Nostalgia Archives - Page 2 of 2 - Stephanie DelTorchio

See the Lights

Festive Holiday Lights

Wherever you live there is sure to be the neighborhood where the light displays rival the Las Vegas strip. Pile up family and friends, grab a few treats and take a drive or walk to see the lights. Something magical happens to one and all when the best show in town is free. Nix the commercialism for a night and marvel at the wonder of the simplicity of Christmas. Perks from the homeowners — like hot chocolate and cookies — make it an extra holiday tradition.

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Image: Pixabay

Believe in Christmas Magic

To the best of my childhood recollection the first time I believed in Christmas magic happened the night the bells jingled outside our bedroom window.

I was four, maybe five years old.

Walking home from visiting our grandparents on Christmas Eve (they lived around the corner), my parents each carried a bundled-up child while safely guiding my older brother and me around the snow banks.

As we turned onto Summer Street, the falling snow hit us sideways and prickled our cheeks. Mom ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ at the neighbors’ pretty light displays that drew squeals from the smaller children as Dad wondered aloud if Rudolph’s nose would help Santa through the ‘terrible’ storm.

My brother took my hand and pulled me along. The snowy blast added to our growing anticipation and concern. We kept a watchful eye to the sky, you know, to see if Santa had passed by.

Arriving home, we rushed up the stairs to change into our pajamas and snuggled straight under the bed covers. I don’t recall ever setting out milk, cookies and carrots. I do remember lying very still in bed, willing myself to sleep, but sleep was not my friend.

Except for the light ticking of snow against the window, all around the house seemed extra quiet and dark.

The faint sound that woke me came from a distance, like trying to wake from a dream. I stirred. Then I heard it again. Louder. Coming towards me. I sat straight up and focused with all my might, like eye squinting but with my ears. First I willed the sound to come again, then begged.

I waited.

And waited.

Nothing.

Then I heard it again.

My old brother leaned in through doorway. “Did you hear it?” he said.

He had heard it too.

We went to the window by his bed where he wiped the fog from the glass. Pressing our noses against it, we looked up to the sky and below to the ground. We listened as hard as possible, barely breathing. Expecting. Hopeful.

Then we heard the jingling bells. Santa’s Bells — clear and musical and beautiful. My mouth hung open; my brother’s too, a pair of wonder-eyed bookends.

If that night is chalked up to a child’s imagination of Christmas, so be it. It’s my memory to hold and cherish. And like many childhood memories the night of the Christmas bells faded.

Until…

My son was five years old. The book was Chris Van Allsburg’s The Polar Express. Published in 1985, it was the hot holiday book of the season and today, a Christmas classic.

Briefly the story is about a skeptical young boy who takes a train ride in the middle of the night to the North Pole. There he is selected by Santa to receive the first gift of Christmas. The boy chooses a bell from one of the reindeer’s harnesses. He places the bell into his bathrobe pocket, which later he learns has been lost through a hole there.

I read to the end of the story, with my son snuggled on my lap, to the part where on Christmas morning the boy opens a gift box from Santa.

Mind you, I’m into this wonderful story, my son is engrossed, too, waiting to hear what is in the gift box.

He and I gasped together.

“It’s the bell!” said my son.

Truthfully, my mouth fell open, all over again.

The boy and his younger sister marvel at the sound. The parents, unable to hear the sound, believe the bell is broken.

The book ends with the following:

“At one time, most of my friends could hear the bell, but as years passed, it fell silent for all of them. Even Sarah found one Christmas that she could no longer hear its sweet sound. Though I’ve grown old, the bell still rings for me, as it does for all who truly believe.”*

May your Christmas be filled with magic.

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Original graphic: Stephanie DelTorchio
Source: The Polar Express by Chris Van Allsburg. 1985. Houghton Mifflin.

Bake Some Memories

Italian Fig Cookie Recipe

Many years ago my aunt and uncle shared their recipe for Italian Fig Cookies (Cuccidata) with me.

Her cookie dough recipe with its time-tested measurements and instructions ensured perfect results every time. His fig filling recipe caused me difficulty year after year.

Truth be told, I’m a decent baker. But for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why my cookies didn’t equal theirs. Mine tasted okay but missed that something special thing that made theirs sooo good.

Every year, a week before Christmas I’d call my uncle to whine about the latest filling failure. It was either too runny, or thick, the flavor was off…something.

He took great pleasure mocking my baking abilities – did I follow the recipe correctly? Measure right? Not rough handle the dough? My answers were ‘yes’ to all and then he’d tell me I’d done something “stupid”.

We’d review the recipe again. While I scribbled notes he’d brag about the twenty batches already baked, decorated and wrapped for gifts. I couldn’t match his production.

