Elissa Petruzzi

Turkey, Antipasto and Martha Stewart

The Petruzzi/Bongiorno/Leto/Grasso Clan Photo courtesy of Carmen Petruzzi

Shuffling down the stairs at 8 a.m., my pink-and-white-polka-dotted fuzzy slippers insulating my feet from the freezing wood floors, I follow the turkey aroma toward the kitchen, blearily half-acknowledging the giant Garfield balloon floating along the television screen in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. I find my parents chopping garlic in the kitchen and my brother hunched over a cookbook. He's holding a pastry bag in one hand and a carrot in the other, a befuddled expression on the engineer’s face. “We never should have gotten her this book,” he said.

The epic, “Martha Stewart's Hors d'Oeuvres Handbook,” seemed like a good present for my mother at the time. A culinary expert in all foods Italian, my mom’s Thanksgiving antipasto is the scene-stealer for the whole holiday’s five-hour, four-course meal. Why not let Martha lend a hand with some new ideas?

Except, Martha’s recipes prove to be well out of the realm of the ability of my mom's kitchen staff: my father, brother and I. “It should look like this,” my mom said, hand on one hip, the other pointing at the impeccably dressed vegetables in the book. “Yeah, right,” we snorted, rolling our eyes. My dad turns away from the discussion, hoping to get out of helping with the highly technical procedure. As my Mom turned her attention back to the turkey I hissed at my brother, “You’re never picking out a present for her again!” 

***

The pent-up aggravation from ensnarled traffic jams and the rising tolls my brother and I endure driving home from Washington for the holiday weekend always melts away at the first sight of my Mom’s impressive Thanksgiving table. Meanwhile while my aunt, uncle and cousins battle southward from Brooklyn, also in pursuit of good food.

Me with the offending vegetables

Photo courtesy of Carmen Petruzzi

Never mind the turkey-shaped candles we often fail to light, pitying the wax fowls, or the cornucopia-decorated tablecloths. It’s the bowls of mushrooms stuffed with broccoli rabe, the  marinated mushrooms, the green olives, the black olives, the artichoke hearts, the stuffed artichokes, the stuffed peppers, the sausage bread, the pepperoni, the fresh mozzarella, the smoked mozzarella  – all foods that make any self-respecting third-generation Italian girl’s stomach grumble – that bring the holiday spirit home for us, making the annual journey to Princeton, N.J., always worthwhile.

Like any Americanized immigrant family, the holidays also showcase generational disputes and serious lifestyle confusion. My dear Grandpa Pasquale, who I like to call for gardening advice, doesn’t really understand why I live in Washington, D.C., unmarried and childless at the ripe old-age of 27. “I just want you to have someone to go to the movies with,” he tells me, before offering an aside to my dad, “This never would have happened if you hadn’t let her go away to college.”             

My undergraduate years at the University of Michigan befuddled the whole family, the Wolverine state seeming so far away and foreign that the only thing any of my several cousins Joe ever asked me was, “So, it gets pretty cold there, right?” My Grandma Mary branched out from that line of questioning: She wanted to know if I had met any boyfriends.
          
I myself enjoy taunting one of the cousins Joe for still living at home at age 29. “Thinking of moving out?” I’ll sneer, while he volleys back, “Enjoy paying rent?”   

Meanwhile my Uncle Mike, a traffic officer in Manhattan, shouts his political views from the other end of the 12-person table, this year choosing to voice his approval of Iraqi insurgent tactics.

Mom, Dad and Turkey Photo by Elissa Petruzzi

 “Beheading! That’s the way to go! Show ‘em who’s boss!” he shouts, while slapping the table with his hand for emphasis.

But age, cranberry-flavored cocktails and some provolone-stuffed peppers have softened them in my eyes. I no longer feel angry at what I perceived as ignorance as a teenager. Instead I now remember the way my Uncle Mike was the first to go looking for my father in the decimated rubble of the World Trade Center on Sept.11, and how my Grandpa was anxious to visit my Mom in the hospital this summer during a particularly bad bout of pneumonia. Even the cousins Joe, who I might never see eye to eye with, make an effort that seems to come with age. The rent-hating Joe, verbal sparring done, looks at me, holding a poorly decorated veggie in his upheld hand. “Hey Elissa, cool veggies.”  
           
Maybe Martha knew what she was doing with that book after all. 

Copyright © 2005 Elissa Petruzzi
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