In today’s world, the egg yolk is not considered healthy and the wine, of course is never given to children. Today, I’m thankful for my good health and the enjoyment of a good glass of red wine. Grandma’s little concoction really wasn’t the healthiest, but it has a secret ingredient that made it so special and that ingredient was love.

Later I bought the business from them and sold everything Italian…home made Italian sausage, home made Italian Cappa Cola. I even made home made Italian Roast Pork.

Then around 1973, I started to make Weight Watchers meals because I was a Weight Watcher. Meals such as stuffed shells, manicotti and cheese cakes. I called the meals Little Joe’s diet delights. I even made my own invention of Italian sauce Weight Watcher style.

When my husband died 15 years ago, I closed my business and now, at 90 years old, I can say that I am very proud of being Italian.

P.S. We love to attend the Italian American festival and the food and oh, those beautiful Italian songs

We lived near a live chicken market. They sold live chickens and eggs. They had whole eggs, and they had cracked eggs which were much cheaper. My mother used to send my oldest sister to the chicken market to buy those cracked eggs, and they went a long way in feeding us – Potatoes and Eggs, Peppers and Eggs, Onions and Eggs – delicious sandwiches on crusty Italian Bread. We didn’t know the word “salmonella” in those days.

We were poor, but we didn’t know it.

Of course, there were the holidays and the holiday specialties. Easter meant Easter Bread, Pastia and Appizzagain, and Ricotta Pie. Christmas meant homemade Christmas cookies; at least 10 different types. And after baking for 3 weeks, most of the cookies were given away to neighbors, relatives, co-workers, etc. Christmas Eve was the big holiday for us. The seven fish, of course; shrimp, schmelts, calamari, etc. Oh, and, of course, roasted chestnuts.

I remember walking through my grandparent’s yard and “talking” to the tomato plants. My grandfather told me if I didn’t talk to them, they wouldn’t grow. I wanted homemade “gravy” so you could bet I was talking to those tomatoes! Not to mention the eggplant and all the fresh herbs.

I hope my children cherish their culture as I do!

Our Dad was a waiter and worked nights, so having family meals was very special. I remember there were bread crumbs all over the tablecloth, as Dad always ate bread w/his meals. He enjoyed cured olives and eggplant salad and peppers. It seemed every meal had three or four courses.

When our Dad retired he enjoyed cooking, so he made the meals for my little sister and Mom. When my sister came home, she went right into the kitchen (renovated basement) and Dad would uncover her meal. We tease her how spoiled she was, but she is a wonderful Mom and homemaker!

The movie musical "Nine" is coming out soon and there is a song, "Be Italian." I'm proud growing up Italian!

During the holidays we sat down to the smells of garlic, homemade sauce and freshly grated cheese. Along with the food came the disagreements. To this day I remember the argument between my uncle and my mother over how many teaspoons were in a tablespoon that lasted for 2 years. Of course there were always the behind the scenes discussions over who made the best meatballs and sauce.

We were never a wealthy family but we were a family devoted to one another and to our heritage. We took care of one another in the good times and the bad. We paid our bills on time, loved our children, and cried as our loved ones passed. Our memories are filled with smells of tradition, love around the table, and the pride of being Italian.

My Father became a lawyer who represented mostly non-English speaking American workers. My Father also was a Captain in the Second World War – fighting for America.

My Uncle Ben was a chemical engineer who worked with the great Italian physicist, Enrico Fermi, helping to develop the nuclear program for the United States. My Uncles on my Mom's side were all engineers.

This is the Italian American Heritage that I was raised on - love and honor, loyalty, character, commitment. In the name of my Parents and Grandparents, I will always be a proud Italian American.

My Mom was born Elaine Mandracchia in Hell's Kitchen New York. She is the daughter of a first generation Italian butcher and Irish mother. My Grandfather was a great Italian cook, knew his meats and spoke Italian. Grandpa Tony was a city kid who knew the lows of the Depression and was a family man who loved to cook and pass along his love for Italian food to his grandchildren. He taught us how to cut meat correctly, how to cook his Italian favorites as his Mother taught him. His example of how to be a good family man and a good cook was always an inspiration.

My Dad was an Irish kid from the Bronx who joined the Navy to see the world. His favorite ports were in Italy. My Dad wanted to speak Italian like a native and he took Italian language classes. During visits to Italy he spoke Italian so well that he was asked where in northern Italy he was from by Italians he met there.

My Mom and Mother-in-Law are great Italian cooks and they have also taught me to cook their Italian favorites. Eating their Eggplant, Pasta, and Meatballs spoiled me and made restaurant meals second best.

I have been able to teach my children to cook my Italian favorites and now you know that I am Italian, part.

They came from an unfashionable part of Italy and the people that stayed behind lived lives of pure poverty. My Grandparents came to America by boat – steerage class. Steers shipped to Europe and people shipped to America. By any standard, they did well. Their children all prospered and everyone had a chance to pursue happiness.

