It Takes Strength And… Control

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Charles Atlas controlled his life. He capitalized on that ability to great physical and financial success.

Angelo Siciliano, AKA Charles Atlas

Angelo Siciliano, AKA Charles Atlas

After many years of medical practice, I concluded that there are not too many things we can control in our lives, but we should work hard at those we can. There is little we can do about our genetics, but we can do something about the following: weight, diet, exercise, care in driving, overindulgence, e. g. alcohol and drugs. And we should visit our physicians regularly for preventive care.

The man who did all of those things to great  success while at the same time educating a wide audience in good  health habits was Angelo Siciliano, a frail kid who, with his parents, emigrated from Acri in southern Italy. Overcoming his frail status with a conviction given him by those immigrant parents, he developed an innovative exercise and diet program that propelled him to world fame as Charles Atlas.

Most immigrants have that innate courage embodied in a person like Angelo. To uproot a family and come to a strange country while not being able to read or write the language is Atlas-like in itself.

It is about controlling what we can to succeed and to improve…in health and in life.

Angelo Siciliano’s life is an example to follow….the courage of adventure, understanding the unknown, overcoming it, controlling it and succeeding.

Friday Quick Quip: No Bleach

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Our daughter was not too young to enjoy going to the beach. She loved everything about it, but what she seemed to love most were her bathing suits.
One day, she was reading the label of a favorite suit and came across the washing instructions stating “No Bleach.”
Despondent, she asked her Mom,
“Why can’t I go to the beach with this suit? I love it.”

Cards With Grandpa.Nick Gianturco,Guest Author

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My grandfather, who was born in Avellino, was in the Marble business in NY (He made one of the side Altars for St Patrick’s Cathedral)
At age 80, he was hospitalized for a hernia operation.
I went to visit him and, after an hour of conversation, mostly about the current World Champion Wrestler Bruno Sammartino, he asked
“Want to play cards?”
Considering myself a great player at age 17, I jumped at the chance to flaunt my skills, so I responded with eagerness,
“Yeah. Sure!”
“OK. We’ll play Briscolla.”
I had played “Scopa,” but not Briscolla. I was clueless, but game.
“How do you play, Grandpa?” He never looked up.
He dealt us each three cards. In the Italian deck of 40 cards, the Jack was higher than the Queen (hmmm…male society?). I was at a decided disadvantage.
“Play a card,” he said. I played a three.
“Nope. No good. Bad play.”
“Why?” I asked.
“It’s only 10 points.” I was baffled.
“Try another.” I played an Ace.
“Nope. No good. Bad play. Deuce trumps.” He threw the deuce.
“What the heck was that?” I asked.
“The deuce. It beats the Ace.”
“It does?”
“Of course.”
When the game was over, I had 13 points to his 107.
“You lose. I thought you could play.”
“So did I.”
“Well, you’re not too good.”
That was Grandpa; my card playing, hospitalized friend.
Now, what the heck game were we playing?

 

The Mutoscope. Jiggs and Maggie.

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Marv called to ask if I knew what the machine in the picture was. Sure, I said. It was not a machine but rather a hand turned movie viewer from a penny arcade and it was called a mutoscope.mutoscope
I’m not sure where I first looked in a mutoscope, but my guess is that it was  at The Penny Arcade at Crescent Park, our amusement destination. Or maybe at the Arcadia Ballroom. Who knows?

The Arcadia Ballroom in Providence was first famous for dancing, then boxing in later years. I have in mind that it also became an amusement room. Nonetheless, it is now a parking lot, going the way of many iconic structures in the City.

The Penny Arcade may have been the original video game store.
Mutoscopes were coin-operated. It didn’t cost more than a penny because we had to crank the wheel ourselves. It was a “flip” book in black and white. The first “movie” I controlled was Jiggs and Maggie getting in some kind of trouble. Poking my face to the ‘scope, I viewed the lighted cards through a lens enclosed by a hood.

