This is another guest post from my Dad, Ron. He loves to tell stories – you can read Dad’s previous TJCC guest posts here.

You did not misread the title.

Yes, my Mom . . . that sweet little Italian lady . . . was a bootlegger.

Here is the true story:

Following World War I and into the early 1920′s (Jun 16, 1919 thru Dec 5, 1932 to be exact, the 18th Amendment to the United States Constitution prohibited “… the manufacture, sale, or transportation of intoxicating liquors within, the importation thereof into … or the exportation thereof from …. the United States and all territory ….”.

This meant: legal booze was ‘out ’.

My father and mother were married in Italy on January 6, 1920, and emigrated to the US a short time after. My sister Adeline was born about 2 years later (followed by 4 more children, my birth being the last). During this period of time, Mom took care of the house, cooked breakfasts, lunches and dinners for everyone, including the boarders living in our house, and did all the laundry by hand. The greatest gift she received years later was a washing machine!

In her abundant spare time, she made the wine, beer, and ‘bathtub’ gin, all of which she sold for about $1 a gallon for wine or beer, and “who-knows-how-much” for the gin. This process went on for a number of years.

Then one day in 1932, in the depths of the U.S. economic depression, she walked into the Peekskill Savings Bank (one of three private banks in New York State that didn’t fail), and plunked down $5000 dollars (!) to pay off the mortgage on the house.

The president of the bank, Mr. Gish, boisterously welcomed her and made sure those waiting in line to withdraw their money (for fear that the bank would fail) heard his loud comment that “Mrs. Cococcia is depositing HER money”. Well, just about everyone in town knew and trusted Mom, so most of them left their money in the accounts. Until the day he died, Mr. Gish always said that Mrs. Cococcia saved the bank from failing.

A follow-on part of the story deals with my father’s construction business. When he needed a loan for a new truck, all my father had to do was mention it to Mr. Gish who, unhesitatingly, gave him the loan and ‘took care of the paperwork’ himself, personally. Mr. Gish never forgot the good deed my Mom had done for the bank.

None of the children – my three sisters, my brother, nor I – knew about Mom’s bootlegging career path.

The Discovery

The first “clue” (and at the time we didn’t know it was a “clue”) happened at Mom’s funeral wake. One of the family friends – Mr. Aloysio – (who owned a dog that understood only Italian) – commented to me in his best English: “Ronnie, she made-uh the best-uh wine .”

I had no idea what he was talking about. My thought was he was saying the requisite nice thing about the deceased person, and it got lost in his translation to English.

About 6 months later, my brother and I were cleaning out the basement of our house. My brother found a case of beer, bottles un-opened, covered with much dust. While examining the bottles (no, the examination did not involve drinking that stuff), my father happened to walk in. My brother exclaimed: “Pop! We found a case of beer! ” My father hurriedly and immediately said to get rid of it. But my brother persisted, and my father finally admitted
it was beer our mother made, and left over from the “old days”.

He then told us the whole story about Mom and her “career” in banking; he had kept it secret all of those years so that none of the children would think badly of their mother.

Of course, all the other families knew about Mom’s bootlegging business, but they too maintained the ‘omertà ’.

And that, dear readers, was my wonderful Mom.

What family stories or traditions still live on until this day? What lesson or memory stands out the most for you?

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Laura’s note: I’m so excited to share a guest post from my Dad (Ron) on TJCC. His first blog debut was a stellar book review on Laura Reviews.  He’s a writer too, working on a few books as we speak.

In the TJCC spirit of culture and stories, I asked him to share some anecdotes about his childhood and family traditions. And when I read this and talked to him, I learned a ton about my Dad that I never knew – about the rich history of my family’s Italian traditions, my Italian heritage and that my grandmother was a bootlegger.

Even though I never had the chance to meet her, I’m glad she was groovy.

Thanks Dad – this is a great story. You rock.

—-

Growing up in an Italian family, I was lucky to enjoy and share the family’s many customs and traditions.

My father and mother were born in the small village of San Valentino in the Abruzzi region on the eastern side of Italy opposite Rome.  Like many immigrants, they came to “L’America” early in the 20^th century, in steerage class of an alleged ocean liner.  They worked hard, maintained their customs, and raised their families.

