Detroit’s Eastern Market

When I was young my Italian parents would occasionally visit downtown Detroit’s Eastern Market early on Saturday mornings.  So early, in fact, that I can remember freezing walking through there as a kid.  It would still be a bit dark out, the fog would be lifting, I could see my breath in the cold air and I had to dodge getting nailed by the pigeons in the rafters.  It only needs to happen once to be cautious forever more. 

It was important to arrive as early as possible in order to find, what else?  The freshest food.  Shopping in small markets for produce is typical in Italy so my parents were pros.  Those trips seemed tedious at the time especially since my mom and dad would wind their way around the entire market evaluating what everyone had to offer first.  Once the stalls with the freshest produce, at the best prices, were identified, there might be a small dispute if a vendor starting filling the bag themselves as opposed to letting my mom do it.  Particularly when they were choosing items behind them in crates and not on the table where my mom could see what was being put in the bag.  Lesson #1 had been learned on “avoiding the fregatura”.

Cloned Food or Slow Food?

I am stunned by the FDA announcement that the meat from cloned animals is safe to eat.  Sure we are a number of years off from it being available in stores, but what is the hurry?  What does anyone really know about the implications of consuming cloned meat?  Currently I understand there are no plans to require that producers declare whether cloned meat has been used in their product.   I already dis-trust what packaging says about the ingredients contained therein or the origin of the ingredients, and now this. 

There are countries that are embracing the notion of Slow Food, an idea that thus far has not caught on much in the U.S.  The Slow Food website describes itself as “a non-profit, eco-gastronomic member-supported organization that was founded in 1989 to counteract fast food and fast life, the disappearance of local food traditions and people’s dwindling interest in the food they eat, where it comes from, how it tastes and how our food choices affect the rest of the world.”  Such a simple concept.  Why do we cherish what we put on our feet, what we drive around or the latest gadget, more than what we put in our bodies? 

Let’s start talking with our wallets and start making wiser choices about what we eat. 

There’s Nothing Like a Calabrian Fig

My dad’s barbershop was open 5 days a week, it was closed on Sundays and Wednesdays.  Wednesdays were special days as they were generally spent food shopping.  My mom and dad would spend most of the day traversing the area finding the best food at the most economical prices.  That’s a bit difficult now with today’s gas prices.  A review of the day’s newspaper would reveal the bargains for staples at each supermarket and then the fruit markets were shopped for produce. 

One of my more favorite treats they brought home from the fruit market were dried figs from Italy.  They were dried, strung, looped and packaged, and they were delicious!  Nowadays it’s difficult to find dried figs from Italy here in the U.S.  Most are from Greece, Turkey or the U.S.  No offense to figs grown in those countries but I am partial to figs from Italy, particularly those from Calabria, a region is southern Italy.  Calabria is known for outstanding figs and it also happens to be the birthplace of my parents.  They were used to those great fresh figs, so ripe, plump and soft that when you pulled it apart, it glistened with honey sweetness.  They were never happy with any fresh figs available in the U.S. and when I tasted my first fresh fig from the old country, I finally understood why. 

One product I discovered recently was a fig “palloni”, or ball.  It’s a ball of Calabrian figs wrapped in fig leaves and roasted for hours.  The result is this great molasses like mass of figs.  I broke it apart into the individual figs, place a hunk of good Italian gorgonzola on each, drizzled them with zibibbo grape jam and speared them with toothpicks.  How delightful!   Sweet, salty and just a great combination of flavors. 

Where have all the Italian barbers gone?

And so if you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m an Italian American with a passion for food, especially Italian food.  This blog is an outlet for my observations about food, mostly the Italian kind, growing up Italian American and how that has shaped my interest in food today, and whatever else might be important to me at a given moment J. 

When my dad was young he was a musician and, apparently, quite a dancer.  As a father, in his spare time, he grew our garden, remodeled our basement and built our garage, but his lifelong trade was that of a barber and barbershop owner.  I look back now and am amazed by his talents.  When you’re a kid you think everyone’s dad knows how to do all those things. 

 

His experience was varied too.  He first came to the U.S. with my grandfather when he was 14, traveled back and forth a bit, served in the U.S. Army in WW II, went back to Italy and married my mom, and then finally settled in the Detroit area to raise his family.

 

My dad starting cutting hair when he was 14.  He was a great barber, he took his time and was always a perfectionist.  He gave hot shaves with a straight razor.  Imagine trusting someone to shave your face and neck with a straight razor!  I can still remember watching him in fascination as he soaped up his brush and shaved himself with that straight razor.  And then the smell of his aftershave - Old Spice.  While he closed his shop when he was in his late 60’s, he continued to cut my brother’s hair until he passed away at 81.  You certainly don’t hear of many people with nearly 70 year careers nowadays.  Can you say 70 and out?

 

So, honestly, where have all the Italian barbers gone?

“You grew up Italian if…..”

I get so many forwarded emails from Italian American and non-Italian American friends on the topic of:  “You grew up Italian if…..”   The emails describe what Italian Americans experienced growing up, from the family dynamics to the food we ate, and even the plastic covered furniture.

 

Yes, I have to admit there was a brief time my mom covered our “good” furniture in plastic.  All I can think of was that she must have succumbed to peer pressure.  We also had a second kitchen in our basement that my dad built.  Every self respecting Italian mother had a second kitchen if she was going to entertain large family gatherings, can tomatoes and butcher unknown small animals that came home alive in burlap sacks.  (Unknown because I have intentionally blocked it from my memory, although my brother graciously indicated he can remind me.)  But that’s what you did if you grew up on a farm in southern Italy, never mind that they now lived in a middleclass suburb of Detroit.

 

Even with all the modern conveniences available, including butchered meat J, my parents understood the value of freshness.  It was the same with fruits and vegetables.  We always had a garden in the summer that included things like tomatoes, peppers, basil, grapes, peaches, apricots, and plums.  All squeezed into the backyard of a small ranch home and next to the garage my dad built, with the help of my uncles naturally.  My dad would be mortified if he were alive to see the prices of red peppers today.  He probably would have converted the entire backyard to red pepper plants so he could start selling them himself!  When we couldn’t pick the produce from our backyard, we visited one of the many Italian fruit markets in the area because that’s where the next freshest produce was to be had.

 

To be continued…..