On or about year fifteen my uncle and I came to an impasse over these cookies. We agreed I’d bring my ingredients to his house and work out my problems together once and for all.

The first thing I learned: this competition of ours was rigged. He cheated.

My uncle used fresh figs from a tree he nursed in his yard (for the record, figs are not native to New England). The tree, originally shipped from Italy, grew in a large plastic barrel in the corner of his impressive vegetable garden. Come fall, he harvested and dried the figs, I swear, to taunt our cookie bake-off. Then he wrapped his baby in layers of burlap and moved it to the garage where it received his tender administration until spring.

Fresh figs.

Hands down, no comparison to my figs. Dried, cryovaced and shipped 5,000 miles from Messina to Stop & Shop.

While my Cuisinart produced a slurry mess, the old contraption he used ground the figs, dates and raisins into a glorious chunky texture. Perfection.

As I worked the grinder’s hand crank, Italian music played on the Hi-Fi fighting against the timbre of my uncle’s directives. His normal speaking tone was at least thirty decibels higher than mine on my best screaming day. No matter how many times I insisted his yelling didn’t make me understand the recipe better, he insisted, louder, it did.

We measured, mixed and baked cookies. Wine got poured, then coffee while we enjoyed the sweet confections of our labor.

My uncle remembered his mother and aunt making these same cookies in the “old country”. His version couldn’t compare to theirs, he said. The memory of his departed family softened his face, but did nothing to quiet his voice.

I left his kitchen with a ginormous tray of the best cookies I’d ever made.

Maybe it was the fresh figs. Or the old-fashioned grinder. More likely it was the channeled love that made his cookies so delicious.

Today I took out the recipe which is now immortalized in a fundraiser cookbook. It’s not his recipe, of course, but the one he and I worked out together. To me it’s perfect.

As I channel my aunt and uncle I’m both happy and sad. Happy for the memories of our years baking together, and sad, missing the friendly banter between batches.

I put on Christmas music, pour a glass of wine and tear up with joy. These cookies taste stupid good.

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Eat The Cookies

This blue can of Danish butter cookies was a reliable staple in my grandmother’s cupboard. She’d offer these sweet treats with Lipton tea, served in a china tea cup and saucer, because mugs were for hot coffee served to men in diners. She took her training us to be ladies and gentlemen very seriously.

I bought the exact same brand the other day and enjoyed a tea party with my four-year-old grandson. We peeled the tape that sealed the lid and spent a good length of time inspecting the variety of butter cookies. Two layers of cookies, separated by a sheet of paper; each layer with individual paper sleeves, three cookies in each. My grandmother allowed us three cookies and I followed tradition.

After we each ate three, he decided it would be okay if had just one more. His mother was at work, so I agreed. I didn’t worry about spoiling dinner, caloric intake or grams of sugar. We talked about making cookies, decorating cookies, what little kids had made these cookies — hopefully none I said.

He returned the tin to the cabinet and asked that instead of dinner, if we could have a tea party. An excellent idea.

“What do we do when they’re all gone?” I asked.

“Go to the store and get some more.”

Why didn’t I think of that?

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Authentic versus Real Pumpkin Pie

My daughter was eight when we set out to make two authentic pumpkin pies for Thanksgiving dinner. Pumpkin pie from real pumpkins, not cans of pumpkin.

During the day-long event, I led the cheer: “Pumpkin pie doesn’t come from a can…,” and she’d chant back: “Pumpkin pie comes from pumpkins!!”

We danced off to the market to purchase small sugar pumpkins for our authentic pies. She inspected each one to find four pumpkins identical in size and as pure orange as a Crayola crayon. This took an hour.

At home we gathered all the utensils and ingredients for the filling and crust. We even tied on matching aprons.

I cut and she peeled the pumpkins. We scooped innards and saved the seeds for roasting later.

While the pumpkins boiled we ate lunch and mocked “real” pies made from cans. Ours would be the most delicious pies the family ever tasted. “Authentic” was the new word of the day.

We made a snack waiting for the pumpkin to drain and cool. She got crackers and I reached into the pantry for the peanut butter. Sitting right there, mocking me, three cans of perfectly pureed ready-to-use pumpkin.

The crust, made from scratch, was a fail-proof recipe given to me by my aunt. My daughter measured and mixed, incorporating little pieces of butter and shortening with her hands. The dough that should have resembled small beans looked more like Little Miss Muffet’s curds and whey. I made a second batch while my daughter looked for a Disney movie to watch.

The new dough rested as we ate lunch in silence, staring out of the window. “Pumpkin pie doesn’t come from a can…,” I said, and she answered: “I know. Pumpkin pie comes from pumpkins.”

