Italian Funerals and Other Festive Occasions

By John (Giovanni) Miranda

It was fortunate for Giovanni that he didn’t discover his family’s secrets until now. As an adult, he can laugh about it. The Mafia at his doorstep, a scary grandmother with “special powers” and his favorite aunt who knitted him sweaters and smuggled gin: New York in the twenties seemed so normal to the seven year old boy. Now, with warmth and humor, Mr. Miranda shares not only his family secrets with us, but also twelve of his secret family recipes going back five Sicilian generations. Good food and good fun go well together with the bizarre, but very real characters in his childhood adventures.
Actor and playwright John Miranda (born Giovanni Mercuri Miranda) has had an exciting career in Hollywood and on Broadway, but his trip home at Christmas to visit his aging mother triggered a flood of long-hidden memories of his childhood – reality is always more exciting and surprising than fiction!

• Language: English
• Publisher: John (Giovanni) Miranda
• Release date: Jul 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301194391

Book preview

Prologue

My parents emigrated from Sicily. Dad always said if you are not Sicilian, you might as well not be Italian. His pride also fueled his lifelong struggle to keep our family from getting involved with the Mafia. He was mostly successful.

Mom did not know any bedtime stories or fairy tales, so when it came time to tuck me in my little bed she would tell me the plots of all the operas and sing bits from La Bohème or Traviata.

My imaginary opera playmates were enchanting to me. They afforded me the illusion that our relatives, and characters from our neighborhood were normal. They were not.

―GIOVANNI MERCURI MIRANDA

one

Monday, December 20, 1984

Port St. Lucie, Florida

Sitting in the breakfast nook, and having nothing better to do but watch the bottle brush tree shed its red blossoms, I wonder, What am I doing in Florida?

I had completed the crossword puzzle in the Port St. Lucie paper, read the funnies, and then made the mistake of reading my horoscope. It confirmed my suspicion that this was not a good time for travel, Romance, finances or family matters. Which brought me back to What am I doing here?

I know my sister Brigida is trying her best to make this a wonderful holiday for all of us. She’s in Mom’s bedroom right now, dressing her. I'm not sure Mom knows whether it's Christmas or Easter Sunday. After enduring many decades of bizarre family holidays filled with drama, I wanted to be anywhere else but here at my sister’s house with my Mom in failing health.

This holiday developed into the blockbuster of dramas.

So far, I haven't heard anyone running around wildly shouting, Ciavuru di morte, Ciavuru di morte! – The smell the death! The smell of death! This was a very common event in old Sicilian families. If death had just occurred, or if it was sensed that it was about to happen, someone always smelled death approaching. They would run around the house wild-eyed and screaming that the smell was getting stronger and death was seconds away. I'm sure the poor guy on his death bed loved hearing that. I can just hear him thinking, Let’s see, should I let myself die now, or listen to that screaming for another hour.

Death is always so Romantic in opera and accompanied by glorious music. Mom's idea of a lullaby was to sing Violetta's dying aria, complete with coughs and death rattle. Then she would kiss me on the cheek and say, "Buonanotte, Giovanni. Sweet dreams."

When Brigida walked into the kitchen I was happy to see her. I was putting a cassette into the tape deck. "Che Gelida Manina" from La Bohème.

Good morning, John, she said brightly. Getting over your jet lag?

Pretty much.

A penny for your thoughts, little brother.

I was dreaming of Mimi’s tiny, frozen fingers.

Of course you were, she said, abruptly turning off the tape deck. "What do you want for breakfast?

Just toast. How’s Mom?

She’s nuts.

She’s not nuts. She’s senile.

No, she’s nuts, Brigida insisted. She was senile when she was eleven. Now, she’s nuts.

Maybe Brigida was right. When I was in the army, Mom sent me an ID bracelet. She wrote that the bracelet would identify me if I was hit on the head and got amnesia. All it had on it was the name Johnny. In her world, I was the only Johnny on the planet.

I didn’t hear Mom come into the room. Long before she’d reached the age of ninety-two, she had perfected the art of catching me off guard.

Good morning, Giovanni! she said, giving me a gentle kiss on the forehead.

Good morning, Mom.

Brigida pulled the chair out for Mom as she had been doing for the endless stream of mornings since Mom had come to live with her.