Our family of five children (two boys; three girls) lived in a two-family house my father built in Peekskill NY; the upper floor had rent-paying tenants.  On the lower floor, my brother and I shared one of the three bedrooms, and my three sisters shared one other bedroom.   There was only one clothes closet in the house  …  in my parents’ bedroom.   So:  unoccupied door knobs were precious items for hanging up what few clothes we had, first come-first served.

Sunday dinner was served at 12 noon SHARP, and included as many as four or five courses of home-made pasta, roast chicken, fresh-made Italian bread  right out of the oven, fresh salad, and the best tasting Italian desserts (The joys of a high carb diet!).

Gardens  …  in the Italian tradition

Each year, a huge vegetable garden was planted, tended, and maintained by my mother (who had an unbelievable talent also for growing beautiful roses), the garden included a tremendous variety of plantings especially tomatoes.  We ate them fresh off the vine!

Another food miracle is fresh figs.   We always had two fig trees.   Eat a ripe fig picked right off the tree, or miss a true treat.  There was a small price to pay, however:  for every winter the fig trees had to be wrapped and buried to prevent freezing.

… and Pasta … an Italian Tradition

Pasta has conquered the world!   It’s impossible to give it up.    It is one of the most common and beloved foods, and has its own regional aspect.  As far as its formats, it has a quite almost-infinite number of shapes:   for example: spaghetti, lasagna, noodles, etc.

The best pasta in the world was the spaghetti hand-made by my mother on a typical Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday – homemade pasta days.  On those days too, you woke up in the morning to meatballs being fried.  And if you were lucky, you might get one before they were put in the sauce.

My boyhood friend, Bernard, now an eminent psychiatrist in Boston. ..and also a lawyer . . . always seemed to be playing in our back yard on those three homemade pasta days.  Even he admits that his almost-Adonis-handsome-ness is attributed to “Ma’s “spaghetti.  Besides speaking nine other foreign languages, Bernie also speaks the Abruzzi dialect fluently and claims he didn’t realize he was NOT Italian until he went away to college.

Easter …  in the Italian Tradition

Every Easter when I was a boy, I looked forward to my mom’s Easter pie.  An Italian tradition, “Easter Pie”, as it is known colloquially, is a quiche-like, savory pie, filled with eggs, cheese, meat, and a variety of other possibilities.   ‘Easter Pie’ has many different names and even more recipes, depending on the province or section of Italy in question.

As a kid, all I knew or cared about was that it tasted great!   Little did I know that, decades later, I would be dissecting the intricacies of this festive preparation.

Easter is preceded by Lent, a period of time hallmarked by fasting, particularly from meat on Friday’s.   Come Easter Sunday, it was time to celebrate, splurge and indulge.   Hence, the rich, cheesy and meaty Easter Pie.

Making Wine …  in the Italian Tradition

In October, it was time to make wine.   Wine making in our house was a ceremony.

The basement of our house was a true wine cellar.   The wine grapes needed were purchased from an Italian fruit vendor (of course!).  All one needed to get started was to select and buy the grapes, a ceremony in itself.

My father’s wine-making methods were not scientific at all.  Just about everything he did was “by feel”.  Zinfandel was the red wine he made…. and it always turned out to be the right color, taste, and bouquet.

He used barrels made of Yugoslavian oak, and each year the barrels had to be filled with water so the wood could swell and the barrels wouldn’t leak.  It was difficult to clean the barrels and to make sure there were no bacteria that would ruin the wine.

For me, the most fun was crushing the grapes with our feet.   What a great feeling having all those grapes squishing between our toes.

My father seemed to know just when the fermentation process was complete.  He was always right.  Would you believe he used phases of the autumn moon as his ‘calendar’?  The barrels were then sealed snugly with a cork bung to allow the fermentation to finish, and to allow the carbon dioxide produced during fermentation to displace any air or oxygen in the top of the barrel.

Weeks later, when it came time to ‘tap’ the barrel (each containing about 50 gallons of wine); the wine was transferred to one-gallon jugs using only new screw-on caps.  This sealed the wine in a much smaller container than the barrel and made it much easier to pour into a large tumbler.

