Little children holding hands with nonnas, older children holding hands with one another, they race  down the avenue [...]]]> At nine o’clock on the morning  after Thanksgiving, the nonnas scurry to the homes of grandchildren, ringing front doorbells until the children appear. No child is late.  The nonnas, with their charges in tow, meet on the corner near the church. 

 Little children holding hands with nonnas, older children holding hands with one another, they race  down the avenue to the  local five-and-ten. When they arrive, they see the crowd is  being shepherded into one line. But no one complains.

At nine-thirty, the doors to the store open and the nonnas and children begin a climb to the second floor.  As they reach the top step, they oh and ah. “It’s more beautiful than it was last year,” a nonna says.

“Look, they have silver bells hanging above the chair,” another says.

 Sitting  in the chair amid the glory of a winter wonderland is Santa Claus. The nonnas try not to show they are as excited as the grandchildren.  But they get caught up in admiring the tinsel, the bright blue glass balls decorating artificial trees, and the huge dye-cut sign glowing with silver glitter that says: “Merry Christmas.”

A nonna  says to a granddaughter, “Tell Santa what you want,” knowing she will purchase whatever the child asks for. She remains within earshot, a tear or two of  pride and joy running down her cheek, as the girl  shares her list. 

When the last grandchild climbs off  Santa’s lap,  the nonnas and the children return to the first floor. It’s time for a snack.

On this special day,  the children can have anything they want. The nonnas grant  all their wishes. They  purchase loose potato chips from a glass-enclosed  counter, crisp hot waffles filled with melting ice cream from the snack bar, even a quarter-pound of carnival-colored jujubes. But the nonnas shake their heads  and pass up the cookies. They can bake better ones.

The group  walks the aisles in the store. The nonnas look at scarves, hats, gloves mentioning the names of  sons-in-law  who would enjoy such gifts. Their daughters and grandchildren receive handmade gifts– a robe that a nonna “runs up” in what she claims takes 20 minutes but actually takes three days.

In the Christmas department, the  children select a few ornaments to take home.  Soon the nonnas are paying for bright red glass bells topped with sugary-looking “snow.”

Across from the ornament display is a counter covered with artificial green turf.  It is home to a miniature stable  for a presepio, or Christmas crib.  The stable  holds plaster figurines of the  Holy Family surrounded by a variety of plaster barnyard animals, several shepherds with crooks, and three kings bearing gifts.

A nonna picks up a plaster lamb. ”This maybe won’t go with the set I got from my mother, but you can never have too many animals to keep the Baby Jesus warm.” That is all it takes for each of the other nonnas to decide they cannot be outdone in making a comfortable home for the Baby Jesus.

 There is an immediate  run on cows and goats and sheep and even a camel, part of the Three Kings entourage.  Each nonna is determined to keep her Holy Family warmest with the breath of animals.

Angeletti –Lemon-Iced Cookies

Cookies

• 2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
• 1 tablespoon baking powder
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter at room temperature
• 1/2 cup granulated sugar
• 3 large eggs
• 1 teaspoon vanilla

Icing

• 2 cups confectioners’ sugar
• Grated rind of 1 lemon
•  2 to 3 tablespoons lemon juice
• Colored sprinkles (optional)

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.
2. Sift togther flour, salt, and baking powder; set aside.
3. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, cream butter and granulated sugar  until fluffy
4.  Add eggs one at a time; mix well after each addition. 
5. Mix in vanilla. 
6. With mixer on, gradually add flour mixture; beat until dough comes together.
7. Gently roll bits of dough into  1 to 1-1/2 inch balls  and place  on lightly buttered or parchment-lined baking sheet. 
8. Bake until golden, about 15 minutes. To cool cookies, transfer them to wire cooling rack set over a sheet of waxed paper.
9.  In a medium bowl, stir together confectioners’ sugar, lemon rind, and lemon juice to form a smooth glossy icing.
10. When cookies are cool, dip tops in icing and return to wire rack.
11. Shower with colored sprinkles if desired. Let cookies remain on wire cooling rack until icing is firm.

In South Brooklyn at autumn’s end, the quaint caravan isn’t a brightly colored, circus trailer set up for temporary living. It’s  a storefront. Any vacant storefront on an avenue can become home to the lady and her family – the Gypsies.

Heavy red and [...]]]> “In  a quaint caravan, there’s a lady they call the Gypsy,” the song says.

In South Brooklyn at autumn’s end, the quaint caravan isn’t a brightly colored, circus trailer set up for temporary living. It’s  a storefront. Any vacant storefront on an avenue can become home to the lady and her family – the Gypsies.