I controlled the speed with the handle crank, but I could never reverse it. Jiggs and Maggie cavorted through their scenes.

The next time I saw Jiggs and Maggie was in a porno (we called it dirty) comic book. I was in elementary school and Gilbert showed it to me. Wow! But that’s another story.

Friday’s Quick Quip: Lactose Wins

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When I was a kid, I loved to go to the city (“down town”) with my mother on Saturdays. One of our regular stops was the Boston Store Restaurant where I sat at the counter, twirled on a stool (hmmm) and ordered custard pie and a coffee cabinet (the RI name for a milk shake). Little did I know that I had lactose intolerance? I made my diagnosis years later when I was in medical school.
The pie and the milk shake did its number every Saturday. I jumped off the stool(hmmm).
“Mom, I gotta go.”
“Not again.”
“Yes.”
Off we went, Mom running and towing me by the hand in a hurry to the uhhhh ladies room, of course.

Guest Poet, Greg Amaral

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Greg Amaral, the son of our dear freinds, has thought about the tragedy of the bombing, and has put those thoughts into words. 

Dedicated to the victims and families of the Boston Marathon bombing.

On April 18 1775 Paul Revere kissed his beautiful bride,
Off to his stable and out for a ride,
PAUL WAS A PATRIOT SOMETHING HE REVERED WITH PRIDE

Paul set out to forewarn his brethren,
He knew the morning would turn boys into men,
Still he did ride through the night with no light,
HE RODE TO AWAKEN AN INDELIBLE FIGHT.

He saw the lanterns hang in the belfry tower,
Paul knew who was coming in that frightful hour,
He rode anyway; fear never set in,
HE KNEW HIS MISSION WAS TO READY BOSTONIANS

At this time Boston was merely a dot,
Britain well they were the cream of the crop.
A war maybe we shouldn’t have won,
THIS IS THE STORY OF HOW AMERICA WAS BEGUN.

Out of that night a superpower was born,
IT STARTED IN BOSTON, AND SPREAD OUT WITH THE MORN’.

On the anniversary of that beloved day,
Another battle would come in a different way.
On April 15 2013,
A bomb was set off followed by blood curdling screams.
Then another during that glorious race,
WHO WOULD WANT TO CAUSE THIS DISGRACE?

Why in this city? Why in this state?
Why did this happen on such a memorable date?
An attack from cowards whom nobody could see,
THIS IS TRULY A TRAGEDY.

But just as before, history will tell
BOSTON WILL THRIVE AND WE WILL BE WELL
And as for those who caused that thud,
Boston won’t sleep, until the Charles runs red with your blood.

Carter’s Little Liver Pills

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     Well, since I am on the subject of what I found in our medicine cabinet when I was a kid, let me mention a product I saw in a friend’s bathroom… Carter’s Little Liver Pills. I gave no thought to it until recently. Never knowing what they were, I did the research.
    

     Carter’s Little Liver Pills were first marketed by Carter’s Products of New York in the late 1800s as something for the liver.

Courtesy of avianflutalk.com

Courtesy of avianflutalk.com

     In 1943, the Federal Trade Commission challenged the efficacy of Carter’s Little Liver Pills. The case was resolved 1959 when a U.S. Supreme Court decision called for removal of the word “liver” from the product name; no penalty was levied against Carter.
     The company dropped the word “liver” from the product name, and it also dropped any liver claims from ads. In response, Carter’s Little Pills were born.
     The basic formulation, unchanged since its inception, consisted of 16 mg of aloe and 4 mg of podophyllum resin… basically a laxative. Competitors included Feen-A-Mint and Ex-Lax.
     During the 1960s, the company, then known as Carter-Wallace, expanded via acquisition. Its lead product, Carter’s Little Pills, began to show signs of aging, but the company continued to market it in the familiar red-and-black-labeled cylinder. Now the ads said that Carter’s Little Pills could relieve sluggishness, bloated feeling, headache and nervousness—-but only when these symptoms were due to constipation.
     Church & Dwight Co. acquired Carter-Wallace in fall 2001 and continues to market the remedy, now called simply Carter’s Laxative. The familiar logo with the big “L” still appeared on the red package.
    

