Tag Archives: Licia Canton

Cod Liver Oil: for breakfast

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And we’re back with a guest post by Licia Canton on – of all fishy dishes – cod liver oil. Stay tuned for next week’s foray into oyster cookery.

 

By the age of six I had been in Canada for two years. I was obliged to drink a little homemade wine at dinner because it was good for me. It would make me stronger, my Venetian parents said. The same with garlic.

I didn’t like garlic and I wasn’t crazy about wine as a child, either. But I disliked cod liver oil the most.

Every morning my mother put a spoonful of the slimy liquid into my mouth, followed by a teaspoon of sugar. That horrible taste of fish lasted all morning. It didn’t matter how much more sugar I sneaked before going up the hill on Bruxelles Street to St. Alice School, I was still burping fish at recess time.

I was a good, obedient daughter and therefore could not refuse the cod liver oil. My mother was the one who administered the medicinal fluid right after breakfast, and she was the gentlest person I had ever known. I was convinced that it wasn’t her idea. My father was the one who went on and on about how good cod liver oil was for kids.

Did he take it every morning before going to work? I didn’t know. I never asked. He was already at work by the time we had breakfast.

He didn’t go to church every Sunday morning either. But his kids wouldn’t get any Sunday lunch if he came home from work (Yes, he worked Sunday mornings, too.) and we couldn’t say yes to his “Did you go to church?” The times he did come to church (Christmas, Easter or a communion) he stood at the back. He never sat with us. I asked once why he did not sit with us. It would have been good for the regular churchgoers to know that I had a father. Standing was his way of doing penance, he said, for all the masses he had missed.

Eventually, I stopped taking cod liver oil, just as I stopped wearing the canottiera (the sleeveless undershirt I was forced to wear even after I began wearing a bra). My sister and I had to wear the canottiera (supplies of which we bought in Italy in the summer) all year round, even on the hottest summer days, because it was good for us!

I’d totally forgotten about cod liver oil by the time I had ditched the undershirt, but it came up again decades later, after I became a mother.

“Are you giving the children cod liver oil?” My father had pointed out that my kids looked a little pale. “You should give it to them every morning before they go to school. That’s what made you strong, remember?”

I didn’t like the thought of that at all. I remembered the fish taste in my mouth.

I was in the pharmacy one winter and stumbled upon the shelf with cod liver oil capsules. Either out of curiosity or sheer desire to stop my father’s “Are you giving them cod liver oil?”, I bought the capsules and took them home. By then I had read that cod liver oil enhances immunity. It also contains high levels of Omega 3 fatty acids and is a good source of Vitamin A and D.

I gave the capsules to the kids on a Saturday morning, not a school morning. Of course not.

Surprise! They didn’t like cod liver oil, either. I tasted a capsule to see if it was better than what I used to get… Yuck. It was the same oil even in capsules.

The next time my father asked if I had given my children cod liver oil, I quickly said yes.

Refuge in the Vineyard

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We interrupt our regular programming – literary breakfasts – to bring you a story by Licia Canton. Licia’s two previous posts Sbattutino is Love and Polenta and Radicchio: Growing Up Venetian in Montreal North were well and widely received. Licia recently read this story at the “Landscapes of Wine in Literature and Cinema” conference in Grumello del Monte, Bergamo, with vineyards in the background. She’s kindly offered to share a little of her Canadian literary fare on this site. The Italian version of “Refuge in the Vineyard” appears in the forthcoming volume  I paesaggi del vino nella letteratura e nel cinema, edited by Maria Pia Arpioni and Francesco Della Costa. Buona Lettura.

 

***

Why had she come back?

She lies on the grass, grapevines on either side of her. Eyes closed she listens to the silence. Silenzio. Soothing. Soothing silence. Ah, if it were only possible to come back to the vineyard and the silence every time she needed to. Only the vineyard. Only the silence.

Refuge

As a child she had played in the vineyard. She had roamed about freely. She knew every vine. The vines were her friends. I suoi amici. She spoke to them. Told them her secrets. She had always felt safe and protected. Never lonely. Even if she had always been alone. Every time she had needed a confidante, she came to the vineyard, stared at the sky. It was her sanctuary.

As a child she had spoken her thoughts and secrets. As an adult there was no need. They knew her. They knew her troubles. They listened.