Oatmeal okay this morning, Mom? Brigida asked, as she put a bowl of it on the table in front of her.

Mom fixed her oatmeal differently than most people. Instead of sugar, she’d devised a concoction rich with butter and salt. She selected a spoonful of oatmeal from the bowl, and let her mouth pass judgment on its texture. I watched to see if her lips smacked from too much salt.

After nodding her approval, Mom patted me on the arm. Giovanni, it’s good she began. But then her thoughts took a wrong left turn. I proud of you! You, a volunteer fireman, just like you Papa.

The non-sequitor made me laugh. I’m not a fireman, Mom. I’m an actor. I live in California.

My brother, Nicole, he like you Papa. He take me to a Fireman’s Ball and introduce him to me. I did no like him right away, you Papa. He was handsome, sure. But he was fresh!

Pop was fresh? Brigida asked, equally surprised as I was.

"Oh, yes. He ask me to dance and he pinch me – maleducato!"

How rude! I exclaimed.

Rude, yes. Mom took another spoon of oatmeal and savored her recollection.

You Papa, he come to see Nicole all the time. But he really come to see me. Little by little, I like him more and more. One time, he take me to a dance alone. And I pinch him!

This time, Mom shared her laughter and her eyes filled with a brightness. She reached over and touched my hand.

You look like you Papa, Giovanni. It is good to see you.

It’s good to see you, too, Mom.

I felt the warmth coming from my mother’s hand. It gave me a sense of comfort – a sense of being grounded to some kind of past. But Brigida knew what was coming. She cut in and broke the moment.

John, she asked abruptly, are you sure you won’t have some bacon and eggs or something?

There was a forcefulness to her question that annoyed me.

I’m sure, I said pointedly, just the toast. And then, I saw the annoyance on her face. Mom was starting to mumble. I didn’t know what to make of it.

Mom, are you alright? I asked. Do you want something?"

Mom looked at me sternly. She pulled her hand away from mine and started wagging her finger in my face. I want you do your homework!

My homework? I asked in amazement. Mom, what are you talking about?

Mom leaned in closer, but never stopped shaking the finger. I’m gonna tell you Papa!

What’s going on, Brigida? I turned, expecting to find my sister filled with alarm. Instead, she was sitting back in her chair, slowly eating her oatmeal.

She does this all the time, Brigida explained between bites. Right now, right this moment, she believes that we’re sitting around the kitchen table in Greenport, Long Island.

I looked at my mother and suddenly realized that she’d not only changed mentally but physically, as well. She was fifty years younger in her eyes.

January, 1935

Greenport, Long Island

Giovanni!

I dropped my books on the table and raced past Mama, hoping she was so busy standing at the kitchen counter making egg balls that she wouldn’t see me. But her strong arms reached out skillfully and grabbed me with her sticky hands. In a single motion, she lifted me into the air and sat me down at the table in front of my books.

Giovanni - do you homework!

No.

Mama sat across the table from me and stared deeply into my eyes.

"Ascoltami. I wanna you do you homework."

No!

Sssh, here is you Grandmother.

As Grandmother entered the kitchen, Mama’s whole body tensed. She sat up straight in her chair and looked at me as if God himself had come down from heaven to pass judgment upon her.

Che pigrone! Grandmother said in her stern voice. Perché, non rispetti tua madre? Offendi la Madonna.

As Grandmother hovered near me, it seemed appropriate to fear the worst. What did she say? I whispered across the table.

You Grandmother say, when you no do you homework, you make the Blessed Virgin cry!

Oh, I replied, as if Grandmother knew this to be a fact. Grandmother sat at the table with Mom and me, humming a dire tune.

I was quite young when I first realized Grandmother had magical powers. She could turn the simple act of snapping beans into an ominous threat. This ability – and others like it – gave her amazing control, not only over the family, but over the whole Italian community we lived in.

When Rosalie, our next door neighbor, came running into our kitchen, it struck me: Grandmother was a strega, a witch! And a Sicilian one at that – the worst kind.

Rosalie was bird-like and nervous, screaming: Donna Marietta! Donna Marietta! She did this almost daily because for Rosalie, every day held a new crisis. Today’s crisis was a migraine.

Ciao, Angelina, Giovanni.