How very interesting, given that I spent my career as a gastroenterologist and do not remember ever recommending this household remedy of yore.

Friday’s Quick Quip: Snare Drum

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I loved the drums. William wanted to sell me his snare.
“I’ll trow in da brushes and da sticks. See ya tamarra. Let me know.”
I looked at Dad.
“Is a snare played alone?”
“No, Dad. I want to get a bass drum and a cymbal. Maybe even a second drum.”
“Hmm…a bass, cymbal, bass and second drum. Where will you practice when you start your lessons?”
I looked around our third floor tenement. It would be difficult to muffle drum music from my grandparents one floor below, my aunt two floors below and the neighbors six feet away. The cellar was too dark, too damp and too far away.
“Maybe I should wait on the snare.”
Dad nodded. “There are other things you can do.”
My dream of playing like Gene Krupa would have to wait.

 

 

The Cobra: Mike Montigny, Guest Author

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     When I arrived at my new home overlooking The South China Sea, I was introduced to the other marines in Charlie Company, Weapons Platoon. Each had a nickname…  Hap J, Steel, Jamie and Goose. Mine was Monti.  They could not pronounce Montigny (sounds simple to me). Mike or Monti was fine.
     I toured the compound, the head (an outdoor facility with four holes and no seats), foxholes, the terrain and the barbed wire fences fronting our position. They told me of the insects, animals, snakes and rodents. Ugh!
     Most of all, they taught me how to survive in a jungle environment. They showed me where I would sleep. When not raining, we slept outside on cement slabs. If it was raining we slept in round stone bunkers, pill boxes. We napped in them before our night patrols and cooled our tired bodies during the days of oppressive heat. We had rubber mattresses referred to as “Rubber Ladies.” I set mine on the cement slab and hooked my mosquito net over it. I noticed a fourth pillbox in the distance, 40 yards from where we were standing.
     “What’s in there?” I was inquisitive.
     “That one’s nevah been used,” was the reply. “It needs work.”
      Curious, I walked to it the next day and crawled into the entrance. It was filthy bog!  As I wiggled along, I hit a wall of spider webs which I cleaned by waving a stick. I made it in, stood up and looked around.
     “Hmmm,” I thought, “This has potential.” It had a wooden bed, some shelves, places to store supplies and a great view of the bay. I cleaned it as best I could and asked if I could use this for naps, particularly when it rained.                
      “Help yourself,” said my sergeant.
      Before my first night of patrol, I decided to take a nap before entering the jungle. I fell asleep in minutes and woke in an hour. As I stretched,  I spotted something that shocked me. To my right was a huge cobra rocking back and forth and peering…. at….. me.
     “Dam. I’m screwed. What to do?”
     No one told me about cobras. I used my instincts.  I did not holler for help, I did not make any sudden moves, but I could not just lay there and take a chance of it striking me.
I thought, “If I swat it quickly and roll to the left, maybe I can grab my weapon and shoot.” Finally, I was ready for the swat.
     The cobra was fast. Suddenly it moved… turning from me in a flash and striking something in the corner.  The cobra had a rat.
       Within minutes he swallowed it and slid into a hole in the wall. “Too close,” I thought. “I’m outta here, never to return. It’s back to the living quarters for me. I’ll take my chances sleeping under the stars.”
     “Welcome back, Monti.”
     “Thanks, great to be back.”
     “Something happen?”
     “Nahhh. Just wanted to come back.”
     This was another in my list of the miraculous events that saved me. What was it? Why did that rodent show to distract the snake?  
     Was that angel over my shoulder… again?  

