by Dawn Lerman
Italian this, Italian that; the funny thing was she hadn’t even grown up in Italy. She was an American transplant who lived in Italy for a few years because she worked for the Italian airline Alitalia, and now she seemed to have some kind of superiority complex. While she might have had a lot of knowledge about all things Italian, she certainly didn’t know anything about kids, pouring my eleven-year-old sister a glass of wine and declaring, “It’s Italian to drink with dinner.”
Even though I didn’t think having a glass of wine was a big deal, I turned her down when she offered me a glass. My dad just shook his head. “It would be polite just to have a sip for a toast.” My dad seemed to agree with everything Violetta said. He didn’t even mind being her sous-chef, taking orders on how to roll the basil to slice it into perfect strips for the bruschetta, or cleaning the kitty litter box, although he had always declared he was allergic when I begged for a pet.
Watching them hug and kiss, I thought back to the way my parents would always argue, and how April and I spent hours under the bed covering our ears. How full of fear we often were as we lay in bed at night listening to them yell at each other—the sound of glass breaking from the other side of the house.
As Pavarotti played in the background and Violetta brought out the prosciutto garnished with buds of black pepper, onions, and tomatoes, I thought how much prettier and calmer this picture was. We never had appetizers while listening to opera at home, but telling Violetta how wonderful the prosciutto was and humming along to the music made me feel like I was betraying my mom. Even though my feelings for her were complicated and went from love to hate in a single instant, I was my mother’s daughter, and I would stand by her during this divorce, especially since she seemed so uncharacteristically emotional.
One night, I even caught her looking through old photo albums, secretly admitting that she would miss my dad. After all, he had been in her life for nineteen years, and they had traveled all over the world together: London, Nairobi, Phnom Penh, Hong Kong, and Marrakesh while he was filming commercials. She even brought out a five-page love letter that he wrote a few years earlier; he expressed how he needed my mother to fill his emptiness and declared that no one could ever replace her. But there she was—replaced!
Not only had my mom been replaced, but when we looked around our living room, we noticed that a whole part of her life and our family life was not there. Packing up all his belongings a couple weeks earlier, my dad had taken not only his massive collection of shirts, but also many of the artifacts and memorabilia that had hung on our walls, including the hand-carved African masks and spears from the Maasai tribes of Kenya, from when my parents went on a photographic safari. My mom dreamily reminisced about how my dad, with the help of their private tour guide, charmed one of the elder tribesmen into accepting one of his cameras in exchange for the shields and spears. As a sign of Maasai gratitude and hospitality, my parents were invited into the communal hut—built from mud, grass, sticks, and cow dung—to eat a traditional meal of raw milk, cow’s blood, meat, and tea. My mom said she did not usually like tea, and the idea of raw milk and cow’s blood turned her stomach, but being respectful, she drank both. After drinking the blood, the sweet tea was unusually delicious.
The tea was made in a big saucepan over a wood fire. When the water boiled, the tea was dropped into the water and mixed with milk and many spices. After several minutes, it was carefully strained into old clay mugs and sweetened with a pinch of sugar. As my mom drank the tea, she and my dad watched the sunset. The cardamom, ginger, and cinnamon were calming, and the meat, consumed later, was flavorful and smoky-tasting from the fire. My mom said it was her favorite meal ever, and knowing my mother’s attitude toward food, I knew this meant a lot.
Since my mom had come back from touring with my sister, she seemed nicer, more nurturing, even motherly. For years, she let me run around the city unattended. But now she needed to know where I was every minute—even forbidding me to go out clubbing past midnight, which is the time I usually left the house. I wanted to tell her it was too late, she couldn’t control me or tell me what to do. I was grown, and she was just as responsible as my dad for this divorce. But I couldn’t really tell either of my parents how I felt. They each wanted me to take their side, and I felt stuck in the middle of their conflict, their turmoil, and their anger at each other.
