Part 6 (1/2)

I was in my late twenties and already living in Texas when my mother drove to a fancy mall in Stamford, Connecticut, one afternoon to sit in on a cooking cla.s.s given by Jamesie himself. She came home bubbling and talked for an hour on the phone about her wonderful afternoon. Better yet, Jamesie had, when asked, been able to recommend a new Italian cookbook, recently published, that was nothing like the standard red-sauce wonders that had defined Italian cooking in the United States up until that point.

The book was Marcella Hazan's The Cla.s.sic Italian Cookbook The Cla.s.sic Italian Cookbook, which eventually became the best-selling Italian cookbook in the United States. My mother bought two copies on the spot, one for herself and my father, and the other for me. We devoured Marcella's book and its recipes like no other cookbook before it, and Marcella in no time supplanted all others in our family pantheon of kitchen G.o.ds. ”Marcella says . . .” became our creed.

I actually met Marcella in Dallas a couple of years later, when she gave a cooking cla.s.s at a new Williams-Sonoma store, and I dutifully presented her with my heavily stained copy of her first book to autograph. Marcella was happily shocked to find I had a first edition of her book, which had sold badly under its original publisher. And she was touched to learn that our Jamesie, her friend and colleague, James Beard, had been quietly promoting her behind her back.

A few years later, after my move to Rome, I called Marcella to ask if I could interview her for a story for United Press International's feature wire while I was in Venice covering a medical conference. Wire service reporters often were forced to cover deadly boring stories, from taking dictation on the results of a Russian-Italian track meet to covering the summer visit of some Podunk mayor who had found his way to Europe. To have been invited into Marcella's Venetian kitchen, to have watched her cook up a lovely lunch for me, which she then served on her terrace, to have a couple of hours in which to talk food and drink with my family's favorite cook, in her own kitchen, more than made up for all the evenings of my life that I had spent with a heavy, black phone receiver scrunched between my neck and shoulder, and typing Russian names, letter by letter, hour after hour, from some beer-fueled sports stringer, ”Medvedev, M for Mary, E for Edward, D for David, V for Victor . . .”

Julia's creation story, not surprisingly, also centers on food. Within a few weeks of her birth, John's postpartum crisis melted away more quickly than I ever would have expected. As summer approached, we could not wait for Peter and Anna's visit and Julia's introduction to Trevignano. John, for all his stated fears about reentering fatherhood, was already completely at ease around her and loved to sit with her on his shoulder, singing all the nursery songs he had sung to Peter and Anna when they were small. From her earliest days she visibly relaxed whenever she was nestled between his broad shoulder and slim neck.

About the time that Julia turned four months old, her pediatrician told me that she was ready to be introduced to solid food. In teaching Julia how to eat-which I felt was one of the most fundamental parts of teaching her how to live-I was bent on breaking the mother-daughter eating game my mother had started playing on and off soon after I was born. My mother used to say that when I was three or four I did not like to eat. Family lore says the only two things I gobbled down back then were homemade chicken soup with tiny stars of pastina, and black olives, the latter preferably eaten in tens, a pitted one stuck onto the tip of each finger.

My mother was certain it was her own bad eating habits that had caused her ”nerves”; she did not want me to end up like she had: skinny, anxious, depressive. Convinced that food and a healthy appet.i.te were the answer to mental and physical health, she took to feeding me a thick, dark brown viscous ”tonic” twice a day for several months, before breakfast and supper. I still remember gagging it down until when I was about five that ugly brown bottle finally disappeared for good. My own healthy appet.i.te and naturally fast metabolism-inherited from both my parents-must have kicked in at about that time, for my mother never felt the need to push food on me again until after I had left home for college.