Mama nodded politely, but barely looked up to acknowledge her. Grandmother, however, prepared herself to hold court. She laid out a clean tea towel, a small cruet of olive oil, a clove of garlic and a tissue and then listened intently to every word Rosalie said.

"La mia testa sis ta rompendo! My head’s breaking open! I can’t eat, I can’t talk! Help me, please!"

Suddenly, Grandmother raised her hand. It was a signal for everyone in the room to remain quiet. She reached for the ever-present cruet of olive oil and poured a small amount into a saucer. Then she took a hairpin from Rosalie’s head and dropped it into the saucer. I was transfixed by the ceremony.

Grandmother incanted some secret, magical Sicilian words I’d never heard before in my whole life, words known only to her. Then she took the hairpin out of the oil and pushed it back into Rosalie’s hair. Suddenly, Rosalie’s face burst into a smile of relief. Her migraine had magically vanished.

"Mille grazie. Mille grazie! I’m gonna light a candle for you all week in church. Mille grazie!"

Rosalie reached into her little purse to offer Grandmother some coin money. Everyone froze. Grandmother never accepted money from anybody. Rosalie quickly gestured an apology for insulting Grandmother and said, I’ll make you some fresh pesto!

Grandmother nodded, Bene, bene.

That’s when Mama looked over my shoulder and discovered the comic book I’d hidden inside my history book. She grabbed the comic book, rolled it up and swatted me with it, gesturing for me to turn my attention back to my school books.

You gonna get a spanking!

Giovanni. Grandmother called. When I turned to her, she put her thumb under her top teeth, making the sign of the evil curse. That was it. At this moment, there was nothing in the world that I wanted to do more than my homework.

That day’s history lesson was about that Italian explorer, Christopher Columbus. My teacher, Mrs. Ercolina DiMaggio, had a special affection for Columbus. When she spoke of his adventures, her voice had the same passion that Mimi had for Rodolfo in La Bohème. Naturally, Mrs. DiMaggio demanded that we treat the details of his life and voyages with absolute respect and commit them to our indelible memory.

Seeking to impress my mother, I decided to recite out loud: The three ships of Columbus were the Nina, the Pinta and the uh.

I drew a blank. Mama coaxed me: Ask Nonna.

I shook my head and reached for the book to look up the answer.

Go on, she prodded, ask Nonna!

No. I mumbled through my teeth. She frightens me. She’s a witch!

Mama held her finger up to her mouth, signaling me to lower my voice. No, she is not! Mama insisted in a whisper. You Grandmother is no a witch!

Yes, she is. I insisted. She put a curse on the Sciavoni family, and Louie told me when his Mama lit a candle to the Blessed Virgin, the curtains caught on fire and burned half the house down!

Having heard the name Sciavoni, Grandmother smiled – as if in satisfaction for a job well done. It was the first and only time I ever saw her smile.

Mama would have none of it. That was an accident! she growled, while pushing me toward Grandmother. Now, go on. Go on. Ask Nonna!

Reluctantly, I moved toward the strega. But when I opened my mouth to speak, my voice cracked. Grandmother, do you know?

Before I could finish stating my question, Grandmother flew into a frenzy of wild gestures. She berated me, then turned to Mama, asking: "Why doesn’t he call me Nonna? He never calls me Nonna! Ingrato! Disgraziato. Scostumato."

Mama turned to me, pleading, Giovanni.

But I was growing impatient. Grandmother, this is important! I said, more forcefully than I intended.

Ancora! It was the last word my Grandmother ever said. As soon as the word finished passing through her lips, she clutched at her heart and fell face down in the bowl of snap beans.

Mama and I stared at each other in stunned silence. I dropped my book and startled mother out of her frozen stance. Mama moved toward Grandmother, shook her gently.

Nonna? Nonna?

And then she realized. Mama began crying, screamed loudly for Papa: Micheone, Micheone...!

I screamed, too, calling at the top of my lungs, Papa! Papa!

My father burst into the room. Che è successo?

When he saw Mama standing over the lifeless body of his own mother, it prompted him to go to her. He touched his mother’s shoulder softly, Mama? Mama? Then he said, "Angelina, Mamma è morta."

Suddenly, Papa started bellowing in Italian: The smell of death. The smell of death! Mama turned to me