 

Epsom Salts anad Doans Pills

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Recently, I wondered why I saw Epsom Salts and Doans Pills in our medicine cabinet when I was a kid. Save for seeing my mother once bathe her feet in Epsom Salts, I never knew why they were there; so I looked them up on the web.
The products are still around. Here is a summary of the host of things these “wonder” preparations can do. I could not believe it.
Epsom salt, named for a bitter saline spring at Epsom in Surrey, England, is a naturally occurring mineral compound of magnesium and sulfate. Long known as a natural remedy for a number of ailments, Epsom salt makers claim a number of health benefits as well as many beauty, household and gardening-related uses.
Magnesium and sulfate are both readily absorbed through the skin; making Epsom salt baths an easy and ideal way to enjoy the  health benefits. ( I guess that’s why Mom bathed her feet in them. In fact, I think she sometimes sprinkled them in her tub bath). The salt’s purported beneficial properties can soothe the body ( and the feet, I guess).

There are many other benefits ascribed to the product, so I will go no further. Suffice it to say, the claim is that the “salt” can cure anything, anywhere, anytime… strains, stress, pain, cramps, muscle function, constipation… you name it.
It turns out that Doans Pills are a magnesium salicylate product also with miracle claims for near everything… back pain, depression, heart disease, etc.  Basically, it is a salicylate with much the same effects, and side effects, I might add, as aspirin.
So this is the story. Epsom Salts and Doans Pills in every medicine cabinet in the ‘40’s and ‘50’s. Now I know why.
My disclaimer. I am not recommending that you use either product without consulting your physician.
I am just getting to the bottom of Mom and Dad’s medicine cabinet in days of old.

Friday’s Quick Quip: Cod Liver Oil

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“See, that’s why you have to take the cod liver oil.”
Grandmother pointed to a boy with “bow” legs. This kid walked like Zippy the chimp… a wobble here, a wobble there.
“Kid,” we chortled, ”Put your legs together.” When he did, his legs bowed out like the letter “O”.
“Here. Here. Take it,” she barked.

I held my breath, pinched my nose, lined up and swallowed. Ugh…the taste a combination of burned charcoal, oil, fish and almond… bitter almond. It contained Vitamin D, the stuff that prevented us from walking like Zippy.
Oh, the kid with bow legs… rickets.  He got better because his mother gave him cod liver oil and took him to the beach.

A Day at the Opera: Mel Pops Up

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     At the Movie Theatre Saturday, we saw a marvelous performance of the Metropolitan Opera’s production of Verdi’s Rigoletto, set in 1960’s Las Vegas. The music said it all of course, but the setting in Vegas was different, clever and, frankly, worked very well.Rigoletto
     At intermission, we met Mel Zurier, who I knew would be good for a story.
     “Mel, this is a remarkable performance. And this is the first time we have experienced the Met on this format of High Definition large screen.”
     “Really. We have come for a few of them and love it. You know, I performed at the Met.” Did I detect a wry smile?
     “You’re kidding. Really?” I’m not sure why I expressed surprise. The guy is so talented and so ‘well traveled’.
     “Yes. In La Traviata and Carmen.”
     “Tell us more,” said a wide-eyed Diane. She too was intrigued.
     “Yep. I was in Carmen and La Traviata. In 1945-46, I performed with classmates Ed Burke, Don Bornstein and Mel Coleman. It was at the invitation of friend Adrianna Sciotti whose father Danilo was maestro. Oh, did I tell you it was not the Metropolitan Opera in New York?”
     “No.”
     “Well, he paused, ”It was the old Metropolitan Theatre here in Providence. Maestro Sciotti conducted the Providence Opera Company Orchestra,” he replied with the usual twinkle in his eyes. “They needed extras, and because I knew Adrianna, we made it.”
     Mel continued… there was no stopping him now. “In La Traviata, the opening scene is in a drawing room in a palatial residence in Paris where the chorus of 19th century ladies and gentlemen of fashion are drinking and singing the famous song Libiamo. 
     As extras, our role was as waiters dressed in 18th century finery and wigs. Several of us carried trays containing empty goblets while others carried empty champagne bottles, pretending to fill the glasses while members of the chorus picked up the goblets.
     At this point, a diva, making a grand gesture with her hand , knocked over one of the trays causing  the goblets to clang on the floor and roll across the stage. It seemed like it took forever for them to stop as both cast and audience were in a stunned silence. We scrambled to corral them. We had all we could do to stifle our laughter.This drew notice in the review of the opera in the Providence Journal by Bradford Swan.”
      Diane and I had a great laugh along with Mel.
     “Oh, by the way, Ed, Don and I became roommates at Harvard. Mel was best man at my wedding. Imagine the Opera and lifelong friends.”
      “Indeed,” we replied. “Imagine.”