Once I left, every phone call, every letter my mother ever wrote me, and she wrote unfailingly, hundreds of letters over the years, mentioned food in some guise or other. She would tell me about a dinner party she and my father had thrown, detailing each of the dishes they had made for their guests. She would send me new recipes she had discovered, old recipes I had requested. Many of her phone calls and letters, written in the rounded, Palmer-method hand of her school days, ended with the admonition, ”Eat more, and pray.” And every time I returned home-from college, from Texas, from England, from Spain, from Italy, Poland, or Germany-it was always the same: my mother eyeing me slowly from top to bottom, followed by the inevitable judgment, ” Too skinny, you look like h.e.l.l,” even if I had not lost an ounce since I had last seen her.

From college onward, once I was out of the daily orbit of my mother's kitchen, pus.h.i.+ng food on me became a bad habit she developed, a way to rea.s.sert the control over my life that she knew was slipping away. Meal after meal, year after year, in my late teens and early twenties, I declined to play her game. Ours was a tango I most definitely did not want to pa.s.s on to my own daughter. Force-feeding might work for geese, I thought, but not for children. I wanted mealtimes without the background music of a mother's voice, wheedling or insisting, ”More? Just a little. A mouthful. Can't you finish this last bit?”

At the same time, though, I wanted Julia to enjoy her food the way John's family and mine all did, to like most foods, to enjoy trying new things, to approach a table three times a day with a sense of pleasure. ”Don't smell it, eat it!” was the standard line John's father would use whenever any of his four boys exhibited the slightest sign of turning picky at table. His mother's version of that same line, ”Food is not meant to be smelled, it's meant to be eaten,” also warded off potentially finicky behavior. To this day there is almost no food these four brothers don't enjoy.

Similarly, I wanted to encourage Julia, as my mother had encouraged me, to listen to her stomach, and to think about what it was her body might ”need” to eat. I wanted her to understand wool-eees wool-eees and I wanted her to respect them. Both John and I grew up eating the food our parents made for the family as a whole, and neither of us believed that children's food should be different from adult food; once she got physically old enough to eat anything, I wanted Julia to eat what we ate night after night. I was not about to overturn our eating habits for Julia, nor was I planning a second career of making special meals on demand. I wanted Julia to climb aboard our family's established food wagon, not hitch our wagon to hers. and I wanted her to respect them. Both John and I grew up eating the food our parents made for the family as a whole, and neither of us believed that children's food should be different from adult food; once she got physically old enough to eat anything, I wanted Julia to eat what we ate night after night. I was not about to overturn our eating habits for Julia, nor was I planning a second career of making special meals on demand. I wanted Julia to climb aboard our family's established food wagon, not hitch our wagon to hers.

I expect every country has its own prescribed method of weaning. Italy, which keeps to its historical food traditions perhaps more than most developed nations, certainly had a straightforward, step-by-step system for how and when to introduce solid foods to babies, never before four months. I still have the typed single sheet of feeding instructions, t.i.tled ”The Stages of Weaning,” which the pediatrician gave me as Julia approached that four-month milestone.

The pediatrician suggested mas.h.i.+ng a single slice of banana to see whether she was ready to move beyond formula. From her eagerness to eat that first spoonful of banana, given in the warm morning suns.h.i.+ne of our wisteria-covered terrace in Trevignano, it was clear Julia was more than ready. But the doctor warned me that I must never introduce another new food until the baby had eaten the first one-and showed no ill effects from it-three days running. The slow addition of new foods, the doctor said, meant that potential allergies could be quickly pinpointed.

The pediatrician's instructions started Julia off with plain, unadulterated, raw fresh fruit, grated, mashed, or whipped in a food processor, at four to five months (but never an orange before she was two or three years old). At five months, Julia moved on to simple vegetables, boiled or steamed: carrots, potatoes, zucchini, tomatoes, celery or lettuce, Swiss chard-but never spinach-followed by simple infant cereals made from rice, barley, or wheat.