Heavy red and gold drapes hang in the window of their new home, a former  tailor shop. The drapes fail to meet in the center, leaving just enough room for people to peek in while passing by.  The opulent curtains seem at odds with a very visible  canvas-covered  ironing board affixed to one wall.

The gap in the window covering serves as a magnet attracting grandsons in the neighborhood. On their way to school, on their way to buy a quart of milk, on their way to climb the schoolyard fence, they stop and stare.

Outside the doorway of a nearby vegetable store, two nonnas meet. One sees three boys looking in the window of what they still call “the tailor’s.” She  bites her index finger on a hand held parallel to her lips. “Get away from there!” she shouts at the boys.

The boys make a show of covering their eyes and scoot around the corner. 

And this gives the nonnas the chance they have been waiting for, their opportunity to discuss the Gypsies.  The  topic of the neighborhood newcomers  has almost replaced the nonnas’ favorite subject — food.

“We don’t know what goes on in there,” a nonna says.  She motions toward the storefront home.

“I notice the young man this morning,” the other says and lowers her voice. “He wears an earring.” She raises her eyebrows and shakes her head in disapproval. But it’s only mild disapproval. “You should see the good job he did fixing that fender on my son’s truck.

“But the old woman worries me,” the other nonna says. “She tells fortunes. Of course,  my daughter-in-law is always first in line to hear what the Gypsy has to say.”

“Did her fortune come true?”

“Well, the old woman told my daughter-in-law that she was going to have a baby. That wasn’t a surprise. She was already seven months pregnant.” 

Their conversation is interrupted when they see a toddler  running  out of the tailor shop. The girl starts moving toward the  street, and  the nonnas make a dash for her. One reaches for  the girl when she is inches from the curb. The old woman and the girl’s mother rush out of the store  to pick up the girl and to thank the nonnas.

The nonna nods knowingly but  says nothing as she passes the girl to her mother. She waves her hand in dismissal when the mother thanks her.

The other nonna is uncharacteristically quiet as she breathes in a spicy scent. She turns to the younger woman. “What are you cooking?” she asks.

“Paprikash,” she says. ”It’s  a stew with meat and vegetables and paprika.” She recites the ingredients. The nonnas can hear a recipe once and commit it to memory.  But this woman does not understand  the nonnas’ tradition. Never share a whole recipe. She should leave out at least one ingredient.

As soon as the nonnas are out of earshot, they discuss their close encounter. ”They  don’t seem so bad,” one says. “And she did tell us about the stew.”

“Yes, but she probably left something out.”

 ”I’ll  try it,” the nonna says. “I’m  going to the grocer’s to buy paprika — hot and sweet.”

That evening, the nonnas are on their way to church for their weekly novena. “I made the paprikash.  I don’t think she left out anything. It was delicious.”

“Now if she would only fix those drapes.”  She waves her hand in the air. “Bah.”

Beef Paprikash

Serves six

• 3 tablespoons olive oil
• 1 cup celery, diced
• 1 cup carrots, diced
• 1  onion diced
• 2 garlic cloves, quartered
• 3 tablespoons sweet paprika
• 1 to 2 tablespoons hot paprika
• 3 sprigs fresh oregano
• 1 bay leaf
• Salt
• Freshly ground pepper
• 1  tablespoon tomato paste
•  2 tablespoons flour
• 1/2 cup dry wine, red or white
• 1 1/2 to 2 cups vegetable stock
• 2 pounds beef rump roast, cut into 2-inch cubes

1. Preheat oven to 325 degrees F.
2. In a nonreactive casserole, warm 2 tablespoons oil. Add vegetables, herbs, spices and salt and pepper to taste. Saute about 15 minutes, or until golden. 
3. Add tomato paste; saute 5 minutes. Add flour; saute over low heat 5 minutes.
4. Heat remaining tablespoon olive oil in large skillet.
5. Dry beef well; sprinkle with salt and pepper. Brown beef on all sides in skillet; do not crowd.
6. Add browned beef to casserole.
7. Deglaze skillet with wine; add stock. Bring liquids to boil; pour over ingredients in casserole.
8. Stir well; liquid should barely cover meat. Add more stock if necessary; bring to boil.
9. Cover casserole; place in lower-third of oven. Cook 1 1/2 to 2 hours, or until meat is fork-tender.
10. Serve over noodles.