Drinking Wine …  in the Italian Tradition

As a result, I was four years old the first time I was drunk.  My father and his friend Alfonso were in another part of the cellar when I chose to emulate them by drinking the wine from a tumbler.

My father wanted to take me to the hospital, but my mother –- always the practical person –-   said “He’s drunk, he‘ll be alright tomorrow.”

Years later, I was allowed to share the ‘tapping of the barrel” ceremony. Sipping away, I commented to my father:   “Pop!  This is a good year! ”

His response was:  “Ronnie, when it comes to wine, EVERY YEAR IS A GOOD YEAR”.

Coda

Of course, I miss most of these aspects of my life. The only thing I wish was that my five children could have met their Italian grandmother and grandfather.

But, I’ve done my best to bring them to my children. Call it heritage, call it tradition, call it ‘roots’. It’s important for me to pass on these stories.

The good news: the seven of us have created new traditions. And I can only hope that my children pass on our stories to their families as I’ve tried to do for them.

What are some family traditions that have been passed down to you? How have you – or how will you – pass them on to your children?

–

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Post written by Laura Cococcia. You can follow Laura on Twitter.

I confess: I can’t cook.

Well, maybe that’s too extreme. I *can* cook if we’re referring to pouring milk on cereal, opening a can of Diet Coke or heating up a Hot Pocket.

My mother keeps trying to reform me, telling me that one day, the desire to cook will just ‘kick in’. A few previous boyfriends scoffed at my inability to create culinary delights. I simply don’t like cooking classes, even though they’re all the rage.

But rather than be someone I’m not, I have boldly gone where a few others have gone before and have made food my hobby. My favorite one.

I have now become a food nerd. I have an Excel spreadsheet of restaurants I want to try or have tried (with a rating system). I eat out almost every night – I have my regulars and often sort the Excel spreadsheet to figure out the next eating adventure.

I found my match though – my new friend Andrew has a better list and a more organized system so I am currently figuring out how to upload and sort his list to match mine. More nerd evidence.

Part of the hobby is going on food tours whenever I travel. I’ve done this in Budapest, Moscow, London and Buenos Aires. Far better than a traditional tour – one can learn about culture through food while hearing stories about the locales.

But I’ve also taken food tours where I’ve lived. I did this last year in Chicago and just recently in NYC. The Greenwich Village neighborhood food tour also served as a measure of efficiency – there’s simply not enough time in a day (or lifetime) to eat at all of the fabulous places in New York, so it was perfect to get a few delicious bites while learning about the city.

Food, history and culture, all wrapped in the Foods of New York three hour tour. I could write 75 articles on what I learned, but instead, I’ll just share a few nuggets of commentary and/or fact:

1. Long live the chocolate chip cookie. I almost passed out with excitement during our visit to Milk and Cookies. We had the signature cookie – but they even have customized cookie dough. I can’t make this stuff up.

It was heaven. Karen, our tour guide, told us that we all looked like little children sitting around the table. She also told us that it’s the good water in NYC that makes much of the food taste so good (she had a lot of good statistics to back it up).

2. Pizza in New York City = way better than Chicago. Sorry Chicago friends, but that’s just where I stand. And I’ve lived in both places. We stopped at Famous Joe’s Pizza, arguably one of the best joints in the city. According to the super smart Karen, Joe’s was also featured in “Along Came Polly.” Love that movie.

3. In 1962, the last pushcart rolled its way through Bleecker Street. Yes, that’s not really a food insight, but we learned it while sampling treats from Faicco’s Pork Store on Bleecker Street, which has been there since the early 1900s. Karen taught us that.

And the picture above? Nothing to do with food. Just an example of the cool things one randomly bumps in to while in New York – that day, we hung out with the band.

The great part is that New York offers plenty of these opportunities. And plenty of people who want to learn about culture. And who doesn’t want – or have – to eat? No brainer.

That’s what I learned and I’m glad I could share my small bit of cultural self-education with you all.

What’s your take on food? Do you learn more thought cooking or more through eating? Have you been on a food tour – what did you think? Would you like to cook for me?

I’ll bring the Diet Coke.

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