My Grandfather arrived just in time to volunteer to fight in World War 1. If he survived, they would automatically become citizens. Mustard gas and the face of Death in France did not stop him.

Our present day ideas about Italian cooking and eating for pleasure were nowhere to be found in their kitchen, even though everyone was fed and no one was turned away. Espresso and cappuccino were yet to be ‘discovered’ in their household and everyone drank very weak tea from the same teapot with one or maybe two tea bags for the whole family.

I’m glad that my Grandparents took the greatest chance in their lives and came to America. They enjoyed Life’s trip until the end of their days in their own way. My hope is that we will do as well.

The people of the Burg were a composite of various ethnic groups, but overwhelmingly of struggling Italian immigrants and their descendants. It was a safe and secure bastion of good, honest, hardworking and trusting people.

As in any Italian neighborhood, food was the centerpiece of the Italian-American family. There was a constant aroma emanating from the homes throughout Chambersburg that was distinctive, mouthwatering and appetizing. No mistake about it. It was definitely Italian.

There was also the near overwhelming and pleasurable smell from the numerous produce stands and family run markets scattered throughout Chambersburg. To compliment that wonderful smell, most backyards in Chambersburg had at least one highly prized and tenderly cared for fig tree. Many had grape arbors in which they took great pride and gave meticulous attention. The smell of grapes in particular, was especially obvious during the grape season and the season of homemade wine. Many homes had anywhere from one to several wine barrels and a wine press in their basement. Everyone who knew the art of wine making had their very own little wine processing plant. No question, the Burg wine was always acclaimed the best.

Growing up as an Italian-American in Chambersburg during the decades of the 40’s and 50’s were fun filled and fantastic years. Those years were squeezed in between the era of the depression from the late 1920’s to the 30’s, and the terrible decade of the 60’s with Vietnam, marijuana and civil rebellion. I thank God that I was one of the privileged ones to have experienced Chambersburg during the 1940’s and 1950’s. They were great times. My only regret is that my children and grandchildren were not around to experience those wonderful years.

Because of the number of children, we moved from one school district to another - going to 3 different schools in one year.

I can remember going to Welfare to pick up 100 lb bags of rice, beans, flour, etc. and helping Pop push the wagon home.

Mom was a good cook and baked large batches of bread. We brought it to Tallone's to be baked.

Remember John A. Roebling where the sound of the wire turning could be heard in the still of the night; Coca Cola - we watched through the window as the bottles processed; or crashing weddings on the weekends - ElDorado Hall or Nardi's. How about the September feast with the Madonna being carried down Butler Street.

Mom worked as a short order cook at Freddie's on Kent Street where for 50 cents you would receive a large dish of spaghetti with 2 meatballs. On Sundays she would treat us kids with a gallon of root beer which she purchased for 25 cents.

Coal was expensive, so Pop would take us kids to the railroad tracks to gather up coal for our coal stove - our only means of heat and cooking.

I had a wonderful life in the Burg. Those of us who are left still acknowledge our childhood without regrets, but fond memories.

Remember (Rose and Alex) Trionfetti’s Restaurant? My little brother Gus would go to the back door and - for 25 cents - Mrs. Trionfetti would send him home with a kettle of soup that fed the whole family!

I have vivid memories of being an eight-year-old Italian American headed into The Great Depression. I remember the day our family purchased a property at 547 Chestnut Avenue. The first floor housed my father’s printing business, “20th Century Publishing Company.” The second and third stories became our living quarters. (As times got tougher, we rented a home at 569 Chestnut Avenue for $35 a month.)

Over the years, my brother Bill worked for Coca Cola, my sister Louise enrolled at St. Francis School of Nursing, my sister Florence held a state government job and my youngest brother Gus did well in school while helping with the household chores.

Other people and places to remember? Playing ball on Davis Alley with used gloves and bats donated by Goo Goo Radice, The Agabiti Club, Pete Tonti’s first “minute steak” sandwich shop on Anderson Street...and, sadly, World War II, where Bill, a Marine, was lost in the Pacific, and where I served in the Coast Guard with former state senator Sido Ridolfi, who later encouraged me to run for office.

I was born in the Germantown section of Philadelphia in 1938. The start of World War 11 was just months away. We had no computers, air conditioning or television. News came from the radio, newspapers, and movie theaters.

I attended Francis Daniel Pastorious Elementary School, where I was constantly teased. “You Italian?” my classmates would ask, derogatorily. ‘Mussolini lover; meatball; wop!’ I soon learned that in the Germantown of those days, being Italian was not very popular.

I am a first-generation Italian American. My father was born in Margherita Di Savoia, in Puglia in 1905. My mother was born in 1905, her parents also from the Meridionale.

Members of my family were very modest; indeed, they never mentioned the word sex. My instruction regarding “the birds and the bees” occurred when I was 15-years of age. My grandmother took me aside, and said, “Gilda, you are growing nicely and it’s time for me to tell you something very important. We sat on the parlor sofa, my grandmother resolute, but nervous. “Gilda, promise me. Never let a man touch your”---she couldn’t go on; it was too embarassing. After taking a long breath, she composed herself and courageously blurted out---‘Don’t ever let a man touch your knee! That’s where it all begins.’ The conversation ended.