The others almost in a chorus pooh-pooh her. “You know you’re going [...]]]> On  a hot July afternoon, the nonnas are sitting on folding chairs at the curb, crocheting lace trim on linen handkerchiefs, and watching their grandchildren play in  water spewing from a fire hydrant. “Too hot to cook tonight,” one says, “maybe I make sandwiches.”

The others almost in a chorus pooh-pooh her. “You know you’re going to cook–just make something easy, like eggs.”

“I have to cook eggs in a new way,” another says. “When the boys went away to The War, they ate only fried eggs, scrambled eggs, and frittata. Now they want eggs easy-over — I don’t know– or over-easy, eggs on top of grits with sausage, and sometimes in what they call a Western omelet.

“It’s true,” a nonna says. “For years I tried to get my son to eat polenta, and it was always, ‘You’re kidding me, Ma, not that.’ Since he comes home, he takes the corn meal out of the cabinet and asks me to  make grits. I follow the instructions on the package and fry eggs and sausages to serve with the grits. I take some grits myself. If I add some cheese and a drop of olive oil, I have polenta.” She shakes her head.  ”But he calls it grits.”

The tinkling bell of the Bungalow Bar truck coming down the avenue causes a rush of dripping wet children to run to their nonnas for coins. They are eager to buy a toasted almond pop, or a coconut-covered pop, or a traditional pop draped in chocolate.

Two of the older boys hand their unopened ice cream to the ladies and ask permission to take a ride in the Bungalow Bar truck. Faces beaming, they run past the younger children  and climb into the front seat next to the driver. The ride lasts only a few blocks and the boys step out of the truck when the driver makes the  next stop. Then they race each other to pick up their ice cream.

The nonnas’ fingers move swiftly as they crochet. But one puts down her crochet hook. “It’s because they went to those places, you know. Virginia, Kentucky, Tennessee,” she says. “That’s where they learned about all those different ways to make eggs. When they were overseas, they never even saw an egg.”

“Aha,” one says and the others nod in agreement.

After indicting all the states beyond News Jersey, the nonna says, “Still it’s not so bad to learn something new. . . . How do I make a Western omelet?

All who know shout out an ingredient or two adding to those already mentioned. The nonna who asks for the recipe calls to her grandson. “Here, take  this quarter. Go to the store and buy a quarter pound of ham.” She dusts her hands together and turns to the others. “I always have peppers in the house.”

“So you’re going to make it?”

“Why not? But maybe I sprinkle it with a little Parmigiano–be tastier that way.”

Western Omelet

Serves one

• 1 tablespoon olive oil
• 5  tablespoons ham, or prosciutto, diced
• 1/2 pepper, red or green,  seeded, diced
• 2 tablespoons onion, minced
• 2 eggs, well beaten
• Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
• 1 tablespoon Parmigiano Reggiano or Cheddar cheese, grated.

1. Heat oil in  small skillet or  omelet pan
2. Reduce heat to medium low; add peppers, ham, onions, and salt and pepper to taste.
3. Saute until ham crisps, peppers are tender, and onion translucent.
4. Pour eggs over all; tilt pan to cover entire surface.
5. Cook until eggs are set.
6. Turn omelet over to brown second side, about 4 minutes.
7. Serve immediately.

“I don’t  like the ones that use butter, not olive oil,” a nonna says. The [...]]]> The nonnas cook  using  “a dash of this, a spoonful of that, and a pinch of whatever.”  So on a rainy spring afternoon,  it is surprising when they sit at the kitchen table and talk about recipes — American recipes — their daughters clip from  newspapers and magazines.

“I don’t  like the ones that use butter, not olive oil,” a nonna says. The rest nod  knowingly while wrinkling their noses. The prospect of using a Northern Italian or French medium to brown chicken makes them shudder.

“We’re lucky we can find all the things we need to cook right here,” another says. “My daughter-in-law,” she pauses, ”the Irish one, she travels far to get what she needs to cook when her mother is coming to dinner.”

“Well, she  could just use vegetables and chicken,” says a nonna brusquely. “They’re popular with everybody– Irish, American — and there are a thousand ways to cook them.”

“Back home, my mother made wonderful dishes–like chicken cacciatore–with mushrooms, celery, onions, carrots, you  name it.”

“My daughter fixed a dish the other night that I thought was going to be cacciatore but it turned out she was using a recipe from a ladies’ magazine.”

“Bah! Those magazines and newspapers try to give original recipes, but the food never tastes the way it should.”

“She made  something called Chicken Scarpariello–in the style of the shoemaker. My mother never served it. I’m pretty sure  it’s an American recipe.”

“Did you taste it?”