Many years ago they had listened, they had consoled her when he whose name shall not be said, ever… ever again … he who had broken her heart, into tiny little pieces, then stomped on the pulsating bits and laughed . . . He had. He had laughed at the thought that she would never be able to make it whole again. That was pain. Pain. Dolore. She had slept in the vineyard that night decades ago.

Why had she come back?

She loved her ancestral home. She craved the vineyard but … she was a city girl, and a North American city at that.

Why had she come back? Why had she come back with her husband and children? Why put them through this? It is another world. A different world. One she is not sure she likes anymore. The connection to the rural land is her heritage. Hers, not theirs. Not her children’s, not her husband’s.

The land, yes. The people, well . . .

Today, too, she had sought refuge in the vineyard. But she could no longer sleep in the vineyard and she could not stay away too long. They would think she is … she is . . . Well no need to say . . . It didn’t matter anyway.

The grass is refreshing. The beating in her temple has slowly subsided. She had rushed off at the first sign of conflict. She was not proud of herself.

Whose idea was this anyway? To come back here. She no longer belongs here. She is a city girl.

Her father was still the same. Still the patriarch. It didn’t matter how old she was. It didn’t matter how many children she had. Four. She had four. Hers. They were hers. Not his.

It is becoming more and more difficult to come back to visit him. There was always a story, some issue. A big one or a little one. It didn’t matter. She always fell short of his expectations.

“Non vieni mai,” he complained. She was here now.

“Non porti mai i bimbi,” he grumbled.  They were all here now.

She doesn’t visit enough, she doesn’t stay long enough when she does come. She never comes with the children. Oh God!

“Ma è proprio vero che hai quattro figli?” he had said half-jokingly. “Forse le foto che mi mandi a Natale sono di altri bambini. Non i tuoi. Quelli che ti hanno prestato.”*

“Oh.” What else could she have said?

That was last year. This year, she had taken the kids to see him. And still he complained.

Whose idea was this anyway?

“We should take the kids to visit him,” her husband had said. “We should spend time with him. He’s getting old, you know. He doesn’t really know his grandchildren.” She had not responded.

She didn’t really want to.

She had raised her children on her own terms. With her husband.

After decades in Canada, her parents had moved back to the hometown in Italy. She had felt a little betrayed. She had just gotten married to a decent man, finally. They were going to have children.

“Fa troppo freddo qui.” Her parents moved back because of the weather. That’s what they said. The weather.

The cold. Il freddo. Is that a good reason to move back?

Then a few months after their return to the hometown, her mother had passed away suddenly.

Her father had not come back to Canada. He had stayed in Italy, alone. Unhappy, bitter. She had gone back repeatedly to be with him.

“Ah come on, let’s go visit him,” her husband had said.

They had planned a 30-day trek across four European countries with a side trip to visit her father. They wouldn’t stay very long. Just a few days. That’s what she knew she could handle. Her father wasn’t happy. Of course not.

“Mamma.” It’s him.

“Mamma.” She hears him again. She had dozed off.

“Mamma, can I sit next to you?” the kind one asks.

“C’è posto per me.” His voice is gentle. The gentlest voice she has ever heard. He is shy and sensitive. He is especially sensitive to her moods.

He watches her all the time, she knows. He reads her. He reads her every movement, her forced smiles. He reads her silent sighs. He reads her frustration… And in his six year old mind he looks for solutions, for ways of alleviating the weight she carries.

He has always been so.

***

Back in suburban Montreal, after a busy day, she can barely sit a few moments at the dinner table.

“Can you get the water please?”

“L’acqua, l’acqua, manca l’acqua.”

“Did anyone grate the cheese? Where’s the cheese?”

“Il formaggio. Dov’è il formaggio.”

“We don’t have any more cheese.”

“What no cheese? It isn’t pasta without cheese.”

“Mangia la pasta che è calda.”

“I don’t want to eat pasta without cheese!”

“Where’s the wine? You forgot the wine. Who’s going to get the wine?”

No one moves.

“I’ll get it.” She gets up quickly and walks down the stairs to the cantina.

“Get a bottle of red . . .” she hears him holler as she reaches the bottom step.

