Jim Dandy to the Rescue

"My advice to you is not to inquire why or whither, but just enjoy your ice cream while it's on your plate." -Thornton Wilder

There are few greater joys in childhood than when your parents announce the family will be going out for ice cream that night. Immediately, visions of combinations of flavors and toppings flood your head like sugarplums on a sleepy Christmas Eve. Oh, the wondrous, endless possibilities. You dream of multiple scoops with multiple sauces, topped with whipped cream and a cherry. You even venture to imagine what it would be like to order and consume the Stanley Cup of ice cream sundaes: The Jim Dandy.

Five scoops of ice cream, marshmallow, strawberry, and chocolate topping, walnuts, bananas, sprinkles and whipped cream served in a massive goblet. A confectionery paradise that my siblings and I would clamor for any time my dad would agree to take us to Friendly's. We'd pile in the back of the car - four of us crammed in, dreaming of Jim Dandy's frozen goodness, vocalizing our wishes.

 Until...

"YOU"RE NOT GETTIN' A F*CKING JIM DANDY."

My dad had the ability to go from zero to maniac in less than six seconds. More like three. That's how little time it took him to crush our chilled dreams and dash our ice cream spirits.

"IT'S TOO MUCH. YOU'LL NEVER FINISH IT."

Ok... but do you have to yell like a madman? Ice cream was YOUR idea, crazy person. Excuse us for getting excited. Of course, we'd never say these things out loud, out of fear of a solid smack from Mr. Not-so-Softee. We'd end up getting a scoop or two. Maybe one topping. Two max. While DAD got a Jim Dandy. The hypocrite.

This little passion play took place so frequently that it has become part of my dad's legend. So for the first time, My Director and I decided to perpetuate that legend, and took Peanut for a Jim Dandy on Saturday.

She approves of this obnoxious concoction.

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#SundaySupper Christmas Eve Crab Cakes

Crab cakes with dip, shrimp salad,
scungilli salad, stuffed mushrooms

Christmas Eve is the big tradition in our family. It's more important than any other holiday, even Christmas itself. We do a modernized version of the Italian feast of the seven fishes. My family - my mom, my siblings, and I - are a rare breed: full-blooded Italian-Americans. None of my first cousins can make that claim. So Christmas Eve - our tradition - is a big deal.

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The Song That Officially Means It's Christmas

There is a song that I have to hear to officially mark the beginning of Christmas season. Our tree may be up, our halls may be decked, our presents may be purchased and wrapped, but if I haven't heard this song yet, it just doesn't feel like Christmas. And in this digital age when you can play whatever song you want with the click of a mouse or a spin of a wheel, I don't cheat. It needs to happen naturally, like when I was growing up. It has to come on the radio. (Or Pandora.)

A few years ago, I didn't hear it until the morning of Christmas Eve while I was riding around town running last-minute errands. I called My Director, put her on speakerphone, and made her listen along with me. With tears in my eyes I sat in the driveway and listened to rest of the song, singing along hysterically.

Why did we not own this growing up? No idea.

It's Santa Claus Is Comin' To Town by Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street Band.

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Mulled Wine: Spiked and Steamy for Christmas #SundaySupper

For several years, we made this glogg ("mulled wine" for easier reference) for our families' Christmas Eve and Christmas celebrations. It's warm, festive, strong, and delicious. Always a crowd favorite. We first had it at a friend's Christmas party and loved it. We haven't made since Peanut arrived. But this week's #SundaySupper theme reminded us of it, and we'll be sure to make it for our Christmas Eve celebration this year. It's really simple, and a lot of fun.

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Comfort and Joy

A long time ago, even before My Director was around, I started a collection. This collection has turned into somewhat of a tradition. But like some traditions, it may be time to retire this one. Pretty much everywhere we go, I insist on getting a shot glass as a memento. Even though my days of chugging Rumple Minze two ounces at a time are long behind me, we have dozens of them:

How COOL is that Nashville one?

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: If a Tree Falls in the House

Some unexpected traffic on the bus ride home meant I would be a little later than normal. So I texted My Director with some basic instructions on how to get dinner started. This way, I could get a jump start on cooking as soon as I got home:

"Can you put some water on for brown rice and heat the oven to 350 please?"

I was planning to make pan-seared tilapia over brown rice with baked Brussels sprouts and bacon. Yum. Her response was quick, and unexpected:

"Our tree fell over. Have to deal with that right now."

I have to admit, I laughed a little when I read that. Have to deal with that right now? Ya think? A classic line from my straight man. When I got off the bus, a stunned Peanut met me at the corner. "Daddy, you're NOT going to believe this." She escorted me inside. My little girl was beside herself. But not because of this:

Yes. That's My Director working on the tree
while I snap pictures for the blog. Priorities.

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Our Monster House

My Director and I host Christmas Eve. That's a big deal in my family. But Halloween is still our favorite. Before Peanut - hell, before marriage - we'd have an annual Halloween bash complete with gummy worms soaked in vodka and a witches' cauldron filled with a very spiked punch.
Those parties were epic, man. Punctuated by the year - our first in our condo - that two people in those crazy inflatable costumes had a breakdancing competition right in our living room:

Inflatable Breakdancing Hilarity

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Christmas in July

The song leaked from the backseat like the creak of a loose floorboard on the steps of my childhood home. Familiar but eerie. Comfortable, yet at the same time, jarring. It was Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy from The Nutcracker Suite. But this, after all, is July.