“It was delicious,” the nonna answers.  “It was chicken on the bone  cooked with sausage, a little wine, and hot vinegar peppers.”

The nonnas all pay attention at the mention of hot vinegar peppers. “I always keep a jar in the refrigerator,” one says. “They’re nice on an antipasto plate.”

“And they’re good on a sandwich with mozzarella.”

The rain is letting up. The  nonnas are placing their coffee cups in the sink and getting ready to leave. “I’m going to the butcher,” one says. “Does anybody need anything?”

“I’m fixing chicken tonight, but maybe you can pick me up a pound of sausage?”

“He keeps the vinegar peppers on  the shelf,” says another. “Buy me a jar, please.”

Soon, the  nonnas are in their apartments making dinner.  A very distinctive aroma of vinegar and sausage wafts from every window.

The  nonnas meet after dinner to walk to the novena together. Each changes the subject when asked what she cooked for dinner– a recipe from an American magazine, perhaps.

Chicken Scarpariello

Serves six

• 2 tablespoons olive oil
• 3 cloves garlic, quartered
• One 4-pound chicken, well rinsed, dried, cut into 10 pieces
• Salt to taste
• Freshly ground pepper to taste
• 1 pound sweet sausage with fennel, sliced into 1/2 inch rounds
• 4 to 7 hot cherry peppers in vinegar, diced
• 1 cup dry white wine or dry vermouth
• 1/2 cup chicken broth

1.  In a skillet large enough to hold ingredients in one layer, saute garlic until golden.
2.  Remove garlic; set aside.
3. Add chicken to pan; sprinkle liberally with salt and pepper
4. Brown chicken thoroughly on all  sides.
5. Remove chicken from pan; set aside.
6. In same pan, saute sausage until cooked through
7. To pan, add diced peppers, including seeds; stir.
8. Remove sausage and  peppers from pan; set aside.
9. Add wine to pan  and reduce by half; add broth.
10. Stir all scrapings from bottom of pan into the wine and broth.
11. Return all ingredients to pan; bring to a boil.
12. Reduce heat; cover closely.
13.  Simmer 30 minutes or until chicken is cooked through.
14. Remove sausage and chicken from pan; set aside.
15. Over medium heat, reduce sauce until it coats a spoon.
16. Pour sauce over chicken; serve with mashed potatoes.

“I’m [...]]]> The groundwork for an exodus begins on a sunny springtime late Sunday afternoon when a daughter invites her mother to join her family for a ride. With the  dinner dishes put away after the big meal, and the remaining crostatta  back in the refrigerator, the nonna accepts. In the car, she takes her place between her bickering 12-year-old grandson and his 10-year-old  sister.

“I’m sitting in the middle,” she says, “because I don’t want you to kill each other.” They are quiet for a minute. Then, as she leans forward, they make ugly faces at each other behind her back.

“I know what you’re doing,” the nonna says. “That’s the end of it.”

She sits back to enjoy the ride, never thinking to ask where the driver, her son-in-law, is heading. In about an hour, he parks the car in front of a Cape Cod-style house with a sign on it reading: Model Home.

The boy runs to open the door.  As the nonna and the  family enter the living room, they see other visitors–all  couples around the age of her daughter, all with children, racing  around, grumbling, or just smiling.  Her son-in-law leads the way. They walk through the kitchen, with its shiny big window and gleaming appliances. They enter the master bedroom, with windows set high enough to guarantee privacy.   The children start to quibble  as they approach a small corner bedroom. “This is the  room I want,” the boy says. “No, I want this one for myself,” the girl says. They end the tour in the living room, with its small bay window.

It is beginning to dawn on the nonna that this is no simple Sunday excursion. Her apprehension is confirmed when her son-in-law approaches a man sitting at a desk in the living room. The man hands him a brochure and begins reciting a set speech about how safe the streets here are for children, how wonderful it is that the house comes equipped with new appliances, and how a sprinkle of grass seed is going to produce a magnificent lawn.

The nonna wonders if  her daughter is planning on moving into a house like this with its clay lawn and shingle siding on a flat, flat street. She wonders if she is ever going to have a chance to walk the grandchildren to school again. And if her daughter is never going to call for her so they can walk to the novena together on Wednesday nights.

When they return to the car, the nonna is twisting her handkerchief  in her hands. She listens closely as her daughter points out all the advantages of living in Levittown. Her son-in-law? Not so much. He complains about the distance of the commute to his job, the fact that most of their furniture won’t fit in the “dinky” rooms, and what they are going to do for babysitting when they move away from the nonna.