When I looked at my sister trying on Violetta’s exercise pants that my dad bought her in every color from her favorite boutique in Milan, I saw no conflict, no tug-of-war, no division of loyalty—just a little girl enjoying new foods, making a new friend, and trying on some fashionable clothing, as the two of them did grand pliés in the kitchen. “Perfecto, perfecto!” Violetta kept shouting as April kept doing the ballet moves—position one, two, and three.
I felt guilty for being upset. It was good that April liked Violetta, and that the situation brought her no discomfort. Sitting down to dinner, watching Violetta, my dad, and April sprinkle Parmigiano-Reggiano on their carpaccio, talking about the origin of the oil that was deep, dark, and green because it came from Italy, and talking about Violetta and my dad’s next vacation, on which they promised they would include April, I felt more alone than ever. I realized I did not know my dad, or my sister, and of course, I had just met Violetta. I wondered if they saw how uncomfortable I was, as I politely smiled, telling Violetta how delicious the veal with tuna sauce was. Actually, it was probably the most incredible thing I’d ever eaten, which made the situation even more confusing.
I knew I could learn a lot from Violetta about cooking, Italian ingredients, and the ways different people ate in different regions of Italy. But she was not looking to be my mom, my stepmom, or even my cooking teacher. She was looking to create her own world with my dad. I could also tell she liked April more than me. April looked like my dad with olive skin and a perfectly turned-up button nose. She even had his quick wit and sense of humor—luckily she did not inherit his problem with his weight—which was now back up to almost three hundred pounds.
April did not need anything from Violetta or my dad. She and Violetta were able to bond instantly and enjoy each other’s company with no expectations. April never seemed to care that my dad missed every single parent-teacher conference, attended only a couple of her opening nights, and called her a only few times a month.
I envied April not only for her talent as an actress and a singer, but for the way she adapted to new situations, and her lack of expectations. As much as I didn’t want to care, there was still a part of me that needed both of my parents to love and accept me.
Taking a breath, I remembered how free I had become over the last couple of years. Now, like my mom, I loved low-cut shirts, platform shoes, and the nightlife. I was no longer the little girl she had left behind who wanted to stay home, clean the house, and be relied on for babysitting and chores. I had my own life. I was popular and had found a whole underground subculture of artists, photographers, and misfits like me, where I was accepted and understood. I’d even had a photography exhibit at the International Center of Photography where I showcased my black-and-white pictures of homeless people, accompanied by poems about who they were and what they had dreamed of being when they were teenagers.
My home life was never going to be the fantasy I often played out in my mind—my life was only going to be as good as I made it. After that night, my dad and I never cooked together again. Violetta took care of my dad in a way that I could not. While he occasionally shared his new diets, I never lived with him again. My mom had full custody of me and April, and she became very involved in my day-to-day life, until my sister was cast in the off-Broadway show Really Rosie, then the film version of Annie, and later the hit show Charles in Charge with Scott Baio. I studied for my SATs, filled out college applications, and eventually received early admission to the Newhouse School of Public Communications at Syracuse University, where I would study film and photography.
I had often believed that if I tried hard enough, I could keep my family together. If I tried hard enough, I could meet their needs, their longing, their hopes, and then, one day, in turn, my longings would be met. But the truth is, like oil and water, some ingredients are not meant to be combined. In the words of my grandmother Beauty, “A good relationship, like a good recipe, requires balance—three cups of wisdom to every one cup of sugar.”
I was ready to create the recipe of my life, mixing in new ingredients, tasting and adjusting, finding the right balance to discover what nourished me. And no matter where this experimenting would lead, I knew I would always have Beauty guiding my way.
