Nana’s Italian Thanksgiving Turkey
By Domenica Mittiga
Aromatics inserted into the meat and a blanket of prosciutto add flavor, richness and texture to the turkey. The extra steps are well worth the effort in this original take on a...
Remembering Nana’s Italian Thanksgiving dinner
Every Thanksgiving the aunts would bring mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, biscuits and sweet potato casserole for the early afternoon “American” dinner. My grandmother, Nana, would prepare the turkey by poking holes in the flesh and inserting aromatics—dried herbs and figs from the garden and garlic. Frustrated with her paring knife, she was known to boil a Phillips head screwdriver and poke the holes with it. A blanket of prosciutto under the skin added richness to the bird. And Nana’s bread stuffing was laden with figs, herbs and roasted Italian sweet peppers. (Read the recipe.)
After the meal, the uncles enjoyed my grandfather “Pa’s” cigars and the cuginos (cousins) would come by for some homemade wine, rich as Cognac. Then maybe a snooze and a walk around the block, all building anticipation for the Festa del Ringraziamento di Nanna (Nana’s Italian Thanksgiving dinner), replete with loaves of bread fresh from her oven.
Up from the cold November basement came the melanzane alla parmigiana (eggplant Parmesan with hard-boiled eggs, meatballs and three cheeses), lasagna, meatballs, Nana’s red sauce (which I can come close to duplicating) and the verdi e fagioli (mixed bitter greens with cannelloni beans, plus hot peppers and oregano from the garden). It all came hot to the table after the American dinner was cleared and the gathered company was once again ready to mange e’ beve’ (eat and drink).
When I was 5, Pa called me over to his seat at the head of the table. I couldn’t imagine what he wanted, but, wearing my little suit and tie, I bravely walked the length of the room and looked up at him. He handed me a slice of Nana’s homemade bread topped with olive oil, a chip of Romano cheese and a little piece of hot pepper.
Everyone froze except my grandmother, who stood up and said, “Fermare! È solo un ragazzino e fa troppo caldo!” (Stop! He’s just a little boy and that’s too hot!) My mother glared at him; my father said, “Are you crazy?!” Everyone defended my young palate, imagining it would be destroyed forever.
Pa slammed his hand on the table so hard the glasses shook. “Madonne! Sta ‘zitto!” (Madonna! Shut up!)
In silence I stoically faced death in the face. I ate the slice, turned bright red, choked a little, then said, “Pa, I think I need a little wine.”
Amidst the cheering, Pa pulled me onto his lap and pronounced, “Questo è il mio ragazzo!” (That’s my boy!).
After dinner, Nana always brought out her Italian desserts and more of Pa’s wine. As the coffee was poured, lively conversation passed between kitchen and table:
“I can’t eat any more—pass the lasagna again, please!”
“No—I can’t have another bite— except maybe the peppers with a little dark meat!”
“Maybe a little more melanzane!”
“OK, one more meatball!”
“I have to lay down again!”
I’ll never forget those Thanksgivings, surrounded by love and feeling like a stuffed fig!
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