In the Kitchen with my Ancestors

Sicilia, non vi ho visti tutti, ma mi sono innamorata. E ritorneremo...

As of late last night, I’m back in New York, and I don’t even know what time zone I’m in.  My body is in one, my mind is—perhaps—in another. I run by the library and see two elderly gentlemen sitting on a bench near my path. Wait—maybe they’re my age? One is Black, one is White. They are drinking cans of something. Beer? They both turn to wave their unoccupied hands at me. They have similar waves.

I say good morning, though buongiorno is still in my throat; I pass them, and head towards Davenport Park. 

The beauty of travel—one of the beauties of travel—is that it helps you see things with new eyes. I look at the water, this time it’s the Long Island Sound, and not the Tyrrhenian Sea—whose warm temperatures, glass transparency, and sparkling turquoise embraced me just a couple of  days ago. Still, this morning, I’m standing before another sparkling body of water that I admire. The sky is clear. The sun is bright. I love this place, too. 

As I continue my run, my mind flashes scenes, people, dishes—the sounds—of Sicily. I imagine telling my parents, especially my dad, all about it: the opera singer on the street of Palermo, the gestures, the food, the vendors, the buildings, the sea, the sounds, the Sicilian expressions we learned.  I want to tell him, “ Now I really get it! I get you! I understand you more now.” 

I whisper the words aloud. My tears sting. 

Images of the markets also flash through my mind. Bold, strong colors. Vendors calling me to try the cherries, figs, watermelon, grapes. The vegetables—deep purple eggplants, bright bell peppers, the shapely cucuzza: Italian squash. And then there’s the prepared dishes. The pasta, pizza, and of course,  caponata: the roasted eggplant and tomato-based dish that was a staple in my home growing up, and everywhere here in Sicily—in slight variations. I think about the focus of the Mediterranean Studies Symposium, "Feeding the Mediterranean: Culinary (Re-) Inventions, Legacy, and Hospitality," and about the presentation I made, in which I shared my family's legacy: their interpretation of their culinary traditions. I now recognize that until I visited and saw—felt—all first hand, I didn't realize the extent to which the heritage of Sicily was sewn into my family's blanket. Beyond Sicilian hospitality—all-welcoming, loving, warm—it’s the feeling of belonging that was gifted to us—to my son and me. 

Now my father's voice whispers; "I told you this, Sweetheart. I knew you would love it all." 

I've finished my loop, and I'm heading back home now. While I’m running, I plan my menus—and how I’ll replicate, or attempt to replicate, the colors and flavors we sampled. I want to, as my parents did upon their return to New York from their visit to Sicily many years before, boast both the flavors and the presentation of the foods there. 

I’ve vowed to study Italian more, to keep more in touch with relatives and friends in Sicily, practice presenting my food and making the dishes I so admired, and grasping the memories so that I can pull them up as needed.  And, of course, to return—with my daughter and husband. In the meantime, I recognize: I'm in the kitchen with my ancestors. 

Sicilia, non vi ho visti tutti, ma mi sono innamorata. E ritorneremo...

Bringing the Colors--and Flavors--Back to New York

Home Fresh Tomato Recreation 

Caponata--and Some Cheeses

2024 Comes In

Paul Cézanne's Pines and Rocks 

“Notice the brush strokes—how he uses space, how nothing is wasted,” my mother says to me. I’m nine years old, and we’re at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. We’re looking Paul Cézanne’s Pines and Rocks, but move to The Bather, and she points out the lines of model’s muscular leg, and the color palette of the background.  “No wasted space,” she reiterates. This was to become her mantra in art, and in life.

In my memory, it’s just my mother and I walking through the museum. Today, I’m on my own.

My mother’s voice comes through me as I admire Van Gogh, Picasso, Gauguin, Seurat, Monet, Matisse, and Chagall. Their work swims into my eyes and triggers a pool of memories. 

Marc Chagall's I and the Village

I smile at the playfulness of Marc Chagall (I and the Village), and hear my mother talking to me about artists’ phases, stages, and senses of humor. She often spoke about process, and taking time to explore different subjects as well as styles of painting and drawing. In retrospect I realize that this—taking time to explore and try out—was also part of her modus operandi. I can see a variety of style in her paintings, illustrations, sketch books, and subjects.

I flash back to her trying to teach me how to translate what I’m looking at onto paper in the form of sketching.    Now I try to ingest in all the images I see, and transfer them into words.

I stop in front of Rousseau’s The dream.  I relish the personal space I have at that moment to approach the canvas, and focus. I remember my mother telling me that though he never went to Mexico (as he apparently claimed—thereby entitling his “Mexican pictures”) self-taught Henri Rousseau, was able, from his home in France, and thanks to his rich imagination and frequent trips to the Paris botanical gardens, to translate jungle images from his head onto his canvas.

Tears start to sting as I hear my mother’s voice again; she is proud of my recollection of the artists and their styles, her lessons, and for my taking the time to visit the museum, and ponder all. No wasted time.

Sonia O. Lisker Gargagliano 

I consider my mother’s “Mexican pictures,” which she created after spending time in Mexico—before I was born. I look at her brush strokes. And I can’t help but  notice in her paintings, many of which surround me at home, that there is no wasted space.

And so now in mid-January, we welcome 2024—and consider what we’ve done, what lies ahead, both anticipated and not.

Last year I had several goals: to dance flamenco, try new recipes—to read more, write more, and learn Italian. I still need to work on all, and I add to the list.

I can hear my father now, telling me—as he always did—that I have to take chances. (He was referring to talents and skills, not skydiving nor bungi jumping!)  Taking chances is on my list. No wasted time.

Life, after all, is precious.