A How-To Recipe for the Parenting Journey
An Excerpt from Holy Sh*t I’m Gonna be a Mom!
For most of us, our parenting strategies and philosophy are rooted in our childhood, how our parents raised us. It’s so deeply programmed that I have said things to my kids that my parents said to me—that I vowed I would never say! Haven’t you?
Who we are as people, as parents (or parents-to-be) comes down to a choice. That choice requires awareness that certain behaviors and beliefs learned from parents and other caregivers may or may not ring true to who we are. Then it takes a concentrated effort to adopt or reject those behaviors as we figure out who we are and how we want to show up in this world.
It wasn’t any particular advice she gave, words she spoke, or anything written down. Her wisdom came in who she was, what she did, and how she responded to life.
I was born into a traditional Italian family in beautiful, picturesque… New Jersey. Yeah, I’m a Jersey Girl through and through. Need I say more?
Parenting was a group effort in my family. We lived in a three story house on a cobblestone street. My parents, my siblings, and I lived on the first floor; my father’s parents lived on the second; my aunt, uncle, and five cousins (also on my father’s side) were on the third. We ate together, we played together. Looking back, it was kind of like being raised by the mob, minus the super illegal and extremely violent part. A ton more relatives lived within two blocks of us, and my mother regularly shipped us off to different families. Probably to have some peace and quiet.
I was typically across the street, where my mother’s parents and my Uncle Louie lived. My grandmother, a feisty 200-pound Neapolitan, Isabella Carola was the “Original Gangster” who ruled the family—and the entire street!— with her expressive hand and mouth. So long as she wasn’t within earshot, people called her “Sabaluche. (For the non-Italians, “Sabel,” was short for “Isabella” and “uche” is a pet name meaning ‘the smaller or younger version of someone with the same name.”) Should my grandmother overhear you calling her Sabaluche, she’d fire back “Fongul, you sonnamebeech,” or she’d send you the evil eye.
Some of my fondest childhood moments were spent with Sabaluche, always wearing her apron-covered housedress, in the kitchen. I especially loved it when we made homemade pasta—or should I say, she made it and I was allowed to assist. My favorite was making cavatelli (pronounced Gavadeel by New Jersey Italians): kneading the dough, rolling it out, cutting and shaping into tiny boatlike pieces. We would place the finished pieces on a white cloth covered with semolina flour that draped over the porcelain table. It took hours. It was, and still is today, my favorite pasta.
I idolized Sabaluche more than any other relative, including my parents. I watched and learned and wanted to be like her: bold, courageous, and immune to what others thought about her.
If I wanted to make the Gavadeel, I had to learn what felt right, smelled right, what tasted right, and what looked right. She taught me (or should I say, forced me to see) that good cooks tuned in to intuition and followed traditions that were passed down through the generations.
Ten-year-old Patti had no idea Sabaluche’s wisdom and ways would help her to discover who she wanted to be as a parent.
It wasn’t any particular advice she gave, words she spoke, or anything written down. Her wisdom came in who she was, what she did, and how she responded to life.
The most profound lesson came when I finally got the courage to ask for her famed Gavadeel recipe I will never forget that day. She swore under her breath in Italian, trying to contain herself before exclaiming “Whaddaya, stupida? Justa you watcha me!”
I had been watching her for years, so I guess I should have known? In any case, I was so used to her—and most Italians—talking loudly, swearing, and being expressive that I didn’t even flinch. Little did I know I was about to learn one of the most valuable lessons that any of us can learn in life.
According to Sabaluche, if I wanted to make the Gavadeel, I had to learn what felt right, smelled right, what tasted right, and what looked right. She taught me (or should I say, forced me to see) that good cooks tuned in to intuition and followed traditions that were passed down through the generations. So I “justa watcha” as she bade. Even though I had seen her work hundreds of times, this time I watched with an intensity unlike any other. I wanted to get it right and never forget again!
Countless times she reached into the giant twelve-by-eight-inch round, red and yellow aluminum tin to spread the flour on the four by four “macaroni” board (similar to a cutting board but bigger and handmade by my grandfather). And then she would pour salt into her palm and melt it into water, to which she next added eggs. She made a center bowl in the mound of flour and poured the beaten eggs and salt water (which I’d been allowed to beat under her strict supervision) into the center. Her hands slowly scooped around the inside of the flour bowl like a sculptor to draw in the liquid egg mixture.