Violetta’s Vitello Tonnato
Yield: 6 appetizer servings
FOR THE MEAT:
2 pounds boned veal, cut from the rump
1⁄2 tin of salted anchovies, drained and thinly sliced
1 garlic clove, thinly cut
2 bay leaves
1 small carrot, peeled and quartered
6 black peppercorns
2 celery sticks, quartered
8 ounces dry white wine
FOR THE SAUCE:
2 large eggs
1 garlic clove, peeled
1 teaspoon salt (plus additional to taste)
10 ounces extra virgin olive oil
2 dessert teaspoons white wine vinegar
7 ounces best-quality tuna, packed in oil, drained
5 anchovy fillets, packed in olive oil, drained
Juice of a lemon
Salt and pepper, to taste
FOR THE GARNISH:
2 tablespoons capers, drained, for garnish
Lemon slices for garnish
A few sprigs of parsley
Remove the fat from the veal. Make several incisions in the meat. Take 2 of the anchovy filets and cut into pieces. Insert the anchovies and garlic into the veal. Roll up the meat and secure with string. Put the meat in a bowl with the bay leaves, carrots, peppercorns, and celery, and pour the wine over it. Cover and marinate in the refrigerator for 2 hours.
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Remove the meat from the marinade and place in a roasting pan and cook for 1 hour and 15 minutes. While the meat is cooking, make the sauce.
Break the eggs into a food processor, and add the garlic and 1 teaspoon of salt. Then pour in the oil slowly and mix. After all the oil has been added, stir in the vinegar and blend. Add the tuna and the anchovies and blend till smooth. Then add a tablespoon of the lemon juice, and salt and pepper to taste. Then chill.
When the veal is done, take it out of the oven to cool. Slice it thinly. Spoon the sauce over the sliced meat and garnish with capers, lemon slices, and parsley. Cover with plastic wrap and chill overnight in the refrigerator before serving.
Real Italian Tiramisu
Yield: 8 servings
6 egg yolks
1⁄2 cup sugar
10 ounces Italian mascarpone cheese
4 egg whites
2 tablespoons sweet marsala wine or dark rum
24 ladyfingers
12 ounces Italian espresso or extra-strong coffee, brewed and cooled
3 ounces dark semisweet chocolate, shaved
In a large bowl, whisk the egg yolks and half the sugar until pale and doubled in volume. It should take about 4 minutes. Whip in the mascarpone, a little at a time. In another bowl, beat the egg whites and remaining sugar until stiff, glossy peaks form. Fold the egg whites into the mascarpone mixture. In another bowl combine the rum and cooled coffee. Dip the ladyfingers quickly into the coffee and arrange a layer of them at the bottom of a 9 x 13-inch pan. Do not over soak the ladyfingers in the coffee; otherwise your tiramisu will be soggy.
Spread 1⁄3 of the mascarpone mixture on top of the ladyfingers and sprinkle with shaved chocolate.
Top with another layer of dipped ladyfingers and then more cheese and chocolate. It’s like building lasagna. Then one more layer of ladyfingers, cheese, and chocolate. Cover with plastic and chill overnight.
Note: Violetta said the difference between American and Italian tiramisu was that “real Italians whip the egg whites into the cheese instead of using whipped cream. Also this tiramisu is not overly sweet.”
African Chai Tea
Yield: 4 cups
21⁄2 cups water
2 teaspoons black tea leaves
1⁄2 teaspoon cardamom
2 cinnamon sticks
1⁄4 cup sugar (you can use a little less if you don’t like a sweet tea)
11⁄2 cups milk of choice
Simmer the water, black tea leaves, cardamom, cinnamon sticks, and sugar for 15 minutes on a medium heat. Add the milk and heat for another 2 minutes. Strain and serve.
EPILOGUE
My Dad’s Cancer
Healing Mushroom Miso Soup, Mushroom Latkes, Beet Chips
Right before my son’s second birthday, my dad called me. That in itself was unusual because it was Wednesday, and my dad only phoned on the first Sunday of the month or holidays. It was neither. As soon as I picked up the phone, he said, “It’s bad, really bad!”
I thought his blood pressure, which was often in the danger zone, had gone through the roof, or his weight had ballooned again, or he had broken up with Violetta.
