread; and I would prepare us a vegetarian meal. To my surprise, he ate heartily-- as if my “faux-food” (like meat) played some vital part in him--the way meat once played a vital part in me. Even though he'd be hungry an hour later, craving that ever-missing ingredient, we were connected again. During these meals, without conversation, he told me I was still Italian. Food had estranged me, and food had redeemed me.
Or maybe it was the bread and the wine.
Maybe I had never been estranged at all.
When I heard Grandpa was sick, I felt a fear somewhere deep in Abruzzi. A fear of being estranged. This deep sea diver is invincible--and essential. He is the bridge. He has always been. My life consists of him. What if there isn’t time for more . . . HIM? But my brother, Michael reassured me there was time: Italian blood is not easily subdued. It is strong like dry Chianti--or like a hunk of hard salami. And when I came back this August to live with him again, there was time --if only enough to get to know “the FBI” even better than before --and again without words. As I shared the privilege of now feeding him, I was privy to the details of how he savored his food. Eyes: closed, brow: focused, jaw: active and ready, throat: emitting jugular sighs of hearty satisfaction (a familiar sound from my childhood that always made me think Grandpa’s food tasted better than mine). Bacon, corned beef hash, sausage, Mortadella, clam chowder, sardines, lox, and bread; these meats--yes, I am now counting bread as a meat-- made up the man who fed us all. He is in our flesh and blood. His bread is the meat of omnivores and vegetarians alike. Through Grandpa Tony, we are all immortally part of “the FBI” and we make him immortal.
As Shakespeare summed up another sonnet, and this is unadulterated:
“The worth of that is that which it contains,
And that is this, and this with thee remains”
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