- Rita Watson: Visits with Grandma made delicious memories – Published 2/21/2015 in Entertainment & Life
Memories of celebrations at Grandma and Grandpa’s big house on the water still bring a smile to my face. They lived at 221 Beach St., which had a large wraparound porch and a widow’s walk at the top. As I was going through our photo albums on a snowy weekend, I came across a photo of my second birthday. At the top of the stairs, there stood three Italian matriarchs with Grandma in the center. My mother, with her long black hair, was seated in front of her. And I was centered on the first step surrounded by seven mothers and eight children smiling.
The photo was framed by four white columns. And when I think of our life there, I can almost see the stories unfold as we walk up the stairs, past the columns and into the parlor from the double doors. However, when growing up, we never had to open the doors ourselves – Grandma was always there to greet us.
When our parents were traveling, I lived there. But when they were home, Dad would drive me to “The Water House” and the moment we rounded the bend along the ocean, he would toot the horn of his station wagon in rhythmic fashion to announce our arrival.
Grandma would open the doors and walk down the stairs, a vision in white. Over her flowered cotton housedresses she always wore a large baker’s apron. Her hair, face, and apron were often covered in flour. “Come to Grandma,” she sang. And as I hugged and kissed her, I still remember a flour cloud forming as I nestled into her arms.
As always, Grandma had been in the kitchen making pasta and cooking fresh tomatoes to smother her ravioli. Yet, her large pantry was always festive with an array of sweets from biscotti to miniature pastry. By the time I was a teen, she liked to bake my two favorites, Sfogliatelle, a clam- shaped phyllo dough pastry filled with sweet ricotta and Bocconoti, an oval shaped piecrust-type pastry filled with chocolate custard.
As March approaches, I am reminded of another favorite pastry, the zeppole. It was made just once a year for the Feast of San Giuseppe, March 19. That was the one day in the year that Grandma would leave her own kitchen to help Grandpa at his pastry shop. Because the zeppole was delicately fried, drained, and then filled with cream and a cherry, many hands were needed to make fresh batches and accommodate the lines of customers.
When asked why she would work so hard that day, Grandma always said: “In Italy today is also Father’s Day. I am here to honor my husband and St. Joseph.”
Rita Esposito Watson, also a PsychologyToday.com columnist, is writing “Italian Kisses: Gram’s Wisdom.”