“Thank you sweetheart,” he says as she places the bottle of homemade wine on the table.

She smiles a tired smile. A thank-you now and then, at least.

Moments later. The twins are picking on each other and the glass spills red onto the tablecloth.

“I’ll get the rag,” she says.

“Quick, it’s dripping onto the floor,” her daughter hollers.

“I’ll get the mop.”

She cleans it up. She sits down again. Exhausted.

“Can I ever have a peaceful dinner!” she blurts out unexpectedly.

“You wanted four kids,” he stares at her. “Now we have four kids.” That’s his way of lightening the mood.

She doesn’t laugh. She is pooped. She is looking forward to her pillow. But it’s only 7:00 p.m. and they haven’t finished dinner yet. Then the kitchen, the lunches. The last minute homework to check, the backpacks to verify. The notes the teachers sent… someone has to read those. Four kids all in elementary school. The oldest in sixth grade, the youngest in first.

“Are you listening to me?” her husband is staring at her.

She has missed part of the conversation.

“Where were you?” he doesn’t smile. “Are you asleep at the wheel, Woman?”

She has a prompt response that she holds back. The kids are listening. She doesn’t want to cause a scene. It will escalate if she responds. She doesn’t need this now. She doesn’t have the energy. She makes the choice not to reply.

“Huh?” he says. “What’s up.”

“I’m tired,” that’s all she is going to say. She looks down at her plate. She shuts everyone out.

The vineyard. If only she could beam over to the vineyard, an escape from this hectic urban challenge.

She counts to ten, and when she is sure she will not respond, she looks up to see her youngest child reaching across the table from her. His little hand is stretched to its maximum. He waits. He smiles. She puts down her fork and reaches her hand to his. The tips of their fingers touch. Zip. Zip. He makes the sound of instant energy and he smiles his shy smile.

The shape of his smile says it all: “I am giving you all of my energy. Don’t give up, I am here. I’ve got your back. Keep on going. It’ll be OK because I love you and you love me.”

She smiles at him. The others have accepted that this is their code. None of the others ever reaches over to give her energy.

***

And now he is standing here in her vineyard, asking if there is a spot for him in this greenery. Amid the vines, in her refuge.

“Why are you here alone, Mamma? Are you sad?”

“No, non sono triste, amoretto mio.”

“Do you want to be alone? Do you want me to leave?”

Yes, she had wanted to be alone, but now that he is here she is happy that he has come.

“Tu sei qui perché nonno ha parlato troppo.”

She stares at him. He is the only one who understands. He is the only one who dares speak it.

“Nonno is mean. È cattivo. He said a mean thing to you. Is that why you came here? Did you run away?”

Running away has crossed her mind. Many times.

She will not run away. This little boy gives her all she needs to stay.

She may not be the most beautiful woman in the world, she may not be the smartest. But she is the most loved. By this little boy.

He holds her hand. They sit in silence, unaware they are being watched.

Refuge with company

 

 

 

 

* “Do you really have four children?” he had said half-jokingly. “Maybe the photos you send at Christmas are of other children. Not yours. Those they lent you.”

 

 

Text by Licia Canton

Photos by Domenic Cusmano

“Polenta and Radicchio: Growing up Venetian in Montreal-North”

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Author/editor Licia Canton’s previous post on sbattutino was so widely read, we asked her back. She has delivered in the form of polenta and radicchio. Tutti a tavola dear readers.

 

Few people know that I am a writer with a backup plan. I put myself through school (all the way up to and including university) working in my parents’ butcher shop. I can handle several types of butcher’s knives. I can debone a pig’s head and make a variety of cuts out of a pork shoulder or a side of beef. I’ve always found solace knowing that, if times might get really tough and I wouldn’t be able to pay the bills by working with words, I could always seek employment in the meat department of a supermarket.