 

Here We Go… Grammar … Again

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I read an article by Patricia t. O’Conner and Stewart Kellerman titled “Write and Wrong” in the latest issue (February 2013) of Smithsonian Magazine. They speak of going “boldly back to the origins of English grammar rules.”
They challenge, and appropriately so I guess, the rules taught to me by Miss MacDonald at Classical High School.
They write:

1. “There is nothing wrong worth starting a sentence with a conjunction” noting that the Romans did it with …”Et tu Brute.” Hmmm….Really??  Oh, save me. I took four years of Latin!
2. To split an infinitive is justified because, “You can’t split an infinitive since “to” isn’t part of the infinitive.” Really. I never knew. You know all that business of “To be or not to be…”   To has always been part of an infinitive for me.
3. And…oops…sorry, I used a conjunction…”It’s OK to end a sentence with a preposition.”  I cannot. I just cannot.

Well, Miss MacDonald, you did it. You made me a grammarphobe, a condition I cannot seem to lose, embedded forever because of all those ‘F’s” you gave me for bad grammar…dangling participles and all.
OK, let me try:

And so I said to the guy, “To confidently go through life without splitting your infinitive or dangling your participle is something to brood on…oops…preposition…think about…oops preposition…think of…oops preposition.
Forget it.  I have to go because walking down the street, I saw the mailman. Oh dear, another “F”. A dangling participle.
I’m doomed.

Friday’s Quick Quip. Golf Again

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I was intimidated by Jack when I first met him. He was a low handicapped, state ranking golfer.
One day, I saw him playing alone on the par three 10th tee at Metacomet. Though I was a beginner, I summoned the courage.
“Can I join you?”
Ever the gentleman, he replied,”Sure. Go ahead and hit.”
“Me? Hit?”
“Yes. Hit.”
“Ok.” I teed my ball, addressed it, trembled and swung while holding my breath.
Something unusual happened. The ball soared 200 yards in perfect flight, settled slowly, hit the green and rolled to the pin.
“Holy shit,” he said. “Are you just beginning the game?”
Proud of the shot, I stood tall and answered, “Yes.”
“Then take my advice. Go home… now. Don’t play for two weeks. Then, after the two weeks, throw your clubs away. You’ll never get any better.”

The Patient on the Table

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     Dr. Mario was a dear friend with a bucket full of humorous stories. For many years, he was a practicing Pediatrician in Providence. Most of his stories related to those experiences. One of my favorites was of the patient on the table.
     He relates, “I was called to make a house call on Federal Hill one evening.”
With address in hand, Dr. Mario drove to the Hill looking for the house down an alley. As he drove slowly to be sure he was in the right place, he heard a voice from above. He looked up to the third floor window.
     “Are you the doctor?”
     “Yes, yes, I am.”
     “Well, we are up here. Come along.”
     He walked the steps and entered from the hallway directly into the kitchen.
     “Thank you, thank you, Doctor. We appreciate your visit.”
     “Well,” Dr. Mario said, “Can you bring the patient to the table? I like to examine patients on the kitchen table.” As a pediatrician, he found it easier.
The family looked at him with pause.
     “On the table?” they replied, in chorus.
     “Yes, yes, on the table.”
     The son disappeared only to return in a moment carrying his mother draped in a sheet, ready to place her on the table.
     “Wait, wait,” Dr. Mario said as he peered over his glasses, somewhat stunned. “Where is the baby?”
     “There is no baby. My mother is the one who is sick,” the son replied.
     “I am Dr. Mario. Who were you expecting?”
     “Dr. DiG___.”
     “Is this not number 3 W___ Street?”
     “No, no, number 3 is the house in front. We are 31/2. When we saw your car, we thought you were for us. That’s why we called you.”
     “Sorry, sorry. You have the wrong doctor. Put your mother to bed. I need to find the other house. I am sure Dr. DiD____ will be along shortly.”
    