Making the filling became a math lesson. This skill surpassed the fine motor challenge to keep the filling in the bowl using a wire whisk. At this point any parent can appreciate the triple time it takes to do anything when you add in an extra pair of small hands. I sensed losing her to Aladdin.

We rolled the crust nice and thin fitting it in the pan, crimping the edges. Together we poured the filling then placed the pies in the oven until perfectly set.

“Pumpkin pie doesn’t come from a can…,” I chirped and she droned back: “Yeah, pumpkin pie comes from pumpkins. I said I know.”

I choked down two aspirins with a cup of coffee while she watched The Lion King for the twentieth time. It was early evening when the suckers came out of the oven. I pulled my daughter away from the TV to admire our joint achievement.

Her ho-hum demeanor changed on Thanksgiving Day when she got to tell everyone how she made authentic pies from real pumpkins. Such pride. By the way, they were delicious.

The next year, and every year since, I open three cans of pumpkin puree to make real pumpkin pies. It’s a running gag now. “Pumpkin pie doesn’t come from a can…,” I say and she chants back: “Pumpkin pie comes from pumpkins!! In cans.”

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Awesome MEMORY

Photo: Stephanie DelTorchio (from my actual pantry)
Image credit: Pixaby

One In A Million

For one bright shining moment, at about age six or so, my grandmother made me feel special.

This elderly, sweet woman lived in America for some sixty of her 82 year-long life and never truly mastered the English language. She got along just fine with the grocer and school teachers by communicating with smiles and hugs and food offerings, usually homemade bread fresh from the oven.

My visits to her house with my father involved a form of charades. She talked with her hands of course, animated fun for a kid, and injected a few single syllable English words for good measure. This is how she introduced some guy named Mario Lanza whose scratched record she played over and over on the Hi-Fi. She encouraged me to dance while she clapped and sang every word of every love song to perfection.

Then she served me steaming hot coffee and sesame cookies without asking my father’s permission. Later, he rolled his eyes during the ceremonial cleaning out of the refrigerator. My tiny grandmother shut him down with a few choice words delivered in a big loud voice. She’d examined my boney arms from wrist to shoulder, disappointed with the findings. I’d inherited a too thin frame from both of them. She could fix it.

Out came the Jello, chocolate pudding, and leftovers covered in aluminum foil. Her endless presentation of foods needed no translation. Cold chicken, pasta and meatballs expressly for me. A trifecta of gastronomic delight.

The visit ended at the front door. Her hug surrounded me as we melted into each other. A pinch then a kiss on each cheek. This demonstrative show of affection was nothing more than an elaborate rouse. It masked the treats she covertly shoved deep into my pockets before whispering “Dooshie Pie” in my ear. (It sounded like that.)

On the walk home I asked my Dad what “Dooshie Pie” meant. He shrugged it off. “You’re one in a million,” he laughed. It was a lie.

My dad called all his kids “one in a million,” in loud, clear, undeniable King’s English, and often. Usually after we’d screwed up his radio station, taken something from his tool shed to build a street jigger or spilled milk at the dinner table.

I waited for his “Dooshie Pie”, the one my grandmother tenderly bestowed with a smile, a kiss and treats. Instead, while my mother cleaned up whatever we’d done, he uttered between pursed lips a few half-made-up Italian gibberish words. One learns early in life a curse word in any real or invented language is exactly that.

My dad’s “one in a million” speech reached beyond our home. He evenly distributed between political candidates, the gas company, the driver who cut him off on the highway, and practically anyone who knocked on the door looking for a donation during baseball season. Further confirmation of my diminished value among millions of people.

For years I looked for a bright side to this equation. And I think I found it.

I recently read there are now 7 billion people on this planet. If I am one in a million, there are 7,000 people on this planet just like me — lucky enough to have had a grandmother like mine. Or a dad who was very inventive with the English language.

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Awesome MEMORY
Awesome LOVE

Three Dog Good Night

Sad to hear of the passing of Cory Wells (74) lead singer of THREE DOG NIGHT.

My very first concert (other than being in one in elementary school!) was TDN at the (old) Boston Garden. My only recollection is that is was LOUD and FUN, and my date (Steve B.) was such a nice guy.

The movie, THE BIG CHILL, featured iconic songs from my high school days, and truth-be-told I watch/fall asleep to it often because the soundtrack is just freaking great.

Sharing my favorite THREE DOG NIGHT song, Joy to the World! Please explain to the young folks that this is NOT a Christmas song.

Cheers Bullfrogs!

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Awesome Nostalgia
Awesome 70s

‪‪#‎befat‬ (Be F–g Awesome Today)
‪#‎ThreeDogNight‬