What the Olives Remember

A boy, a bowl of something savory, and the way food carries the weight of love across generations.

When I was a boy, I’m not sure how old, but surely under 10, my dad took me to visit his sister. My dad came from a big Sicilian family. He was the second youngest of 8 (surviving) children, 14 total. My grandparents came over in the early 1920s and settled in Boston where my grandfather continued to ply his trade as fisherman.

As a child, I remember many Sundays when we’d troop over to Cambridge to Auntie Jennie’s house for the big family gathering. All the aunts and uncles and cousins and my Nana would be there. (My Nanu died when I was 8.) Of course, the tables would be filled with food of every delicious kind and there would be lots of conversation, free-flowing coffee, and the occasional aperitif. The kids would be shuffled off to the TV to watch Lawrence Welk or wrestling (a particular favorite of my grandma’s).

The love and conviviality was what I remember most, although sometimes my family got so loud we’d ask my mom if they were having a fight. Nope, that’s just normal talking. You could tell because there was lots of laughter. Lots and lots of it.

The second-most unforgettable part of the gatherings was the food. But one dish left the deepest impression and it was a particular savory treat my aunt served me on our visit. This was not on a Sunday, but probably a Saturday—or maybe some summer weekday? That visit could have been the time my dad took me to work with him at Raytheon for the day so I could see what he did there as a millwright. The factory in Waltham was close enough to Cambridge that he could swing by his sister’s for lunch.

Oh yes, the dish she served me. In my memory, it was a kind of relish, dark and steeped in oil. It had olives and celery for sure, but it was amazingly savory. I can still picture how the adults laughed at how I dug into the bowl of it she gave me. I liked it so much she gave us a jar of it to take home. What was it about that dish that captivated my imagination that I still remember it nearly 50 years later?

Growing up in the 1970s suburbs with a mom who was not Italian, but a dad who was, I was used to having the flavors of Italy: tomato sauces and good Italian-American fare. When my dad would take us into the Saturday outdoor market in the Haymarket in Boston, he would be greeted by old friends and we’d sample cheeses and olives and seafood. I had my first raw quahog there. (It’s a kind of large clam native to this area.) We’d get savory snacks made of sesame and spices and flavors, as well as sweets made of chocolate or almond. There were braided loaves of sesame-studded bread—crunchy on the outside, soft and pillowy inside—and pizzas, both traditional triangular slices and thick Sicilian squares from Bova’s in the North End.

I wasn’t new to the flavors of my heritage. It’s just that this one dish was something a little new, probably more authentic. Sicilian cuisine favors the concept of the agrodolce, sweet and sour. Lots of Sicilian dishes combine vinegar and sugar in good measure, not too much of either. And this dish had that as well as the texture. I remember the crunch of the celery and the bite of olive.

But here’s the thing—I never knew what it was called. At the time, my dad called it something like “capa caleewee”. No, that’s not what he said, but it’s what I remember. I’m not sure I can reliably relay what he said. And to be honest, my dad often slurred his way through the Sicilian words he knew.

For years, I never looked into it. I love to cook and I’ve been cooking many different cuisines for years. But it wasn’t until a few years ago that I even thought to figure out what this was. My Aunt Jennie had passed a long time ago now so I couldn’t ask her. And when I asked my dad, he didn’t know what dish I was referring to. He no longer remembered that formative lunch at his sister’s house. And now he’s since passed on a few years ago.

I tried lots of recipes online. Melanie and I figured it must be a kind of caponata and we tried making several, but none of them were ever quite the right thing. There is no recipe for caponata. Every Sicilian mother has her own recipe that she got from her mother and that she has tweaked for her own tastes.

Finally, a few weeks ago, Melanie said, “Have you ever asked Auntie Josie?” Josie is my dad’s younger sister and she is a great cook. For years after he retired my dad would go over to Josie’s house regularly for dinner and to play cards. I think it was a standing weekly thing. If anyone knew what it was the Jennie had made, Melanie thought it would be Josie.

Of course, I kept forgetting to contact her, until finally I remembered when I was sitting in front of my computer. So I fired up Facebook Messenger and shot off the question. That afternoon she called and told me that I had been on the right track. It is a caponata. She didn’t have the exact recipe that Jennie had but she gave a link to one online that she said was really good.

The recipe was from the chef Billy Parisi and it has the olives and capers and celery and onions and eggplant and all those good flavors. So on this week’s grocery shopping, I grabbed all the ingredients, looking for the best kind of each that my local store carries—Castelvetrano olives, imported crushed tomatoes, the works. And today I cooked it up.

It turned out well. Really well. It will probably be even better tomorrow after the flavors have had time to meld. Next time, I’ll add some pine nuts as the chef suggests and I may look for a non-tomato variant so Melanie can enjoy it.

The result didn’t make me immediately say, “This is it!” No clouds parted. No divine light shone. But it was good. And it’s the closest I think I’ve come.

And of course, I’ve changed a lot since then. My tastes have changed and I’ve eaten way more foods. So I may never get the same rush of sensations from any dish. But I’m glad I have this recipe. Eating it takes me back to that day with dad, having lunch at my Aunt Jennie’s house and experiencing something new to connect me with my family in a special way.

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N.B. I have to laugh that the recipe author’s name is Billy Parisi. Funny enough, I had a high school friend named Billy Parise—not the same guy (different spelling, too young), but it made me think of him. I would love to connect with Billy again.

N.B. 2: While we were on the phone, Auntie Josie recommended a cookbook as well: The North End Italian Cookbook, by Marguerite DiMino Buonopane. She said it’s the real deal—a collection full of the kinds of dishes our family made.