The couple  in the front seat continue to discuss the pros and cons of a move. The children join in. “I said I wanted that room, but I really don’t want to leave all my friends,” the boy says. “And I like my teacher so much this year,” the girl says. “I don’t want to change schools.”

The nonna, fingers crossed beneath the knotted handkerchief, begins to relax. So maybe they won’t buy a house and move now. But she stops a tear from falling as she realizes it is only a matter of time — not only for her daughter and her family,  but also for all the daughters on the block.

Crostata Marmellata — Jam Tart

Crust

• 2 cups unbleached flour
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 2 sticks very cold unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch dice
• 1/2 cup sugar
• 2 egg yolks

1. Mix flour, salt, and sugar together.
2. Cut butter into flour mixture until mixture resembles coarse corn meal.
3. Work egg yolks into mixture, forming a soft, smooth dough.
4. Wrap dough in plastic wrap; refrigerate at least 1 hour.

Filling

• 1 1/2 cups cherry or apricot jam
• 1 egg yolk
• 1 tablespoon milk

1. Preheat oven to 325 degrees F.
2. Roll out dough to 1/4-inch thickness; cut in two, one piece larger than the other.
3. Fit larger portion into 9-inch tart pan with a removable bottom.
4. Slice remaining dough into 1-inch strips to use for lattice to top tart.
5. Spread jam over crust in pie pan; place strips of lattice on top.
6. Blend egg yolk with milk; brush lattice to glaze.
7. Place pie on rimmed cookie sheet or jelly roll pan to prevent spills.
8. Bake in lower third of oven 1 hour, or until jam is bubbling and crust is golden.
9. Cool on wire rack.

For leftover dough

1. Place  leftover  lattice slices on cookie sheet around tart pan.
2. Brush slices with glaze; sprinkle lightly with sugar.
3. Bake 35 minutes, or until golden.
4. Remove to wire rack to cool while tart contunues baking.

“I’m getting the dried grain,” a nonna says. “I’ll soak it and bake the pie [...]]]> Holy Thursday, twilight is descending as the nonnas leave the seventh and last church they visit. They are eager to return to their neighborhood to shop for an essential  ingredient– dried grain, or wheat kernels– for the pastiera, or sweet Easter pie.

“I’m getting the dried grain,” a nonna says. “I’ll soak it and bake the pie Saturday afternoon.”

“I’m buying mine soaked,” another says. “It’s much easier that way, even though I still have to cook it.”  Most of the others shake their heads slowly in disapproval.

“Easy, easy?” a nonna says. “I make the pie the easiest. I use barley, the medium size, not too small. Boil it, simmer it, cool it, and I’m ready to go.”

The others gasp audibly. “No wheat?” one exclims. “Just barley?”

“Yes,” she declares. “It’s more modern. Last year, when you tasted the pie did you think it  was bad?”

There is a reluctant “No” from the others. They shrug their shoulders and roll their eyes at one another. How could they have missed an opportunity to find something a little “off” in someone else’s baking?

“Oh , yes,” she says. “I follow the old recipe, but using barley saves me time.”

They enter the local pastry shop and each places an order for orange-flower water, vanilla sugar, and diced citron. All but one orders, wheat dried or soaked.

“Signora, some grain for you –  dried, soaked?” the shop owner asks after he organizes  each nonna’s purchases on the counter.

“Oh, no thank you,” she says. “I have what I need already.”

“You’re not using some left over from last year, are you?” the shop owner asks, aghast.

“Bah,” another nonna pipes up. “She’s using barley.” She spits out the word like an epithet. “I never heard of such a thing.” She shakes her head. “Too bad, we don’t keep the old traditions.”

“If it tastes as good with barley, what’s the difference? Tradition is in the taste.”

They arrive at their apartment building and bid one another good-night.  Soon, the sound of dried grain pings as most nonnas pour it into bowls and set it to soften overnight. The following day, the  nonnas simmer the soaked grain and refrigerate it until baking day, Holy Saturday.

While the grain is simmering, the barley-nonna stops by to ask the others if they want her to pick up anything from the stores.  ”I have nothing to do right now,” she says with a glimmer in her eye. “I don’t fix the barley until tomorrow when I’m ready to bake the pie.”

But waiting the hour or so for the grain to simmer makes the nonnas dig in their heels even deeper.  “Barley!’ one says to herself.  ”No, I don’t need anything, thanks,” each says as she realizes she really could use a dozen eggs, some butter, more sugar.

The day of reckoning arrives. The nonnas’ kitchens are filled with the sweet scents  of oranges, vanilla, and buttery crust. Each works swiftly to chill the finished pie for serving at Easter breakfast.

