Yesterday, we drove through the Hoosick Street area of Troy to get to Schaghticoke where Jean and Bill now live. Our purpose was to deliver Bucellate, a traditional Easter bread that members of our family have made for the past one hundred years or so. The recipe changes with time. It came from my Italian grandmother who measured everything in handfuls, and pinches, and small amount, or a little bit, un poco. My mother sat at a table in her mother-in-law's kitchen and wrote down the recipe as it was being made.
Mom became the expert and we became addicted to the process and the tradition. We saw lots of eggs, flour, sugar, yeast ending up in a huge amount of batter that mom pounded and kneaded and tossed in our faces as we lined up along the edge of the kitchen table where she worked. The eggs were blown out, and the intact shells were colored to add to the array of hard boiled Easter eggs. The bread was distributed to relatives and friends, and lots of it was eaten by us.
Mary and Jean still make the bread using the time honored recipe, with a few tweaks. I, on the other hand, make the bread using a recipe that I found in a bread book. As I was growing up, I could not figure out how to spell the name of the bread. It always came out as "oogellah". None of my Italian studies permitted me see this combination of letters. Did it start with an "o" or a "u", or both. One Sunday afternoon, when Mom and Dad were visiting us at our home in Austerlitz, NY, we were showing off our new bread book. Dad leapt from his chair as were were riffling through the pages and cried out "Buccelad!", and there it was. The mysteries were solved: how to spell it and how to make it!
Driving up Hoosick Street further jogged my memory. When we were little, probably up to age ten or so, often on Sunday afternoon, Dad, George and I would walk from our house on River Street to Grandma Palladino's house on Sixteenth Street. It was up a hill, over a railroad bridge, past Clay Mountain, and a few more blocks to the house. We were always welcomed there. A pot of sauce was always on the stove. Dad's brothers and sisters were around. They always offered us ginger ale that tickled our nose, and they made much of us. But one thing about those visits that sticks in my mind was the way we dressed, always in our best, always handsomely, and at Easter time, we wore Fedora hats with a feather. We were so cool!
Happy Easter!
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Saturday, April 04, 2009
April Fool's
Crocus in bloom- the brave soldiers of spring...Our house birthday corresponds with April Fool's Day. Thirty five years ago on this date, we closed on this handy man's special. The Twiss family had moved out that day; we checked constantly to make sure they were gone, and about 4:00 pm, we brought some blankets, clothes, baby crib, and our son Dan into our new c.1780-1800 house, lit a fire in the fireplace and declared we were home.
The neighbors on the hill almost called the fire company when they saw the smoke encircling the house, but thought better of it when they realized the plume was coming from the chimney.
Dan and Meg knew this as their home and playground until college claimed them. The fields were lush with grass, the meadows burgeoning with tall tansy, goldenrod, and sapling spruce trees. A hike through the forest to the big rock was a thrilling summer or fall afternoon. A ride down the toboggan slope in winter followed by hot chocolate kept us alive and joyful even in the bleak winter days. Summer gardens provided a plethora of fresh flowers and tomatoes. Tasty homemade pies came from the Northern Spy apple tree, the elderberry bushes, and the rhubarb patch. Red and black raspberries were consumed at picking when we were able to beat the birds to the snack.
We have enjoyed these years hosting dozens of family reunions at Christmas and the Fourth of July, neighbor parties, friends old and new. There were teachers who celebrated monumental moments of retirement or moving on to better jobs, and some who came to our screen house to plan educational revolution at Chatham High School.
And now we are warm in our house, content with where we have been. We continue our journey in life. Soon we will be the longest occupants of the house since the day it was built. Today we will plant the tomato seeds indoors. Tomorrow, we will till part of the garden and hope for some spring turnips, peas, and kale; and of course a few rhubarb pies.
We are April's fools.
The neighbors on the hill almost called the fire company when they saw the smoke encircling the house, but thought better of it when they realized the plume was coming from the chimney.
Dan and Meg knew this as their home and playground until college claimed them. The fields were lush with grass, the meadows burgeoning with tall tansy, goldenrod, and sapling spruce trees. A hike through the forest to the big rock was a thrilling summer or fall afternoon. A ride down the toboggan slope in winter followed by hot chocolate kept us alive and joyful even in the bleak winter days. Summer gardens provided a plethora of fresh flowers and tomatoes. Tasty homemade pies came from the Northern Spy apple tree, the elderberry bushes, and the rhubarb patch. Red and black raspberries were consumed at picking when we were able to beat the birds to the snack.
We have enjoyed these years hosting dozens of family reunions at Christmas and the Fourth of July, neighbor parties, friends old and new. There were teachers who celebrated monumental moments of retirement or moving on to better jobs, and some who came to our screen house to plan educational revolution at Chatham High School.
And now we are warm in our house, content with where we have been. We continue our journey in life. Soon we will be the longest occupants of the house since the day it was built. Today we will plant the tomato seeds indoors. Tomorrow, we will till part of the garden and hope for some spring turnips, peas, and kale; and of course a few rhubarb pies.
We are April's fools.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)