Mangia!

"Mangia!" Eat!

My Italian grandmother would begin every meal with this announcement. Being predominantly of Italian heritage, I was raised to believe food feeds the soul. Somebody sick? Whip up a batch of nice soup. Sad? Fix their favorite cake or pie. Special occasion? The possibilities are endless. And the comfort food....

Grandma's annual visits to visit us always meant a trip to the Pike Street Market for some serious food shopping. Fresh meat from the butcher to make meatballs; fresh squid from the fish monger; and to this day the smells in deLaurenti's store fill my head with warm memories of time spent with my mother and grandma, who both passed away many years ago. But my favorite memories are those involving Pasqualina Verde. PV was a short stocky old Italian woman who had a produce stand in the Market. She would light up when she'd see us and would greet my grandma with a kiss on her cheek. The smell of fresh basil in her stand was heavenly. To my entertainment, Pasqalina and my gram would speak in Italian and she would always send us home with a lot more fresh goodies than we paid for.

My grandmother rarely used a written recipe; everything was in her head. One food in particular has become a tradition in my own family, although I have no idea how to spell it. I've never seen it in a cookbook, and my pronounciation of the name may not even be correct. When having guests for dinner I'm often asked to prepare something 'authentic'- not the typical lasagna, spaghetti, pizza, or calimari that have become Americanized over the years. When our kids come over to visit, they always ask me to make this food.

I don't even know if I'm making it right anymore. Because the recipe was never written down, I'm sure it's evolved since my grandmother taught me how to make it. A few years ago my husband and I paid our first ever visit to South Philadelphia, the home of my grandparents and great parents; the birthplace of my mother. As we walked from shop to shop in the open air market, I'd stop in and ask the proprietor if he'd ever heard of this wonderful food that my grandma used to make, but nobody seemed to know what I was talking about. Finally, I went into this butcher shop and asked again. The clerk said he didn't know, but "Louie's been here forever; he probably knows." He went into the back to fetch Louie (who was as old as dirt) and I began my explanation all over again. I was expecting another dead end, but to my surprise and in spite of my poor pronunciation, Louie's face lit up. He said, "yes! It's made with savoy cabbage!" I asked Louie why I couldn't find a recipe for it. He replied that I would never find a recipe for it, and making a gesture by pinching his fingers together and touching his chest he added "because it comes from the heart".

I've since written down my version of the recipe and have taught my own kids how to make it. I don't know how much it compares to my grandmother's, but at least the tradition of making it remains alive and well in our family. It's Italian comfort food at its best; and there's not a piece of pasta or a single tomato in it. In my Anglicized Italian, I call it "aveds".