At five to six months, Julia started on pappa, pappa, or pap, which begins as vegetable broth, moves on to a thin gruel a few weeks later, then finishes off as a thick mush. or pap, which begins as vegetable broth, moves on to a thin gruel a few weeks later, then finishes off as a thick mush. Brodo vegetale Brodo vegetale is the first step. One peeled carrot, one peeled potato, and one unpeeled zucchini are put into cold water and boiled until just tender. At first only the broth is offered, once a day in a bottle. Later, with only one new ingredient introduced at a time, so that potential allergic reactions can be easily tracked, other mild vegetables are added to the basic mix. As the days go by, the cooked vegetables are pureed and returned to the broth, thickening it to the point where the baby can be fed the concoction with a spoon. As more time pa.s.ses, baby cereal is added; later, a teaspoon of extra-virgin olive oil; and later still, at six months, small amounts of beef, veal, turkey, rabbit, or lamb, poached or grilled, then pureed in a blender. Yogurt and mild cheeses, fish, eggs, and cow's milk follow in the next months, until the baby is considered ready for table food. is the first step. One peeled carrot, one peeled potato, and one unpeeled zucchini are put into cold water and boiled until just tender. At first only the broth is offered, once a day in a bottle. Later, with only one new ingredient introduced at a time, so that potential allergic reactions can be easily tracked, other mild vegetables are added to the basic mix. As the days go by, the cooked vegetables are pureed and returned to the broth, thickening it to the point where the baby can be fed the concoction with a spoon. As more time pa.s.ses, baby cereal is added; later, a teaspoon of extra-virgin olive oil; and later still, at six months, small amounts of beef, veal, turkey, rabbit, or lamb, poached or grilled, then pureed in a blender. Yogurt and mild cheeses, fish, eggs, and cow's milk follow in the next months, until the baby is considered ready for table food.

Making brodo vegetale brodo vegetale, fresh every morning and fresh again each evening, kept me firmly anch.o.r.ed in the present, watching and helping Julia explore the world of food. I had started reading to her about the same time I was weaning her, so she was also exploring the world of sounds and pictures and words. It was a time of wonder and exploration for the two of us, and I don't think I could ever decide which I liked better, feeding her or reading to her, just as my father had read to me every night. I loved satisfying her hunger for food-which so easily translates into a hunger for love-as much as she loved having that hunger sated.

It was a magical period, both for Julia and for me, although after three or four months of making pappa pappa twice a day, even my enthusiasm was beginning to flag. Making twice a day, even my enthusiasm was beginning to flag. Making pappa pappa was beginning to feel like a ch.o.r.e, and Julia, too, seemed to be tiring of eating the same thing each day. was beginning to feel like a ch.o.r.e, and Julia, too, seemed to be tiring of eating the same thing each day.

Then three of John's cousins arrived in Rome for a visit. I had made an enormous pot of zuppa di ceci, zuppa di ceci, a thick, tasty winter soup of pureed chickpeas, tomatoes, olive oil, garlic, and a handful of finely chopped fresh rosemary. Mary, Elizabeth, and Vivian were seated around our table, with John at one end, me at the other, and Julia in her high chair next to me. As I filled up our big white soup bowls with the thick, orange-colored soup, the rich smell of rosemary and garlic filled the room. a thick, tasty winter soup of pureed chickpeas, tomatoes, olive oil, garlic, and a handful of finely chopped fresh rosemary. Mary, Elizabeth, and Vivian were seated around our table, with John at one end, me at the other, and Julia in her high chair next to me. As I filled up our big white soup bowls with the thick, orange-colored soup, the rich smell of rosemary and garlic filled the room.

Julia was enjoying the hubbub, attention, and laughter as we settled down to eat. But when I finished serving the soup, she clearly looked deflated that she alone had been denied. I thought about it for a moment, then went to get a smaller white soup bowl from the cabinet, poured a scant ladleful inside, and placed the bowl on her tray. We all dug in happily, and I offered a spoonful to Julia. She looked a bit surprised at first swallow, but then she, too, like the rest of us, was suddenly smiling. She took that first bowl of adult food down in minutes, and I suddenly realized that I had likely made my last batch of brodo vegetale brodo vegetale that very morning. It was a happy realization, utterly unlike the abrupt end of breast-feeding a few months earlier. I called the pediatrician later in the day to make sure Julia was truly ready to leave baby food behind, and the doctor, listening to my description of the meal, told me she agreed that Julia had been launched successfully. From that point on, she ate what we ate, hungrily, with gusto and pleasure. that very morning. It was a happy realization, utterly unlike the abrupt end of breast-feeding a few months earlier. I called the pediatrician later in the day to make sure Julia was truly ready to leave baby food behind, and the doctor, listening to my description of the meal, told me she agreed that Julia had been launched successfully. From that point on, she ate what we ate, hungrily, with gusto and pleasure.

