Mrs. Bennadetti's Legacy
Everyone thought my family was Italian when I was growing up. If their assumptions were based upon the adage ‘You Are What You Eat’, their conclusions were unquestionably justified! Italian ingredients and foods filled our kitchen ~ the shelves, countertops, refrigerator and eventually, our welcoming and appreciative stomachs. How I loved the mouth-watering scents and aromas that emanated from our kitchen.
Within the deep recesses of my mind I still hear my mother’s voice, never ceasing to remind me of the debt that we owe ~ a debt of honour for the abundance of memories and the gratifying culinary pleasures that still remain such an essential part of my life today.
This enormous debt is owed to one woman, Mrs. Anna Bennadetti of Bristol, Connecticut by way of Bologna, Italy. I remain in awe of this iconic legend whose generosity to a young, newlywed has blessed generations of our family with the love of all things Italian.
My mother was the sole creator of our daily meals. Thinking back, Oh the sheer joy of recollection! ~ the sensuous aromas and exquisite taste sensations. It is far too restraining to think of them merely as “meals”. There was ALWAYS food being prepared, served and devoured in our home ~ with rare exceptions, all three would be occurring at the same time. It was impossible and foolhardy for any human being to attempt a brief stop or a quick visit to my childhood home ~ to enter was to eat.
Mother was passionate about cooking, eating and most importantly providing food for others. Food equalled sustenance for the soul. Everyone was clearly in need of nourishment to sustain them for whatever they might encounter between visits to our home.
Feeling sad ~ a nourishing plate of Pollo alla cacciatora with some warm, homemade garlic bread would be sure to cheer you up. Worrying about something ~ a nice serving of Lasagne alla bolognese would ease your worries. An occasion for happiness ~ a slice of Torta della nonna or some Biscotti di nocciola were called for. No matter what the reason, time of day or season of the year, there were always sufficient ingredients in our kitchen to nurture and feed anyone and everyone who crossed our threshold.
Our home was always filled with the joy that invariably accompanies people sitting companionably around a large table enjoying good food, wine and a warm welcome. Everyone who entered our home was treasured as an honoured guest. "Treat your friends like family and your family like friends" ~ was a motto we heard often as children.
Mother was the most gracious of hostesses welcoming people of all ages, backgrounds and interests with equal enthusiasm and an honest respect for one and all. She believed that one’s uniqueness was to be cherished. ‘Show a person the respect he deserves and you always learn something of value to treasure and enrich your life.’
Ours was a home overflowing with love. This love was demonstrated in a myriad of ways yet with one ever-present element, food. The family kitchen was always at the centre of our home life. Life was joyously full and certainly never dull or quiet.
As the eldest child, I remember first standing and then sitting on a tall wooden stool that enabled me to reach the countertops and sinks to work contentedly beside my mother. She had incredible patience and absolutely every shared experience is remembered as being filled with joy and encouragement. To mother, every effort was worthy of praise and I loved pleasing her. Her smile lit up her face and my life. Her love for her family was without limits. When even mere attempts are rewarded, no matter what the end result of one’s efforts, it is so easy to experiment and explore without fear.
Mother created a kitchen that was both a laboratory and a playroom. Nothing was off limits to her children. It was my favourite room in our home and my two younger brothers each joined in the fun as soon as they were able to stand on the kitchen stool. Actually, they were present and involved long before that time arrived.
Always happiest when her children were close by, mother would assign us the important roles of “Official Tasters” and “Chef’s Special Assistants”. She would produce a long wooden spoon and a large metal mixing bowl with a grand flourish. This bowl, she would announce emphatically, contained something exceedingly important, crucial to the successful outcome of the dish we were all creating.
The vital mixing, she would explain, could only be done while sitting on the floor. Proper blending of these essential ingredients required this precise position. The bowl placed on the countertop could not produce the same excellent result.
This “Special Job” was reserved for the youngest child. Often as not, there was as much on the floor as in the bowl when the feat was completed.
No comment was ever made about kitchen mess, only great praise for the child who was responsible for the perfectly smooth blending of the contents. Mother never failed to let each of us know that our individual part was essential to the completion of the dish. We would feel proud of ourselves and our contribution to the delicious food enjoyed in our home.
When my father arrived home from work, we would proudly help to carry our offerings of the day to the family table. Then we all sat down to share and discuss our activities and thoughts during the hours that had elapsed since our breakfast together.
The evening meal preparation often required an early start, enabling the sauce to simmer slowly throughout the day. We would shop together, carefully selecting the freshest ingredients that were needed for that day. Learning about new and unfamiliar items was always exciting, as was measuring, scooping and ladling. Back in the kitchen, after chopping the fresh colourful ingredients, opening and adding the contents from any tubes, containers, or jars, we would gather ceremonially around the stove.
Youngest child on a chair or in mother’s arms, we would all gaze into the large green pot. Together we would stare mesmerized by the frantic bubbling and boiling before the gas flame was lowered and the mixture slowly calmed down. I remember visions of a witch’s cauldron as I gazed wide-eyed into the wildly steaming ingredients in our green pot. I knew that our magic potion was the antidote described in the stories I loved, the special brew that when administered by “The Good Witches”, would enchant everyone who would partake of the magic it held.
In our kitchen, individual ingredients were given time to sit companionably in colourful bowls “making friends and joining forces” on the counter before being added later in the day. When meat or chicken were part of the day’s offerings, they would be left to “have time to relax and become tender” in a special marinade. Our culinary experiments were always described with alluring and enticing imagery that added to the magic of our endeavours.
Throughout my childhood as well as in later years, I was acutely aware of Mrs. Bennadetti’s invisible, yet rarefied place in our home. Her name alone was whispered when spoken by my parents; voiced in “other-worldly sounds”, never as a mere mortal or an ordinary person who inhabits our world. It was uttered reverently as a devoutly religious person might speak of a holy saint whose name they bore or a sacred being who had created a miracle in answer to a special prayer.
Those overhearing my mother or father speak her name would understandably think of my family as both Catholic and Italian. We were neither. Yet their personal saint, Mrs. Anna Bennadetti, did indeed bring a miracle to my parents’ first home and the start of their life together ~ she alone saved them from starvation. That was a certainty according to my father. My mother firmly believed that she also, single-handedly, saved their marriage from an early collapse.
My parents’ happy marriage lasted forty years until my mother’s untimely death. How often I think of the joy mother and Mrs. B. would have shared knowing that more than fifty years after they met, as part of her degree in Italian and Art History, my English/American daughter lived in Bologna for five months while studying at The University of Bologna. Bologna, Mrs B’s childhood home and the university where she met Carlo Bennadetti, married him and together they moved to Bristol, Connecticut where I was born and they became Italian/Americans. At home with my family in my English kitchen, often preparing Italian meals, I am reminded that our world is indeed a very small and precious one.