I grew up in a Venetian-Canadian family. My parents owned a butcher shop at the corner of Sabrevois and Rome streets in Montreal-North. We ate a lot of meat. Whatever was not sold ended up in our plates at dinnertime. Fillet mignon was a rare treat. We ate polenta and radicchio, staples in my parents’ hometown. It was my responsibility to prepare dinner after school and lunch every second Sunday. I made the meat sauce for the pasta, what we called el sugo. (Sauté onion and celery, then brown the minced or cubed meat; add salt, pepper and diced fresh or canned tomatoes; and let it simmer for one hour.) I was taught that every recipe takes a long time to make. Polenta, for instance, needed to be stirred nonstop. Years later, I found out that there is a shortcut to making polenta. Simply add salt to boiling water, add the cornmeal, put the lid on the pot and let the polenta cook by itself. No need to stir for 30-45 minutes. I could have gone outside to play while the polenta cooked itself had I known that the end product was the same. I am convinced that my parents taught me the long version because they wanted me to stay inside the house. Some nights, instead of having pasta or soup as a first course we had polenta e latte (milk). Once the polenta was ready, we added spoonfuls to a bowl of cold milk. The polenta warmed up the milk. It was like drinkable cornmeal.

In our vegetable garden, we mostly grew radicchio – our staple vegetable year round. We ate fresh red radicchio until the snow came. Then, we cooked and strained the radicchio, shaped it into balls and froze them. The dark green balls were taken out of the freezer, diced and sautéd in onion. It was rather bitter, but we ate it with meat, polenta, pasta al ragu and wine. My father made his own wine every September. He mixed several types of California grapes. Zinfandel was his favourite.

We children, too, were obliged to drink a quarter or an eighth glass of red wine at dinnertime. I closed my eyes and drank it right away so that I could move on to drinking something else. My sister did not drink anything during the meal: she always tried to leave the table without drinking the wine.

“Come back here, Ester,” my father would say after dinner, as she walked away from the table. “You have to drink the wine. You know that.” She’d go back and gulp it down and then run away.

When I was younger and had nothing to do (read, before my children were born), I liked to make my own pasta and gnocchi just like our mothers and grandmothers used to do. Nowadays, if my Calabrian-Canadian self-appointed chef husband-colleague insists on making dinner as a de-stressor, who am I to argue?

On the menu tonight, as a way of reconnecting to our roots: cooked radicchio, polenta and milk, and pasta al forno. (Not to be confused with lasagna or pasticcio, pasta al forno is a blend of cooked noodles, meat sauce and cheese. The mixture is laid out in a baking dish and cooked in the oven for about an hour or until the top is crusty).

 

radicchio cooked and raw
polenta
polenta
polenta
pasta al forno
pork chops

Sbattutino Is Love

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We asked Montreal author and editor, Licia Canton, for a recipe and a story. For this Valentine’s Day, why not make sbattutino for the one you love?

 

“What’s the most important ingredient in this meal?” I grew up with that question.

I did a lot of the cooking after school. I was taught that every meal is made slowly and caringly. Love is the main ingredient to every meal.

Of all the foods I learned to prepare, from my mother and father, the sbattutino* is the one that I equate with love. My mother’s love. My mother is the only one who has ever made sbattutino for me. It’s quite simple to make really: simply beat an egg yolk with two tablespoons of sugar until it becomes a creamy white mixture and the grains of sugar are no longer distinguishable. Getting it just right involves constant beating for about fifteen minutes.

The sbattutino is comfort food – it tastes good and it’s uplifting. I yearn for my mother’s sbattutino when I am really down. A few years ago, when I was bedridden after a car accident, my mother asked if there was anything she could do for me.

“Can you make me a sbattutino?” I asked. “That’s all I want.”

Very early the next morning, she came over and made my childhood treat for breakfast.

The other day I visited my mother, now 80, in her Montreal-North home. She wanted to feed me, of course. She had left-over polenta and guinea hen. She had homemade biscotti.

“How about a sbattutino?” I asked.

She went over to the kitchen, took out the eggs and the sugar bowl.

We had some on bread – spreadable sbattutino. We had some with espresso and milk. And I also had some with Marsala.

Over the years I’ve made sbattutino for my children, but it just doesn’t taste the same as my mother’s.

 

*Literally sbattutino means “little beaten one.” (Isn’t it interesting that this drinkable food is uplifting.) The word has its root in the verb sbattere – to beat, as in “to beat an egg.” Sbattuto means beaten. And the suffix “ino” is the diminutive. For those who know a little Italian: it is “lo sbattutino” or “uno sbattutino,” not “il” or “un” because the “s” is followed by a consonant.

 

Text and Photos by Licia Canton