Sunday of the Gnocchi

Sunday is here and as I sit on my balcony this morning drinking my coffee with the expanse of Bornenese jungle and hills spreading out below, and listening to the call to prayer from the distance Mosque , I reflect on my Sunday of the Gnocchi.

For those unfamiliar with a Gnocchi, it is a small potato dumpling served with heavy red sauce – or GRAVY (as we say in SP) . A delicious treat but so heavy that many of us in SP call them sinkers. But the expression Sunday of the Gnocchi would conjure to any South Philadelphian of Italian origin a special set of memories- the Sunday Lunch or Pranzo which centered around a special dish of Pasta -almost always home made or homemades as we say.

When I was a kid a Sunday usually began with my maternal Grandmother Maria (Mary) Mazzola Oratorio , whom we called Ma, preparing the kitchen table for the holy ritual- the preparation of the homemades. She kept for this purpose a long extremely heavy rolling pin- darkest wood and resembling the village staff of a sharman if anything. This sacred instrument was kept along side the refrigerator and the kitchen wall. So important was this stick that we were under strictest orders never to disturb it. The refrigerator, by the way, was a large heavy GE model that I don’t think every broke down in 30 years.

Ma would spread out the flour and eggs, apply pressure and the PIN, and within 20 minutes had a good amount of thick heave Pasta dough- which she then shaped as required , or added ingredients when Ravioli or Gnocchi was on the menu. I often helped with important jobs like applying the fork to seal the Ravioli or stringing the Fettuccini or Spaghetti.

The tables in SP were always strong so as to take the force of the pressure and the rolling pin- they were Homemade ready tables. My grandmother could make the finest homemade pasta- really among the finest I ever tasted. Her homemades were very rich and heavy and I have only tasted similar pasta in rural southern Italian trattorie or extremely fancy Bolognese restaurants. I think my father enjoyed her presence in our house because she could make such good homemades- making good homemades is definitely a highly respected art in SP- up there with brain surgery.

By the mid 80’s there existed a thriving fresh pasta business in SP and you could buy them anywhere and cheaply- and considering the time and effort it took to make them, many people started to buy their homemades. Often I would hear one of my mother’s lady friends tell her she had to go buy her homemades.. But how can you buy homemades- they are not homemades if they are not made in your home. But of course in SP Homemades is a proper noun that refers to fresh pasta. We could call it Fresh Pasta when we buy it- but we will always call it Homemades.

Nowadays to make Homemades you have all sorts of imported Pasta machines etc.. at the cost of hundreds of dollars. Ma only needed a table and a stick- primitive technology but producing a superior product. Mericans take note.. ( ‘Mericans for my Anglo friends means Americans , (Americani in proper Italian) , used for all NON Italians in America)

But Sunday mornings were not just the ritual of the Homemades - it was also the day of Catholic worship. Most of the old timers were basically Roman paganist with loyal devotions to the Saints and rituals of the church- and an ambivalence toward the priest as well as limited understanding of catholic theology. When the 70’s ushered in post Vatican II hideous remolded churches and polyester vestments and guitars and mismatched rituals copying ( rather poorly) the feel of a folk music bar then the millennium of Italian spiritual feeling- these old timers just kept up the novenas to St Rocca and St Jude and their rosary and paid little attention to what the priest was doing or the guitars were strumming.

Our church was the Annunciation BVM at 10th and Dickinson. As an altar boy I often served Sunday mass, and living across from the church always got me the prime time slot of 6 am or something. My family was not particularly religious but many would go to Sunday mass, especially if there was a need.. health problems, need for money or a new washing machine etc.. My paternal Grandmother Teresa Braccia (Mama) left some small donation to the church when she died , and her name was engraved on a diminutive plaque in the back of the church. I think some of my relatives only went to church to see the plaque. They must of felt like benefactors because Grandmother left a water censor. Little did they know what I knew. I who was an altar boy and knew the secrets - as the old sacristan Horace pointed out to me, there was a massive safe in the upstairs sacristy holding hundreds of cheap electroplated church ritual objects donated in memory of someone and- never used… too crass and cheap for even the post Vatican II church.


