My three years on the West Coast were partially spent working as an architect for Gap. One takeaway from the experience was a glimpse into the inner workings of the clothing industry. Despite that – it wasn’t always pretty – I am still devoted to one of Gap’s brands, Banana Republic. It’s not cheap, but the quality of the chain’s clothing is pretty high. We make a pilgrimage to the Banana Republic outlet sale in Freeport, ME, each winter to score clearance deals. We tend to stay in Portland because of the outrageously good food scene. What kills me about it is that some of the city’s restaurants feature foods that were staples of my North Plymouth upbringing. Now they are now considered gourmet offerings.
One that baffles me was the bane of my childhood: polenta. For those unfamiliar with this horrid dish, polenta is nothing more than cooked cornmeal. But it was a go-to food for my family when funds were low or when my mother made broth for soup. Polenta was generally served with assorted boiled chicken parts (cooked that way for the broth) and my parents’ favorite condiment – mustard pickles. Somehow, I survived those torturous meals. The saving grace came the following day when the polenta was as hard as a brick. Lightly frying it with butter made eating it tolerable. Today, I see polenta on menus with descriptions that read like this: organic blue corn polenta served with artisan herbs, or Peruvian white corn polenta served over a bed of arugula.
People, it’s cornmeal mush, and a hard pass for me.
The second old-time dish I’ve found in Portland is chicken cacciatore. Although I didn’t loathe it as much as polenta, cacciatore is not something that got me excited as a child. It’s basically braised chicken parts served in a stew of tomatoes, spices, and – depending on the family recipe – peppers and onions. My frugal parents would make it with lower-quality cuts of chicken, including thighs and legs. They included bones, which made eating cacciatore labor intensive. It was always served over Minute Rice, a 1960s staple. I’ve had this meal since then, when my hubby makes it with chicken breast and brown rice. I’ll confess that his version is tasty – the one from my childhood, not so much.
In today’s restaurants it features rabbit, venison, and other assorted meats, which floors me. (Cacciatore loosely translates to hunter’s stew.) With so many other choices, it’s not on my list of favored meals.
The next dish is a highlight from my childhood. But while polenta was my brother’s favorite, he liked this one the least. So much so that my mother would cook him something different on the nights it was served. I’m referring to tuna fish and spaghetti. Mom would use a can of dark tuna packed in olive oil (almost always Pastene), sauté it until the fish was soft, and add more olive oil along with spices. Then she would slowly scoop in tomato paste to form a thin sauce. Served hot over spaghetti with Parmesan cheese, it was – and still is – one of my cherished meals. Along with a good loaf of Italian bread, I could eat it regularly.
To most folks, I’m sure tuna and spaghetti sounds unappetizing, but when I saw it on a menu in Portland, I knew it was finally getting the recognition it deserved. Of course, the restaurant description was a wee bit embellished – it touted heirloom tomatoes and line- caught tuna, and carried a hefty price tag.
The last meal is one both my brother and I agreed on: Mom’s Bolognese sauce. Like North Plymouth “tootalings” – also known as tortellini – every family’s recipe was unique. Even both of my grandmothers’ recipes were slightly different due to the areas of Northern Italy they hailed from. Grandmother Fornaciari (nee Ruffini) hailed from the west of Bologna and the village of Brescello. Her recipe included small, diced carrots that gave the sauce a slight sweetness my other grandmother’s lacked.
My mom and I adhere to Grandmother Pavesi’s (nee Fiocchi) recipe. My nana no doubt followed her mother’s Busi recipe. It is incredibly easy and represents a simple farm approach. The first step involves browning a handful of celery and onions in olive oil. That’s followed by roughly two pounds of fatty hamburger and a pound ground pork. In summer a handful of fresh tomatoes were added, while winter meant a medium can of simple crushed tomatoes.
I never knew pasta was served with anything else until I saw my first serving of spaghetti with red sauce in high school. When I asked my mother why we didn’t have red sauce, I recall getting a look that conveyed my betrayal of every relative that ever cooked without it.
It also never occurred to me that my mother didn’t serve her sofrit (pronounced sue-frit) with spaghetti. It was always rigatoni, ziti, bowties, or other hefty pasta. This was reinforced during a trip to Bologna when native friends told us that only tourists request Bolognese sauce on spaghetti. (What say you, North Plymoutheans?)
Today I see Bolognese sauce on menus everywhere. Forty years ago, however, describing my mom’s sauce to college friends evoked a look like a dog turning its head sideways out of curiosity. Not only is it now commonly found on menus, but it’s also gone upscale. Restaurant descriptions include a variety of meats, claims of 72 hours of simmering, and “authentic Northern Italy” recipes. I guess the joke’s on them. Bolognese sauce was traditionally made with whatever was readily available.
I have yet to find any restaurants that even come close to my Mom’s cooking, but then I’m not trying that hard – to me, hers will always be tops.
Architect Bill Fornaciari is a lifelong resident of Plymouth (except for a three-year adventure going West as a young man) and is the owner of BF Architects in Plymouth. His firm specializes in residential work and historic preservation. Have a question or idea for this column? Email Bill at billfornaciari@gmail.com