“Grandma, can I do some?” “No, you justa watcha me!”
I could have cried; I wanted to get my hands in there so badly. But I waited. Once the flour and liquid were combined, she tasted the dough, made a face of disgust, and then added a little more salted water. Then she added a little more flour until she felt it was “justa right.” It was a beautiful sight. I was watching an artist. About the time she started kneading the dough, she reached her limit and needed to sit down and rest. I had my chance!
“Grandma, can I do some?”
“Si, si,” she said, catching her breath, “but make-a-sure you-a do it-a right. I’m-a watcha you.”
I hoped and prayed I would do it right. I dug my hands into the cool mixture and pushed it into itself, folding the ends over toward the middle, the bottom over the top, all while pressing it into the board to make it smoother and more pliable. The smell of fresh dough on my fingers was better than perfume. I didn’t want to stop. But all things come to an end.
Sabaluche got up, pushed her finger into the dough, and announced that it was done! My hands and arms felt like they were going to fall off, but I would never tell her that.
We let our perfectly rounded masterpiece sit for thirty minutes (timed perfectly with three o’clock coffee). After that, we began the transformation of rolling the kneaded mound into long tubes, cutting them into quarter-inch pieces, and rolling the dough under our fingers.
I was in Heaven. I was making Gavadeel with my grandma.
Over the years, there were many cooking experiences with Sabaluche, each one a story unto itself. But the essence of what and how she cooked (or did anything else in her life) was an artistic endeavor. Her acts expressed love for her family. There was a method in the way Sabaluche brought together the elements and created dishes like no other (even to this day). And her food was the best! She told you so, just in case you might think anyone (especially our other grandmother) could even compete.
Knowing her style, understanding it, and then trusting my senses would make me a good cook like Sabaluche. From her, I would craft a “justa right” recipe for life and parenting. As a parent, I wanted to be a great cook and show my love for my family by crafting magnificent meals. But more than that, I wanted to have a positive influence on my kids, showing my love by being the best I could be at anything I did for them. That was a high bar to sustain, as I would eventually realize. Fortunately, I had the wisdom of Sabaluche’s Gavadeel to guide me. And ground me.
“Whaddaya, stupida? Justa you watcha me!”
A few simple ingredients worked into a few simple steps became profound in the lack of exact measurements or rules so ‘justa right’ could be attained no matter if the air was humid or dry, the ingredients were fresh or about to turn sour, if the cook accomplished the task all at once or needed to take a break or three—or if the cook was a completely different person with her own personality and view of the world.
I would use my senses to combine the ingredients and adapt the recipe to who I was. I would cook for my family in a way that honored who they were, their unique physical needs and desires. Does that make me a pushover (as some would say)? No, it is who I am and how I want to show love to my family. I’m talking about both pasta and parenting, of course.
Sabaluche’s Gavadeel recipe was exactly what I needed. Simple and profound. But most of all simple. So here it is. Here’s the recipe I share with you as my grandmother shared her Gavadeel recipe with me. (With perhaps a bit less swearing.)
You don’t even have to perform these steps in a particular order. In fact, feel free to use them in whatever order best suits what will nourish your soul at any moment.
The recipe is so simple that it is often bypassed by some who think we have to follow all the books or do what our friends are doing. I say (a bit gentler than Sabluche would), “Stop it! Justa be-a yourself.” Be yourself, and adapt your parenting to each of your kids individually. Because each kid is an individual.
Simple ingredients worked into simple steps. Profoundly. Follow your philosophy and beliefs like Sabaluche followed the cooking traditions passed from the generations before her. Trust your intuition and your senses, like Sabaluche trusted whether she put enough salt into the mixture. Lastly—and more importantly—look at the experience as a way to share your love, as Sabaluche loved her family through the medium of food.
As a parent, you get to create your own masterpieces: your children. You don’t have to do it like me (or Sabaluche) or anyone else. The recipe I share uses ingredients already inside of you; the steps are ones you’ve been honing your entire life—consciously or subconsciously.
You and your children have the answers inside of you if you just listen and trust, if you live true to your values and philosophy and if you approach every encounter from a space of unconditional love. Your journey—and your children’s journey—is to create a version of this recipe that best serves your own families. Buon appetite!