     And what of the poor mother who made a journey to the table in the arms of her son. I guess we will never know.

The Elderly Recruit: Mel Zurier, Guest Writer

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     As a follow-up to my grandfather’s life on the trolley cars, I offer a World War II experience he had in the early 1940″s.
     One day around noon, when grandfather was at the trolley stop, my cousin, Oscar Epstein, then in the Navy on recruiting duty and driving a GI car prominently marked “U.S. Navy Recruiting,” spied my (and his) grandfather in downtown Providence.
“C’mon, Grandpa, get in. I’ll take you home for lunch.” Grandpa shuffled in and plunked himself on the seat.

Nathan and Lena Zurier

Nathan and Lena Zurier

     Grandfather, at 90, years, walked with a cane and had a long white beard that caused many, kids especially, to think he was Santa Claus.”Tanks. I was getting tired.”
     When Oscar, wearing his Navy uniform, stopped for a red light, an on-duty police officer looked inside to see my grandfather, flowing beard, cane and all, with Oscar in the car marked “U.S. Navy Recruiting.” 
     “Gee, Sailor,” the somewhat startled policeman blurted, “You guys must really be hard up for recruits!”
     “Funny,” Oscar said. “But he would be an inspiration, I’ll bet.”
     “I’ll bet,” replied the police officer. And off they went.

Jeanne Again. More Memories.

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Mom was an independent woman; a nurse who stalled her career  to raise my brothers, sister and me.
On their wedding day at St, Lazarus’ Church, East Boston 1941, Dad spotted an old friend as they walked down the aisle after the ceremony. Mom had never met him. Dad stopped.
“Hey, Joe, how are you? Meet my wife, Ann. This is the woman who I’m going to take care of for the rest of our lives.” Mom dug her heels into the marble.
In a voice that was octaves above a stage whisper, she blurted, “I can take care of myself, thank you.”
Dad stiffened, Joe hung his head, and the crowd was silent. It was the beginning of Mom asserting herself. It never ended throughout their long marriage.

When I was 6 and my sister 8, we were charged with minding two-year old brother, Charlie. My sister had the brainstorm, if that’s what you call it.
“Let’s walk to grandma’s house.”
Grandma lived in East Boston. We lived in Chelsea; quite a distance away. Mom had always driven us.
“We can tie Charlie to the fence so he won’t wander. C’mon, c’mon. Let’s go! The yard is fenced in. He can’t get out anyway.”
I didn’t ask any questions. After all, she was two years older.
We started our trek. Hours later, after passing Bell circle in Revere and the Suffolk Downs race track, we arrived.
Grandma, surprised to see us, asked “Where’s your mother?”
“At home.”
“How did you get here?”
“We walked.”
She called Mom. “Your daughters are here. They walked. I’ll drive them back.”
“No you won’t,” said Mom. We could hear her voice over the phone. “By the way, do not give them anything to eat!”
Grandma ushered us out the door. “Hurry along. Your Mom is waiting.”
We arrived after dark and were sent to bed… no supper of course. That was our last walk away from home for a long time. Charlie? Charlie was fine, but I don’t know how and never asked.