While they wait for their pies to cool, they gather around the kitchen table in the barley-nonna’s apartment.  She  is handing out cups of steaming espresso and thin slices of  already-cool pastiera — her pastiera.

Waiting to hear the verdict, she  busies herself at the sink. Soon she hears, “Very nice, the vanilla and the lemon,”  one says. “Oh, it  tastes just like the one Mama used to make,” another says.

One says, “It tastes just like mine!” The hostess-nonna continues her work with her back to the guests, and does it with a huge grin.

Pastiera (Easter Grain Pie) Serves 8

Crust

• 2 1/4 cups unbleached flour
• 1 1/2 sticks very cold unsalted butter
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 2 tablespoons sugar
• 3 egg yolks
• 1/8 to 1/4 cup ice water

Filling

• 1/2 cup dried wheat grains or 3/4 cup medium barley kernels
• 3 cups water
• Dash salt
• 1 1/2 cups whole milk
• 3 tablespoons sugar
• Grated rind of 1 orange
• 3 cups whole milk ricotta, drained
• 1 1/2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
• Grated rind of 1 lemon
• 3 eggs
• 1/2 cup sugar
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 2 tablespoons orange flower water
• 1 tablespoon dried citron, diced (optional)

Glaze

• 1 egg  yolk beaten with 1 tablespoon milk

1. For grain: Soak  dried grain 24 hours.
2. Rinse soaked grain; bring to boil in 3 cups water.
3. Simmer grain 40 minutes or until tender and all liquid is absorbed.
4. For barley: Simmer 40 minutes in 3 cups water, or according to package directions, until tender and all liquid is absorbed .
5. Warm milk with sugar, salt, and orange rind.
6. Add milk mixture to cooked grain or barley; simmer until liquid is absorbed; allow  to cool.
7. In an electric mixer with a whisk  attachment, beat together the remaining filling ingredients until light.
8. Fold in grain.
9. For the crust: In a food processor or electric mixer, blend together all ingredients for crust.
10. Add more ice water if dough is too dry.
11. Chill dough 1 hour.
12. Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.
13. Divide dough in 2; one, 3/4 of the dough; second, 1/4.
14. Roll the larger piece of dough to fit into  and cover the sides of  a 10-inch springform pan or deep pie dish
15. Roll remaining dough; cut into 1– inch strips for lattice to top the pie; set aside.
16. Pour filling into crust; weave lattice on top; brush with glaze
17. Place dish on baking pan; bake  90 minutes, or until puffed and golden brown.
18. Allow to cool in turned-off  oven.
19. Chill well before  before removing from pan; serve at room temperature; refrigerate leftovers.

“Now we finish these,” one [...]]]> South Brooklyn, 1947, Palm Sunday afternoon. Palm fronds cover a kitchen table where the nonnas sit weaving strands into sculptures. Each twists and braids and ties the green- edged leaves into crucifixes, wreaths, and miniature crosses. They glance at one another’s creations admiring the braiding technique, but never saying so.

“Now we finish these,” one says, holding up a cross that seems to be made of folds of ribbons.  “Tomorrow we bring them to the cemetery and decorate the graves. And then I have to get busy shopping for the baking.”

“I’m putting this wreath above the St. Teresa picture in my bedroom, before I start the baking,” another says. A nonna raises her eyebrows. “Bah,” she says. “It’s going to collect so much dust.”

The man of the house is on his way out as he walks past the table and glances at the women’s work. He picks up a miniature cross, two tiny strips of palm inserted one into the other and slips the cross into the grosgrain band of his fedora; it adds a jaunty touch to the dark brown felt.

The hostess asks her husband, “You can help with the baking Wednesday night?”

“Sure,” he answers

Once talk of the baking starts, it does not stop, because the nonnas’ kitchen capers – never mind their seven-fishes act at Christmastime — reach a crescendo at Eastertime with the baking of the chock-full–of-everything pizza rustica. “You got some people to help you?” one asks.

“Yes, even my daughter-in-law says she’ll help,” a reply that meets with the nonnas’ sly grins and delicate eye-rolling.

The baking begins on Spy Wednesday, the Wednesday before Easter.

In every nonnas’ kitchen on baking night, an enamel-top dining table overflows with chunks of Genoa and Sicilian salami, hot and sweet sopressata, dried fennel sausage, heels of prosciutto, balloon-shaped balls of scamorza, wedges of Fontina and Asiago, and balls of fresh and smoked mozzarella. There is also the once-a-year specialty, basket cheese, dripping whey on a folded kitchen towel alongside a perforated tin of creamy ricotta.