Julia tried, over those next days and weeks and months, new food after new food. She ate them, smeared them, rubbed them through her fingers and into her hair. She sang to them, groaned for them, laughed in joy at their arrival. She developed fetishes early on, for days delighting in boiled baby onions, then switching gleefully for a week or two to tiny lumps of soft, ripe mango.

After that we experimented with a taste of mild, fresh stracchino stracchino cheese, Greek yogurt, a cut-up peach, a slice of ripe avocado, pear juice, veal meatb.a.l.l.s, nectarine slices, a few lumps of b.u.t.ter-nut squash, glazed carrot sticks, fresh-squeezed tangerine juice, a whole wheat cracker, polenta with Parmigiano and tomato sauce, Swiss chard, a slice of fresh persimmon, an asparagus spear, risotto. Julia loved cheese, Greek yogurt, a cut-up peach, a slice of ripe avocado, pear juice, veal meatb.a.l.l.s, nectarine slices, a few lumps of b.u.t.ter-nut squash, glazed carrot sticks, fresh-squeezed tangerine juice, a whole wheat cracker, polenta with Parmigiano and tomato sauce, Swiss chard, a slice of fresh persimmon, an asparagus spear, risotto. Julia loved frutti di bosco frutti di bos...o...b..ueberries, raspberries, wild strawberries, and red and black currants served in season at Roman restaurants; grilled sea ba.s.s drizzled with olive oil and lemon juice; pasta of any size or shape, with zucchini-garlic sauce, with various tomato sauces, with meaty, brown ragu alla bolognese, ragu alla bolognese, even with one of our most strongly flavored family favorites, a thick green pasta sauce made with broccoli, garlic, parsley, and anchovy. But to this day Julia's favorite dish of all remains even with one of our most strongly flavored family favorites, a thick green pasta sauce made with broccoli, garlic, parsley, and anchovy. But to this day Julia's favorite dish of all remains spaghetti alle vongole spaghetti alle vongole, that simple pasta prepared with baby clams in the sh.e.l.l, olive oil, white wine, plenty of finely sliced garlic, a handful of chopped parsley, and a hint of hot red pepper.

Julia's favorite snacks were Roman street food: cut-up watermelon sold in plastic cups on street corners during the hottest months of the year; roast chestnuts sold in the fall; arancini, arancini, b.a.l.l.s of risotto stuffed with a square of mozzarella cheese, rolled in bread crumbs, and quickly fried. Her very favorite was b.a.l.l.s of risotto stuffed with a square of mozzarella cheese, rolled in bread crumbs, and quickly fried. Her very favorite was pizza bianca pizza bianca, a small square of which was presented to her free of charge any and every day we stopped by our local bakery to buy the crusty, oversized loaves they baked in wood-fired ovens every day but Christmas. As she grew older, Julia learned to love the bakery's other pizzas: pizza rossa, pizza rossa, which was which was pizza bianca pizza bianca slathered in tomato sauce; or slathered in tomato sauce; or pizza con patate, pizza con patate, pizza dough baked with thinly sliced potatoes and rosemary; or pizza dough baked with thinly sliced potatoes and rosemary; or pizza bianca pizza bianca covered with paper-thin slices of mortadella, the Rolls-Royce version of an open-faced baloney sandwich. covered with paper-thin slices of mortadella, the Rolls-Royce version of an open-faced baloney sandwich.

But my favorite memory of Julia's babyhood is tied up with my father's eighty-first birthday, which we celebrated the July she was two on the terrace of the lake house at Trevignano Romano. Dear friends who once lived in Rome but who had moved back to Moscow were coming to spend the night with us on their way to their annual visit to Elba.

