Growing Up Italian:Humble Beginnings

Growing Up Italian: Humble Beginnings

IG: @mangia.con.elena

The meaning of "La cucina povera" has evolved and has become synonymous with Italian cooking. It is used in restaurants and food establishments to describe meals that are often decadent and modernized versions of authentic Italian cooking. If you look at the history of how and when la cucina povera actually began you will see that Italian cucina povera  food is basic and simple with minimal ingredients. It was born out of necessity for survival during the Ventennio Fascista (20 years of fascisim) in Italy that spanned from 1922-1943. Italy was in the grips of poverty, rations, chaos and fear. Food was scarce and flour was impossible to get. It was much worse for the peasants and lower class who did not have the means to buy food from the "black market" which was also born out of necessity. If you would like to read a fascinating book about what it was actually like during this time then I would highly recommend the book "Chewing the Fat" by Karima Moyer- Nocchi. She interviews women who share their memories and experiences of living and cooking through the fascist regime. Through these very candid oral interviews she clarifies for the readers the true meaning of La Cucina Povera  and the world's  misrepresentation of it. For myself, this book provided me the springboard to ask my mother questions of her and my father's upbringing and understand more deeply how cucina povera impacted their own childhood experiences with food and mine and my siblings as well. I am also guilty of unknowingly calling some of the dishes I make as cucina povera, yet I now realize that these dishes were not the simple ones from my mother's childhood or from Italian history. 

My Mother's House that she shared with 13 people

So with this new awareness,  I would like to take you back into my childhood as a first generation immigrant being raised by parents who have experienced famine, fear and uncertainty. My mother tells me that they were a bit more fortunate than my father as they had a piece of land and that vegetables were available to them. They had chickens that they would use for eggs but also to trade for staples such as salt. They also had a mill grinder so they were able to make rough corn flour for polenta. They did not have wheat flour but my mother would sneak into her Nonna's house to get some when she could so that they could occasionally have pasta. My father, however did not have a garden and lived in the back of a small house in the countryside. He shared stories of eating nothing but cherries from neighbours cherry trees and foraging for berries and whatever he could find in the woods around him. He learned to hunt and he learned to navigate those hills so that he could always find his way home. He would hide in the woods when he would hear sirens and the fighter planes flew overhead or when he would hear the enemy tanks making their way into their village. He learned at a very young age how to survive in the wild. A skill that he continued to use when he made the move to Canada. 

With this new lens I now have a better understanding of cucina povera,  my parents, their humble beginning  and their deep rooted connection for respect for food. 

My parents had a garden that was their pride and joy. My dad would spend all day long in the garden from spring to late fall. Planting, pruning and harvesting. He knew every new growth, every zucchini flower and every bean. We would  be amazed at how he would know if we would sneak in there and grab a few string beans or tomatoes to eat right off the vine! They grew enough that we were able to eat vegetables  all year round. Tomatoes were prepared and jarred and ready to be made into delicious sauces that turned into sugo and many other dishes all winter long. Potatoes became gnocchi and beans were dried for future soups. He would collect the rain water in large barrels and spend all day hand watering the individual plants. He loved his garden and it was a huge source of comfort and pride for him. While he tended and lovingly grew those nourishing plants, my mother created her simple and nourishing dishes.  It was a dance for them. He would rise with the sun and over his breakfast of  jam on maritozzi or a waffle he would ask her what she wanted from the garden for that day. He would pick what she needed and she would lovingly begin her food preparation. He grew them  with love and she cooked them with love. Whatever the dish was that my mother served for us at dinner time we had to eat it. I have to admit, there were some dishes I wish she wouldn't make such as pasta e fagioli or liver. The smell of liver cooking takes me right back to that table. The pasta e fagioli because there was a dark time in our childhood when my father's mining company went on strike and for 9 solid months we ate mostly the same food over and over. My mother would make pasta e fagioli with the romano beans from the garden and I tired of it. She would add stale bread in it to keep us full for longer periods. So now you will find in most of my recipes, I substitute cannellini beans because those I love! But there were other dishes we would fight over, her rapini, cannelonni, lasagna ,pizza and so much more!

What we couldn't  grow ourselves we hunted, fished or foraged for. I believe now that my father immigrating to Canada and moving to Northern Ontario where forests, lakes and rivers are in abundance was the perfect fit for him. I have fond memories of walking with my dad in the forests. He always found a perfect walking stick and off we went. He carried a compass with him but he didn't need it. Years of experience navigating his way around the hills and valleys of his homeland taught him how to find his way back. We went mushroom and blueberry picking. We would find a good spot and my mother and I would begin picking. My mother always knew which mushrooms to keep and which to throw away. My father would leave and begin his hike. Every once in a while we would hear a whistle and my mother would respond. It sounded so far but after hours he would return. Our buckets would be full and he was content. The blueberries became muffins and cakes and loaves. They topped our cereal in the mornings and we enjoyed them all winter long. My dad saw a few bears in his travels and only once had to draw his rifle and he was incredibly sad for a long time after that.  Hunting trips with my brothers would result in rabbits and partridges that had to be cleaned and prepared. 

We ate everything we grew and raised ourselves. We would buy a half pig (a cousin received the other half) and we would spend days making sausages, prosciutto, coppa and so much more. Nothing went to waste. 

There was much respect for food and wine at our table. We celebrated the making of wine, a community affair where many would come to help and in turn my dad would go and help them. We drank a tiny bit of wine at every meal mixed with soda for the children. We never thought it strange or inappropriate. It just was.

My parents worked hard to provide us with opportunities and priviledges that they could not have in Italy. They never forgot their roots and remained humbled in their appreciation and love for their heritage. A heritage that they passed on to us in every way. Food, community and family all intertwined with the thread of respect and love for Canada and for our beautiful Italy.

Scritto con amore,

Elena💜