Peanut was playing with the iPad as we waited in the swagger wagon at the train station for My Director. This is our routine. I bring the iPad and she plays with one or two of the many apps that live in the folder marked with her name. Usually she plays a memory game or spelling game. So when I heard that song, I turned around with a smile:

"Why are you playing a Christmas game?"

"Because we don't have any summer ones, daddy."

Duh. Stupid of me for asking. So with that app, she made this for Santa:

Whimsical and festive

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So This is Christmas

A week after my daughter was born, I wrote her a letter. I used a word to represent each letter of the alphabet. Each word is an action I hope she chooses to take during her life. Here's what I wrote for the letter "O:"

Observe. Observe traditions, like eating seven fish on Christmas Eve... traditions are a huge part of who you are, and where you came from. Learn them. Appreciate them. Make them your own. Maintain them, while making changes to fit the times. That will make passing them on even more special.

I wrote that more than four years ago. It's still true. It's come true. And will always be true.

Christmas Eve is the holiday for many Italian-Americans. More important than Christmas. It goes back to the old country. And my family is no exception. Our tradition, what makes this event so special, is the seven fishes (yes... it's fishes. This is one of the few instances where I will allow a grammatical mistake.)

We eat seven fish on Christmas Eve. But to tell you the truth, we don't really know exactly why. We're funny that way. Some say it represents the seven Sacraments of the Catholic Church. Some say it's the seven deadly sins. Others argue the seven days it took Mary and Joseph to get to Bethlehem. Then there's the seven hills of Rome theory, and the seven winds of Italy one.

I like to think of the Biblical significance of the number seven: three for the divinity plus four representing earth. Seven is the perfect number, representing Christ on Earth. I'm not super religious, but this is the explanation I prefer.

Regardless, on Christmas Eve, we eat.

My parents made Christmas

My parents made sure Christmas Eve was always special. The fish and the gifts and the memories. Ah, the memories... not all of them fond. You see, we're no Norman Rockwell family. We have our warts just like everyone else. There was the year my niece screamed bloody murder because we had skipped a part in the Nativity play she was producing (I was Joseph and my performance was spot on.) There was the year one of my sisters nearly choked to death on a fish bone, requiring the Heimlich Maneuver (the downside of eating nothing but fish). There was the year my dad got irrationally angry and threw a fit because there was only hazelnut coffee made. (that's genetic.... hazelnut makes me mad too.)

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A Big Farewell to Clarence Clemons

"When the change was made uptown and The Big Man joined the band, from the coastline to the city the little pretties raised their hands." -From "Tenth Avenue Freeze Out"

I was planning on publishing my intended Father's Day post now. Instead, I am compelled to share my thoughts on the passing of Clarence Clemons, the legendary saxophonist for the E-Street Band. The Father's Day one will come tomorrow.

I write this with tears in my eyes, for I feel like a friend of mine has passed away. I feel like a part of my childhood is gone. Although his legacy will live on in his music in whatever form I own now and in the future, I am still going to miss The Big Man.

I was born and raised in New Jersey. I grew up listening to Bruce Springsteen. Although it was more by osmosis than anything else. My parents weren't Springsteen fans. Having grown up in the 1950's, their era precluded Bruce. My brother and sisters were more into The Grateful Dead, James Taylor, and some others. But I picked up Bruce anyway. Thank goodness.

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Happiness Is Being Italian

"Life is a combination of magic and pasta." - Federico Fellini


Picture it... Sicily... 1955...

Remember the "Golden Girls?" Estelle Getty's character would always regale her friends with anecdotal stories from her homeland? With all due respect to Sophia Petrillo, not all stories of Italian pride have to take place in the Old Country.

There we were, the three of us, enjoying Sunday dinner as a family just like the countless times I remember growing up. The one difference: it wasn't three in then afternoon. The peanut in her highchair, pulled flush against the dining room table, flanked by me and my wife. All of us with a heaping, steaming, sweet-smelling bowl full of Italian goodness sitting in front of us: rotini, ravioli, pecorino, sausage, garlic.

It was arguably the best pot of gravy I had ever made.

It's called "gravy" when you add meat to it

I watched as my daughter shoveled bite after bite after bite into her mouth, without hesitation or negotiation. She was happy, dancing, humming. I wasn't focused on eating my own dinner because I was getting so much enjoyment out of watching my daughter eat hers. I turned my attention back to my own plate, looked down, and just shook my head. In amazement.

"What's wrong?" asked my wife.

"Nothing," I said. "I'm just content."

It was then I realized that my favorite thing about myself just may be the fact that I am 100% Italian-American. We are a dwindling breed. None of my first cousins can even claim that distinction. Neither can my daughter.

There are people out there who hear "Italian" and picture a loud, crude, mafioso slob. I'm not offended by these people. I feel sorry for them. What offends me as an Italian-American is that Olive Garden, Ragu, and Chef Boyardee attempt to pass themselves off as genuine Italian cuisine.

Don't get me wrong, I mean no disrespect to those of you whose ancestry can not be traced back to the country shaped like a boot. Italian-Americans wear a certain badge of honor. And I'm not talking about the jewelry those guidos who walk the Boardwalk in Seaside Heights wear around their necks (They offend me too).

I told my wife that Sunday pasta dinner will now become a tradition in our home, just like when I grew up. The pot of gravy will forever become a simmering fixture on top of my stove. This is what's in our blood. This is what has been passed down from generation to generation.  I am perfectly content being the one to pass it along to my daughter. Even though she's only half Italian.

Nobody's perfect.

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