It is time to make pizza rustica.

In one kitchen, a nonna commands a daughter-in-law, “Hurry, beat the eggs in the big bowl.” The younger woman begins beating and makes a face when the nonna turns away. “You,” the nonna shouts to two grandsons, “Get busy on the cheese.” The boys begin to dice the cheese and occasionally form bits into balls and lob them at each other, when the grown-ups are out of sight.

The nonno, a juice glass full of red wine at his side, sits at the head of the table carefully dicing the meats into half-inch cubes. “You, stop playing with the cheese,” he addresses the boys. “If I throw a piece of prosciutto, you’re going to be black-and-blue-for a week.” The nonnas buy only the heel-ends of the prosciutto because they’re cheaper — so dried, the hunks could easily serve as weapons.

The nonna bustling about reminds the sous chefs that she is in a rush. “Everything has to be finished by tomorrow,” she says. “I need the time to visit the seven churches.”

“I know, I know,” her husband says “and then Good Friday, three hours more in church.” He dismisses the whole deal with a wave of his hand.

In a while, the pie is assembled. The nonna brushes the top with beaten egg for a gloss, makes a sign of the cross atop the baking pan, and puts the pan in the oven.

There is no eating the finished pie until Holy Saturday, after the Mass of the Resurrection, the official end of Lent. With the Alleluias still ringing in their ears from the glorious Mass, the nonnas rush home to cut the pie, wrap individual pieces in waxed paper, and pack them in brown paper lunch bags.

They dispatch grandchildren in pairs to deliver slices to nonnas, uncles, aunts, and friends. The children do not have far to go: sisters live floors away from sisters-in-law in four-story buildings. Cousins can call out of windows to cousins. Aunts are a fire-escape climb away.  No one lives more than three blocks away.

The grandchildren return clutching a cache of slices from nonnas, uncles, aunts, and friends. Then the critique of the other pies begin.

“This pie is too salty,” a nonna says. That pie is too sweet. This crust is too thick. That crust is too thin.

The verdict in each nonna’s household: Her pie is the best.

PIZZA RUSTICA

Serves 12 as a main course; serves 24 as an appetizer

Crust

• 4 1/2 cups unbleached flour
• 3/4 teaspoon salt
• 3 sticks ice-cold unsalted butter, diced
• 1/2 to 2/3 cup ice water

1. Combine flour and salt; place in food processor, or electric mixer at low speed; work butter into flour mixture to form coarse crumbs.
2. Gradually add enough water to form a dough that just sticks together.
3. Wrap dough in waxed paper; refrigerate while preparing filling.

FILLING

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.

• 1/4 pound prosciutto
• 1/4 pound Genoa salami
• 1/4 pound hot sopressata salami
• 1/4 pound sweet sopressata salami
• 1/4 pound Sicilian salami
• 1/4 pound dried Italian sausage
• 1/4 pound scamorza
• 1/4  pound fresh mozzarella
• 1/4  pound  smoked mozzarella
• 1/4  pound Fontina cheese
• 1/4 pound Asiago
• 1/2  pound basket cheese, well drained
• 3 cups whole-milk ricotta, well drained
• 6 eggs
• Freshly ground pepper to taste

Glaze

• 1 egg yolk, beaten with 1 tablespoon milk

1. In a large bowl, beat together ricotta, eggs, and black pepper; set aside.
2. Dice meats and cheeses into 1/2-inch cubes; combine diced ingredients in another large bowl.
3. Divide dough in two, with one piece slightly larger than the other.
4. On a lightly floured board, roll out larger piece, and fit it into an (approximately) 12-inch-by-16 –inch nonreactive shallow casserole; leave an overhang of 1 inch.
5. Roll second piece of dough to fit over top; set aside.
6. Pour  ricotta-egg mixture over meats and cheeses; stir well.
7. Moisten the edge of the bottom crust with water;  add the meat and cheese filling.
8. Add top crust; crimp edges of crust together; flute edges.
9. Brush top crust with egg glaze; cut a circle in top crust to allow steam to escape.
10. Place casserole on baking sheet; bake 90  to 115 minutes or until the tip of a knife inserted into the center comes out clean.
11. Cool on wire rack; allow to come to room temperature before slicing; serve at room temperature; refrigerate leftovers.