I had planned a big fishy dinner, not the boiled lobster or the big scampi we might have eaten in Connecticut, but Mediterranean sea bream baked whole with thinly sliced potatoes, very ripe cherry tomatoes, and handfuls of freshly chopped parsley, all dribbled with good, fruity olive oil and seasoned with sea salt and freshly cracked black pepper.

Our friends told me they would take care of the first course, and they arrived in a rush of hugs and kisses with a large bottle of vodka and a plastic tubful of the best black caviar, the kind one could buy at the time only in Moscow, and with the right connections. While Julia played happily with their two girls, Celestine and I toasted slabs of rustic Italian bread, b.u.t.tered it lightly, then slathered the toast with caviar. We piled those slices of toast on a huge, hot platter and set it on the long wooden table that sat near the giant wisteria vines overlooking the lake.

The adults drank icy vodka, the children drank chilled apple juice, and we all laughed and talked and toasted my father's health as the sun slowly started to sink behind the house. We drank more vodka and began nibbling the warm, crunchy toast with caviar. I had eaten caviar of that quality only once in my life, more than a decade earlier, while visiting Moscow at New Year's. For my father, it was a first, and none of us, children included, seemed to be able to get enough of it. I quickly made more toast and refilled the platter.

Julia, sitting in her jump seat and facing her grandfather at the far end of the table, watched our friends' girls, about five and eight, spread caviar on their last bit of toast. She had already eaten two enormous slabs, barely coming up for air. She looked up from her empty plate and asked, during a momentary lull in the conversation, ”Mama, more bread and black jam?”

All of us burst into laughter. I was thrilled to see that at the age of two she had already learned how to celebrate the life we are given, around a table, with good food, close friends, and family.

Epilogue.

Nearly a year after Julia's birth, John had long mastered his fears about restarting fatherhood, and the two of them would giggle happily on the floor together whenever John was at home. Julia delighted more than anything in the antics of ”Little Man,” an imaginary figure whose two legs were John's index and middle finger. Little Man got into trouble constantly, jumping onto plates, bouncing onto people's heads, falling into teacups and coffeepots, and Julia loved him most when his antics got completely out of hand and he had to be punished, forced repeatedly to sit on the edge of the dining room table, forbidden to make a peep.

Late in 1999, more than six years after we had returned to Rome, we moved to Paris. To move from southern Europe to northern Europe when its summer light is dying and the cool, pewter gray of winter is at hand was perhaps not the best idea for a family that had unknowingly become extremely attached-physically and psychologically-to Rome's glorious and comforting southern light. Even Julia, who was at first excited at the thought of moving to the city of Madeline and ”twelve little girls in two straight lines,” was rattled by our transfer. Shortly after we moved, she began balking at getting out of bed in the morning, no longer jumped into her clothes once she did get up, and cried whenever we left the apartment.

John, without psychiatric help for the first time in seven years, was happy to plunge into his new Paris a.s.signment. He was happy to have left Italy, happy to be back in a more stimulating intellectual environment, happy to be brus.h.i.+ng up on his French. The only things he, like Julia, seemed to miss were the light and warmth of Rome. The three of us, in fact, were all shocked by Paris's dirtiest little secret: that the weather in Paris is generally just a tad better than London's, that the light of the City of Light is for many months of the year largely of the electric variety. I responded to the change in air and light by developing a three-year-long attack of chronic sinusitis that no amount of Western medicines could fight. It was not until, in despair, I consulted a Vietnamese acupuncturist and homeopathic doctor whose first treatment let me breathe normally again that I found I was slowly being taken in by Paris's considerable charms.

And then, by the time I was beginning to feel at home in France, in the fall of 2002, John began to flag. A routine prostate operation went off without a medical hitch but triggered flashbacks to his shooting and everything that followed. Over the course of the following year, despite a resumption of talk therapy, he slid, slowly at first, and then faster and faster, down the long, familiar slope of depression. Ultimately, after trying the new antidepression drugs on the market, to no avail, he agreed to our doctors' urging of hospitalization and electroconvulsive therapy, a modern version of the treatment that had cured him for thirty years after he left the monastery. It was a year from diagnosis to recovery this time, but the experience was remarkably different because we knew what we were dealing with, and all of us-me included-responded much more aggressively.