Brother Nick was the favorite-oldest child, a son in an Italian family.
He went to NY often to see my grandparents, and when my grandpa Gianturco (Dad’s family from Brooklyn) came to visit and took Nicky on the train, the conductor asked Nick how old he was.
He replied “Not yet five.” (At age five, there was a charge for the seat).
Grandpa was so proud that little Nicky knew how old he was… “not yet five.”
Nicky continued to use that line until he was ten!

After grandmother passed away, my grandpa came from NY to live with us. Mom and Dad went on a vacation for two weeks and left me and Nicky in charge of the meals.
We made macaroni every night… all kinds… with butter, peas, lentils, beans, gravy (tomato sauce) and then we started over again. When my parents returned, mom asked grandpa, “Pop, what would you like for dinner?”
“Anna”, he groaned, “Anything but macaroni!”
That was the first time our gentle grandfather complained. The only thing he said to me was, “Jeanne, you should be a cook at the Waldorf Astoria.”

Mom is Memorable. Jeanne Jaroszewski Gianturco, Guest Author

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I received this note from another Gianturco, Jeanne. The Gianturcos seem to have a trove of wonderful memories, and here are some of hers.

My brothers Nick and Charlie have spoken of you often. Your first book, “Growing up Italian” reminds me so much of my Mom.  Your writing helped to ease her last year in a rest home as we read some of your stories. She related to so much in it.  We took turns reading; she one paragraph, I the next. She giggled at the Easter chicken story and smiled at how your grandfather buried the fig tree.

After we read “Sunday at the Beach,” she paused to tell me of her family’s Sunday trips to Shay’s Beach (now Wood Island Park), in Orient Heights, East Boston. Her Dad, Tony Marino, boiled the macaroni on wood fired grills on the beach.  Mom was an avid reader, but by her early 90′s, she slowed down quite a bit.  She looked forward to our reading sessions and asked me to write her name in the book and to leave it for her to read to the other residents. 

I also have your book on my nightstand now, where it will remain as a reminder to the good old days and the current ones with my Mom. All of this has triggered many memories for me. I trust you will find them as amusing, familiar and sentimental, as did I. Here is one of them.

Mom was the third of 12 kids, four of whom were girls. One night at dinner, grandpa sent her to the basement to siphon out some of his wine from the barrel.  After waiting for what he thought was for too long, he then sent her younger brother to get her.  Siphoning out much more than she could lift, she stalled at the beginning of the stairs, huffing and puffing. So her brother helped. “What were you doing down there?” asked grandfather. “Getting the wine.”

“Why so much?”

“This is the jug I found, so I filled it.” (Mom was responsible). Grandpa could not believe it. She had a jug filled with enough wine to quench ten people.

“Va bene, Va bene,” he said. “Good job.” It was so good that he never asked her again. He was in much more of a hurry for his wine at mealtime.

Friday’s Quick Quip. Confused About Pies

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Mom and her sister Vera had difficulty hearing as they grew older. Here is a phone conversation after Aunt Vera brought my Mom some pies.

Mom: “Vera, where did you get the pies?”
“Holy Ghost Church.”
“Holy Ghost Church? When did they start selling pies?”
“Who?”
“Holy Ghost Church.”
“Didn’t you ask me where I got baptized?”
“Oh my God, Vera. Have you hearing checked!”
“What?”
“What? Call me later.”

Fiddlehead Ferns Time…Again

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     I love fiddlehead ferns and  think of them at this time of year when they begin to sprout. The fiddlehead fern is the first green vegetable in the early spring and is unique to our New England area. I first had them at a little restaurant in Vermont some years ago.

     Diane buys them at the local Stop and Shop, but they can be found in the woods by foragers who keep the secret of their location much like a mushroom picker might.

     Fiddleheads are so named because they look like the carved wood on a violin when the shoot is unfurled.

    When they open and grow, they are inedible, but curved like the violin head, they are delicious. Diane simply serves them sautéed in olive oil with a little garlic. She sometimes adds mushrooms which bring out their unique forest flavors. The taste is similar to broccoli rabe.

With Italian bread…..ummm…..what a treat!!