Ray - Everyone is Italian on Sunday

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To my family, thank you for making me an Italian from my heart to my stomach.

For me, this book is the single most important work of my life. It represents decades of enjoying and working with food and the people I love most in this world. Inside, youll find meals like the dandelion greens and fried eggs my husband and I were obsessed with for months, assorted primi piatti like baked ricotta with pistachios, instructions for how to bake pizza and calzones with or without a wood-burning oven, a recipe for the ultimate game day pulled pork sandwiches, and many more Italian goodies. The book even includes my sister Marias favorite Italian desserts and my husband Johns Italian ingredientinspired cocktails. This book was written with one very important message in mind: Everyone is Italian on Sunday.

My grandfather was Sicilian, one of fourteen children, and one of the four that came to America. He settled in upstate New York and eventually became a wonderful stonemason who worked on the rebuilding of a historical site, Fort Ticonderoga. He was a strong man with lots of energy and a great sense of humor. He was a wonderful gardener and cook as well, played the concertina, and told great stories.

My mom was the eldest of my grandfathers ten children. She grew up in a modest home on a tiny peninsula on Lake George, but to hear her talk about her childhood, you might think she was born a princess who lived in a castle with all the riches and benefits of privilege. You never would have guessed she was the daughter of an immigrant stonemason who had to work eighty or more hours a week while growing and harvesting enough food for so many mouths. My mothers recollection of her childhood has always been my favorite bedtime story. Even now, all grown up, I conjure her memories like a treasured fairy tale.

Once upon a time, everyone would gather at my grandfathers house at the edge of the majestic Lake George on Sundays. From fellow Italian stoneworkers to neighbors from all around, all were welcome and none were turned away. The kitchen table was often moved outside to the lawn, because more people came to eat than any room in the house could hold.

Grandpa would cook all sorts of meats and sausages in a big pot of tomato sauce. Then he would serve them on a large platter and toss lots of spaghetti into the sauce. He would serve a huge salad of vegetables from his own garden, and down at the end of the table he would put out two big, five-gallon tubs of ice cream beside a wheelbarrow filled with ripe melons. With the garden machetewhich hung from a string tied to his belt and was like an extension of his armGrandpa would slice through the melons, scoop out the seeds with his hand, and fill the sweet melon centers with vanilla ice cream. No matter how many came, there was always enough food for everyone. After the meal, the men would play their instruments and sing, and Zia (Aunt) Patrina would swirl her moppina (slang for dish towel) up in the air over her head and lead the kids in a dance around the fire.

Anyone can be an Italian on Sundays, and any day can be made to feel like a Sunday. The magic of an Italian Sunday is in human connections. Food is the great communicator, connecting generations and helping build memories and friendships. It gathers us together and teaches us the importance of sharing not just food, but the best of ourselves.

Italian food makes us smile. Think of the first time you successfully twirled spaghetti around the tines of your fork or saw lasagna piled high just waiting for that first bite. How many times have you taken a cheesy, gooey, or crispy bite of any Italian treat and it made you close your eyes in utter delight that anything could be so good? Even something as simple as a big, buttery bite of nutty Parmigiano-Reggiano followed by a large sip of red winewow!

The meaning of being Italian on Sunday is to prepare food with love, to savor it, and to share it with others, sometimes loudly, always with gusto. Being Italian on Sunday is about bringing out your lust for life and passion for all things: food, storytelling, wine, music, and each other. Being Italian on Sunday is about emotion and finding beauty in every delicious moment of our lives.

Clockwise from upper left: .

CHAPTER 1

BRUNCH

The Italians may not have a meal they call brunch, but every day, around midday, they have a heavy meal, followed by a nap or rest, and then their second day begins around 3 p.m. or so. (The day ends with a light supper sometime between 9 p.m. and midnight.) So in a sense, Italians have brunch every single day, and every single recipe in this book could be part of an endless brunch buffet.

For me, on the other hand, brunch is a luxury specific to weekends, especially those I can spend up in the country, in the mountains where I grew up. I love to cook special late-morning and midday meals for visiting friends (who refer to our house as The Inn). But even if I dont have a crowd to feed, I wake up early, take a run to menu-plan and burn off a few calories, and then I hit the kitchen. While Im cooking, John mixes up his or some new concoction, or pops some champagne (Ill have bitters and a twist, please), and the day just gets better from there.

PROSCIUTTO AND EGG ROLLS

SERVES 4 TO 6

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Its more the New Yorker in me than the Italian in me that loves an egg sandwich. This baked egg roll (just a stuffed kaiser roll) is a favorite among our houseguests running out to sled or ski in the winter. It always gets a big reaction, so the next time you work hard entertaining overnight, go easy on yourself the next morning with this recipe.