Throughout the period of his slide, we followed the doctors' advice and tried to keep our home life as unchanged as possible. Night after night, I would cook one of John's favorite comfort foods for supper-spaghetti with tomato, olive oil, garlic, and a handful of basil, or a risotto alla milanese risotto alla milanese yellow with saffron, b.u.t.ter, and Parmigiano; sauteed veal scallops finished off with a touch of white wine and sage; a platter of tiny green beans or a green salad made of baby field greens. While I was throwing the meal together, for few of our favorite dishes took much time to cook, John and Julia would set the table together, correcting each other if either of them misplaced the silverware or gla.s.ses. Once the table was set, John usually disappeared into our bedroom or into his corner chair in the living room to sleep or pretend to sleep, to try his best not to cry, to at least close his eyes and mind to the world until the food was ready. yellow with saffron, b.u.t.ter, and Parmigiano; sauteed veal scallops finished off with a touch of white wine and sage; a platter of tiny green beans or a green salad made of baby field greens. While I was throwing the meal together, for few of our favorite dishes took much time to cook, John and Julia would set the table together, correcting each other if either of them misplaced the silverware or gla.s.ses. Once the table was set, John usually disappeared into our bedroom or into his corner chair in the living room to sleep or pretend to sleep, to try his best not to cry, to at least close his eyes and mind to the world until the food was ready.

But once he heard my usual summons, ”A tavola,” ”A tavola,” no matter how bad he felt, he knew he was expected to pull himself together and join Julia and me at the table, then eat, hungry or not, and at least listen to the conversation if not take part in it. During the meal Julia would tell us stories from the school-yard: which second-graders were demanding daily tributes; who hadn't done their homework; who had bled; who had cried; who had been mean or a comfort. Her stories and enthusiasms, like the simple meals I prepared, were a lifeline for each of us, keeping us afloat on those evenings when none of us could see any quick way-or any way at all-out of our latest situation. no matter how bad he felt, he knew he was expected to pull himself together and join Julia and me at the table, then eat, hungry or not, and at least listen to the conversation if not take part in it. During the meal Julia would tell us stories from the school-yard: which second-graders were demanding daily tributes; who hadn't done their homework; who had bled; who had cried; who had been mean or a comfort. Her stories and enthusiasms, like the simple meals I prepared, were a lifeline for each of us, keeping us afloat on those evenings when none of us could see any quick way-or any way at all-out of our latest situation.

John was hospitalized for nearly five weeks, but at his insistence, the doctors allowed him to spend weekends at home, a dispensation that made him feel less ill and that allowed him to see Julia regularly, as children were not allowed to visit the psychiatric hospital just north of Paris where he was being treated. He received eight rounds of electroconvulsive therapy during his stay and was remarkably less depressed upon his release, although all of us were shaken by the loss of a portion of his short-term memory, basically everything that had happened in the three to four months before his hospitalization. Despite that memory loss, within three months he felt well enough to try returning to work part-time.

Julia, who was six at the Christmas when John's depression descended again, was flummoxed by the change in her father, the smiling, cheerful daddy who would play with her endlessly when he got home from work. She seemed fairly fine during the course of the day, going off to school, playing with her friends. But the edges of the day were too much for her. Soon after John became ill, Julia began waking up sobbing each morning. But once she was up and dressed, once she had eaten, we would walk off to school happily, just as each afternoon we would walk home together in similar high spirits. Only as she climbed into bed would her mood swing around again, and she would lie there fretting, weeping, unable to fall asleep for hours. Julia had always had the gift of falling off to sleep in a matter of moments, without problems; now she was nervous, frightened, afraid of the dark, demanding to sleep with a light on, demanding that I read to her until she was so exhausted that she would practically pa.s.s out.