One my relatives however , was an active believer and in tune with the changes in the church. My Great Aunt Madalena, you know the Duchess’s daughter, she was a regular at the 12:15 mass and then came to our house with church bulletin in hand to discuss the theological arguments of the priest’s sermon - the quality of the ritual and the attire of the other women at the mass. As well as many other pronouncements on the events and lives of the people of the Annunciation parish. Especially important was the list of marriages, deaths and sick people to pray for.

Oh guess who died- Gepoop I knew his sister Lucy, what a shame he was so young ( he was 92)…They said to pray for Mario on 9th street he took a heart attack and is in intensive care, I saw him last week I can’t believe it…or.. Mary Calavita is getting married , they’re going to use the Venice plaza for $30 a head ( a fortune in 1971) where are they going to get that kind of money…. This was her sermon in the kitchen. My grandmother just continued to make the pasta- she and Magdalena did not get on smashing well- although it never stopped Madalena from visiting a few times a week … Live and let live that's how the old ones were.

The big event of a Sunday was the Pranzo or lunch. In Italy the main meal of the day is lunch, taken in Rome at 1:30 and Naples at 2:30 pm ( I don’t care when they eat in Miliano), and followed by a nice siesta. Even today all of Italy closes between 1-5 for the afternoon pranzo and siesta. In America that tradition was impossible to keep – so the tradition of the midday family meal was reserved for Sundays. So about 2 or 3 pm we would always sit down to the pranzo-a multi coursed meal that in a restaurant would cost a small fortune. Usually you had guest or were a guest. Of course the guest were always family or close Cumare. I don’t think we ever had a Sunday pronzo guest at 1010 Dickinson street in 30 years that was not a blood relative or cumare with the exception of one or two people.

It was like every Sunday was Thanksgiving.

The conversation at Pranzo centered around the family , and by family I mean the whole damn extended tribe. The feast lasted a good 2 hours . Then you had the post pranzo show- you would just sit at the table , drink coffee and eat cannoli and accept visits from Cumare and family after their pranzo. They would come with cakes or cookies and sit in the kitchen and continue the same conversations started earlier about Gepoop, Mario and Mary Calavita with comparative studies with other deaths, illnesses, and wedding parties.. per secular seculurum- or until the sforatelle ran out.

The men went to the living room to watch the game- this was about the only time the living room was actually used- I think they had living rooms for the day the husbands did not work -so they could leave the wives alone. The game was either Football or Baseball. Baseball was extremely important in SP and any Sunday during the season would have to include the memoirs of Harry Calas announcing the games.

Sometimes we had variety. Occasionally my dad , my Uncle Romeo and I would spend Sunday morning at Holy Cross visiting the graves of the dearly departed, and there was a hell of a lot of departed. When I would go with my Uncle it was at least a 3 hours affair- he put flowers on the graves of people who died before he was born, which was 1919! After this exhausting seek and search game you sure needed that plate of Gnocchi. Actually my Uncle Romeo knew Holy Cross better then the groundskeepers- he could find the grave of any gumba in 5 minutes. That could become a new survival game- HOLY C you work in teams and are given a list of 30 gumba graves to find as well as a few boxes of flowers , and locked in the cemetery till you deliver all the flowers- first team that gets out alive wins..

Sundays could also mean, if it was in-between sport seasons , that dad would take you to the movies- maybe the Broadway at Broad and Synder or the Savoy at Broad and Morris or where ever it was. Great features too- perhaps Frankenstein Conquers the World or Viva Las Vegas.

But what ever happened - Sunday was special to them all. How I remember the home smelling of gravy, Giuseppi Di Stefano on the Stereo singing Neapolitan songs, the windows steamed up from the cooking....some Cumare inviting themselves for Pranzo.... Al Albert’s Showcase… Larry Ferrari .. These were my Sundays of the Gnocchi.