My grandparent's home was the place for family and holiday gatherings. My Nan made all of the food and never sat down the whole time we were eating. She was such a great cook and we always looked forward to her meals.

In the summer months in Ocean City, NJ, we could smell her food blocks away coming home from the beach. We looked forward to the chicken cutlets, roasted potatoes, tomato salad with lots of garlic and bread for dipping into the juice. Then the fruit and pizzelle or a homemade cake or pie.

I was able to know my maternal great-grandparents who came from Italy to start their family in South Philadelphia. My Nan told me all about her life growing up with 5 sisters and two brothers.

The closeness of our family since I was a little girl was all from my Nan. She was my best friend and taught me so much. Spending time with family and gathering around the table enjoying a glass of wine and good food will always bring a smile to my face. She lived to be 95 and I miss her very much. I will always be proud to be her granddaughter and carry on the Italian heritage in our family.

We knew exactly what he meant.

Some of "us" grew up saying sauce, the others saying gravy.

I don't know why and neither does anyone else.

It never fails to start a friendly debate when-ever my friends get together.

So tell me "is it sauce or gravy"?

When the Jersey tomatoes were in season, all of us would go to my grandmother’s house to can tomatoes. The tomatoes were cut in small pieces and we shoved them into soda bottles with a couple of leaves of basil, then the bottles were capped. For this job we received two cents each to go buy penny candy.

I remember mom, cooking gravy (sauce to you non-Italians), it simmered on the coal stove for at least four hours. What a pleasant aroma. The other meals I remember were made with eggs. She made eggs and peppers, eggs and rice, eggs and hot dogs, eggs and red gravy, eggs and potatoes, and eggs and sausage – it all tasted good.

Winters were rough. We had one coal stove in the kitchen for cooking and heating. Many times I washed up fast, put on my underwear and ran downstairs to get dressed by the warm stove. I remember going to bed on freezing nights when my mom or pop would come in and throw heavy coats on top of the blankets to keep us warm.

Fruits, vegetables and fish were sold by “hucksters.” My favorite was the man from Prior’s donuts. He would sell doughnuts leftover from his deliveries – a real treat!

Well anyway that was twenty-nine years ago. So much has happened in that time. My best friend died, all his children are grown and have families of their own. That young boy I took under my wing is a college graduate with a degree in the arts field. He has a wonderful wife and three lovely girls. My wife and I still stop by to see his mother and have a cup of coffee with her. She is a wonderful lady and can be rightfully proud of her kids. I am very proud of them all but especially of one.

Sure, we gathered together for holidays, birthdays and to celebrate weddings and other life events but with an extended family apt to cross paths frequently even a quick visit would turn into an occasion. A drop-in to a relative’s house would not be complete without a cup of coffee and a sweet treat of some kind…no matter what the time of day. If the visit fell close to a meal time, then a more substantial repast would be provided.

An invitation to take a place at the table was not a polite suggestion. Anyone crossing the threshold, not just relatives, was welcomed and offered a little something. Sharing refreshment, elaborate or modest, was the duty of host and guest. Multiple generations gathered around the table for anything from coffee and a snack to a full-blown feast. Breaking bread was a sacrament.

From the simplest fare to the most elaborate meal, the food nourished our bodies just as the boisterous discourse nourished our souls. Hours spent lingering over the last morsels of a meal and savoring crumbs of conversation; each bite garnished with companionship and camaraderie.

The long days filled with laughter and love; family, food, and friends.

After serving and returning home from the Army in 1973 I landed a job at The Mike Douglas Show where I met my husband. Although he was 38 years older, Howie and I were inseparable. He was the Band leader at Palumbos, Sciollas, and Cozy Morleys. My Italian stamina proved to be handy in all of these male dominated jobs I took on. I began doing fundraising shows with an Italian twist and continue to do so from my home office in Egg Harbor Twp, NJ.

My dad's death was my birth at age 6 years old and I owe my Good Italian Mother for all of my success. I belong to Unico Atlantic City and enjoy learning from my more learned members. My Bariese and Abbrusese heritage is most prominent in the kitchen and I collect Italian-American Singer pictures as a hobby. I am currently doing the best thing yet and that is working with Connie Francis on her new path, old tunes. I'm glad I found your site. BlackMagicSwingBand.com

All of my brothers went into the service. I wanted to be just like them and went to enlist but they wouldn’t let me since all my brothers had enlisted and one of them, Michael, had died while in the service. That was when we moved to Hamilton, on Edinburg Road, to the home in which I still live.

When we moved out to Edinburg Road my brothers and their friends used to gather at my parents house every Sunday morning for breakfast. If it was a special occasion they would come back for dinner. I continue the breakfast tradition to this day with friends and family. It’s the place where the idea of the Mercer County Italian American Festival was born.