“Cancer, lung cancer,” he said. “The prognosis is not good. I’m going to die.”
I was totally taken aback. Although my dad was never the picture of health and had chain-smoked for years, I always assumed he would be around forever. I didn’t know what to say. I was trying to be positive, telling him I knew he would be fine. But I didn’t really know anything about his diagnosis. I could not even fathom it was real. He told me he had been coughing up blood for weeks, filling his handkerchief with red mucus, but he assumed that it was bronchitis He walked into the ER with the anticipation of getting a strong antibiotic and maybe some throat lozenges, but walked out with a stage three cancer diagnosis after the CT scan showed a grapefruit-sized tumor on the upper ventricle of his lung.
The room began to spin as my dad gave me a summary of the events of the past week. My son was curled up on my lap. I had just been trying to get him to fall asleep when my dad phoned. Rocking back and forth on the glider nursing chair that my dad had bought me when Dylan was born, I tried to muster up something witty or encouraging to say. But I was tongue-tied, and everything I said was just coming out wrong. And my dad, always an ad man, was not much for emotional conversations.
“You know there is an upside to this,” my dad said.
I was hoping he was going to say something like when you get sick, it makes you realize that family is the most important thing, or he really wanted to spend more time with me and Dylan. Maybe he’d come into the city and go to the playground with us, or to an amusement park, or maybe have a regular weekend date at the Museum of Natural History. Maybe he would invite us to the Connecticut home he had moved to with Violetta when he retired, and we could have weekly family dinners. For that one brief second, I forgot my dad was sick and allowed myself to be swept up in that little-girl fantasy, where I felt safe with my dad’s love and the promise that he was going to be a more present grandfather than he’d been a father. I had spent years waiting for my dad to say he loved me, was proud of me, was looking forward to spending time with me. Maybe he now longed to be closer as well.
“The good news is that one of the side effects of chemotherapy, which I will be starting next week, is weight loss. You win some, you lose some.”
I didn’t know how to respond, so I just chuckled. My dad was always happiest when his one-liners made you laugh.
“Did you get a second opinion, did you think of seeing a doctor with a more integrated approach? My neighbor Clara told me her father cured himself from cancer by meditating.”
“It is what it is. My dad died of cancer, my brother Melvin
had cancer, and now I have cancer.”
“But Uncle Melvin is alive. If he fought it, so can you.”
“Maybe. But I am not hopeful. Like the saying goes, ‘You only go around once in life.’ I’ve gone around at least twice.”
After we hung up the phone, I called my sister, who was always much more logical, less emotional.
“Daddy just called; he says he has cancer and is going to die.” It was only when I said the words out loud to my sister that the tears began to pour down my face.
“Daddy used to say he was dying when he had a cold. Lots of people survive cancer.”
My sister, now a lawyer and married with a child of her own, was no longer an actress. She had gotten a law degree after attending Brown University for college. She was now taking time off to raise her son Sean, who was six, and living in LA with her husband, who was also a lawyer.
“I am going to call Daddy, and I will try to fly to New York next week. In the meantime, try to distract yourself until we have some real details. There is nothing we can do until we have some hard facts.”
She was right. After I hung up with her, I called Beauty. She urged me to get out of my stuffy apartment and get a little fresh air. “Maybe take a walk to the health food store,” she suggested. “Read some books about foods that help cancer.” I listened to her advice and transferred my sleeping child into the stroller, and off we went. The health food store had always been a magical place for me. I could find peace among the vitamins and bins of grains, perhaps the way Holly Golightly was able to find strength at Tiffany, or a religious person finds solace at temple or church. Once I was among the self-help books and vibrant green vegetables, the possibilities seemed endless. With Dylan in the stroller beside me, I looked through book after book on anti-cancer regimens that would help my dad live. I wanted my son to have the chance to get to know his grandfather. How was he going to get to know him if he was going to die?