The nonnas’ grandsons gather their supplies for their campfire feast: a rickety four-legged metal burner that should hold a can of Sterno, twigs  and newspapers  to place on the burner, [...]]]> There are no flowery fields of clover in Brooklyn. So on hot summer nights, streets and sidewalks become living rooms and tiny backyards become campgrounds.

The nonnas’ grandsons gather their supplies for their campfire feast: a rickety four-legged metal burner that should hold a can of Sterno, twigs  and newspapers  to place on the burner, a can opener, and a bottle opener. Their feast of choice: new potatoes that a nonna has scrubbed pristine, as many cans of  Heinz Pork and Beans as there are guests, and bottles of Mission soda –grape, cream, lemon-lime.

The boys set up camp  as far away as they can from both the circle of folding chairs the nonnas occupy and the fig tree. About the fig  tree? A nonna has warned them within an inch of their lives to keep their distance.  The nonnas  shoo away the campgoers’ younger siblings, especially sisters, as soon as they step foot in the yard.

The boys each  throw a flaming Diamond wooden match to ignite the crumpled newspapers the twigs rest on.  Their mothers lean out of second-and-third-story windows or sit on fire escapes watching the dinner party. Even though they find the boys and their fire-making activity nerve wracking and it gives them occasion to bite their fingers in frustration, they respond to the nonnas’ leave-them-alone hand motions and suffer in silence.

In the nonnas’ circle  it’s outdoor crochet season — and their fingertips dance  nimbly to create edges of lace on white linen handkerchiefs.

The embers are glowing brightly as the boys toss the potatoes into the makeshift oven. The crisp click of a can opener  piercing a can is followed by the  release of the sticky sweet scent of pork and beans. Each boy places his newly opened main course alongside the fire.

“Bah, the spoons, the spoons.” a nonna says. “ They forgot the spoons.” She rises and and goes into the building. In the meantime, the  other  nonnas call upon all the saints in heaven to protect the boys from setting their hair on fire.

The boys have commandeered an old tin tray from a local bar to use as a serving dish for the poatoes. Chipped white soup bowls on loan from a nonna’s kitchen fill in for sharing. Anticipation fills the air as the boys use tongs to push and pull spuds out of the fire and pour the barely lukewarm beans into the bowls. The nonna who retrieved the spoons passes them out.

The boys are about to dig in. But the oldest in the group signals to the others to gather around. Each boy begins to spoon a portion of beans and broken bits of potato into a bowl. They throw out their fingers in “once, twice, three, SHOOT!” to appoint a  bowl carrier. The chore or the honor falls to one of the youngest.

As he walks across the yard,  he  carefully balances the bowl that now holds three spoons in addition to the food. He presents the offering to one of the nonnas and says, “You each have a spoon.”

Surprised and pleased but never expressing too much (or any) praise, each thanks the boys in her own way. “Thank you,” one says. “But you’re lucky you didn’t burn your eyelashes off.”

“This is very tasty,” another says, savoring a mouthful.”Thank heaven your mother didn’t see you almost catch your shirt on fire.”

“Thanks,” says a third. “This looks really good, but did you remember to rinse the top of the can before you opened the beans?”

The dish-bearer starts runing to his buddies — all the while, shaking his head and waving his arms in disbelief.

Boston Baked  Pork and Beans

Serves eight

• 1 pound dry navy beans
• 1 bay leaf
• Dash salt and freshly ground pepper
• 3/4-pound double smoked bacon
• 1 onion, sliced into thin rounds
• 1/2 cup molasses
• 1/2 cup brown sugar
• 3 teaspoons dry mustard
• 4 tablespoons catsup
• 5 whole cloves
• 1 sprig fresh thyme
• Dash salt and freshly ground pepper

1. Rinse beans; soak in a nonreactive casserole overnight.
2. Drain  soaked beans; add cold water to cover beans by 3 inches.
3. Add bay leaf , dash of salt and pepper; bring to boil.
4. Reduce heat; cover casserole;  simmer beans 1 1/2 to 2 hours, or until tender.
5. Preheat oven to 250 degreesF.
6. Remove rind from bacon; dice into 3/4-inch cubes.
7. Blanch bacon  in boiling water 10 minutes; drain.
8. Drain beans well.
9. To the casserole, add a layer of beans, a layer of onions, and a layer of bacon.
10. Repeat layering, ending with a layer of bacon on top.
11. Mix remaining ingredients together; pour over beans in casserole.
12. Add enough boiling water to cover the beans by 1 inch.
13. Check throughout cooking time; add more boiling water if necessary.
14. Bake 5 to 6 hours, or until beans  have absorbed most of the liquid.
15. Uncover casserole for last half hour of baking.