Red Wine, Garlic and Olive Oil
When, at 90 plus a physician asked the secret of her longevity, my aunt Phyll definitively answered “Red Wine, Garlic and Olive Oil.” The “olive oil” part was slightly elided, as in the sentence “That raisin wine comes from Itt-ly” And it could only be Berio from Lucca. The garlic was lots, freshly peeled, sliced or mini-diced in the clove. Never: Stored in oil. Powdered. Pressed. The red wine was Paisano by the gallon-cheap and good. Hard to believe there was a time when that wine along with half gallons of whiskeys, and of course glass bottles of ‘mixers’ and kid sodas were delivered to her back porch, signed off by youngsters old enough to be at home alone when adults worked weekends in the family business.
Such deliveries were as frequent as her famous yard parties-welcoming a multitude of family and friends to a trimmed carpet of green lawn hand picked clean of crabgrass-where she would fiercely, and I mean fiercely defend her yellow rose bush and flowering quince from oodles of children running free. Everybody provided something fabulous to eat. They left the always-from-scratch-even-when-there-were-mixes lemon-meringue pie to her. No one could replicate its legendary status.
Her small NJ kitchen-aromatic with oregano, basil, bay leaf-lured many inside. Hence her title “Everybody’s Aunt Phyll.” My younger brother once answered her early morning weekend breakfast call, and found his hungover self at her counter on a white metal step stool in front of a large plate of well seasoned 1 inch pork chops. She would bellow at me for standing mesmerized at the open door of her refrigerator-the one with the minuscule sliver freezer that always iced up. How could you not stare in at all them strange and magical goodies? Jars of pickled pigs feet, fried mushrooms, peppers, red gravy. She convinced me to eat sautéed chicken hearts and livers with garlic and wine at brunch time. I stopped at the tripe, although I bet hers was delectable. She was a hell of a cook, and made it clear we were to waste no thing.
She worked hard. She left school at 14 to work in “the lace factory” wherever that was (probably Newark) to add to her family’s income, as girls were supposed to do then. She tossed out an unfaithful husband and singlehandedly raised a daughter, who of course went to college. On not very much money, she managed to own two small houses that I know of. Each one modest, two small one bedroom units neatly stacked. She filled a first floor apartment with deftly placed antiques, and read her nightly newspaper on the most uncomfortable period horse hair loveseat. She dressed impeccably. She used an inventive way to dismiss folderol: “shit in your hat, pull it down over your ears and punch it” is only one fine example. It may or may not have been original, but has never lost it’s impact.
And I could go on. It has been years since feisty Filomena left us. I and numerous others still marvel at her industry and tell and retell stories about her, laughing about how very much we owe to her. And I duly confess, If I do not have a baseline of at least 2 large bottles of quality olive oil and 6 heads of garlic in the house, I panic. OK. I have to have both red and white wine on hand, but I think she would nevertheless approve.