Breakfast…

Cannoli Pancakes

I love Sunday mornings. It’s the one day we truly take off and relax. We also love making Sunday breakfast. The best part of Sunday breakfast is eating it at 9 or 10 am instead of our early weekday gulp-and-grab breakfast before spätzle production.

I loved Sunday mornings when I was growing up. I remember getting breakfast supplies on Saturday afternoons or evenings when we lived in Elizabeth, NJ. We lived there until I was almost ten years old.

Great Grandma in her dining room. The table always had silverware and plates on it since there was always food in the kitchen for guests.

I loved visiting my great-grandma’s house on Saturday nights. My Mema and the rest of my father’s family gathered there. They played music and sat around her long dining room table, smoking and talking. Not my great grandma and Mema, but my parents and my father’s cousins, Aunts, and Uncles.

That’s me telling a story in Great Grandma’s dining room.

I was in my glory when they played Italian music, and my great-uncles would play the spoons. I would dance with my cousins, run around and let great grandma feed us hotdog buttons she had in her housecoat pocket. Don’t be grossed out; her hanky was in the other pocket. Lol.

In Great Grandma’s parlor, I guess on a rainy day.

We would leave when it was dark out. It always felt late, but I loved being out at night. Seeing all the lights in the windows looked cozy and magical. I would look out my backseat window at the street lights lining the streets.

We would drive to a bagel shop and pick up fresh-out-of-the-oven bagels in different flavors; my favorite was egg. My dad would hand me the bag to hold. It was warm in my lap and smelled delicious.

Next, we drove down one of Elizabeth’s main streets and stopped under a bridge at a red light. I would start getting nervous when I realized where we were going.

There was an old man who stood under the bridge. He sold the Sunday papers early. I remember he had one of those coin thingies on his belt.

My dad would roll down the driver’s side window and hand the man a dollar bill. He would give my dad the paper hot off the presses and his change.

I honestly thought this man was a troll. He was little and hunched over. He wore a black sailor’s knit cap and wore black gloves with no fingers. He had a voice like he drank nails, and while I was intrigued, I was afraid of him. I can still see him in my mind’s eye.

On Saturday afternoons, my mother and I would pick up my other grandmother, Nana. My Grandpop was buried at Mount Olive Cemetary in Newark, NJ. It was located next to the Anheuser Bush plant. The plant had a light-up eagle that flew in the sky, or so it appeared.

On our way to the cemetery, we would make two stops; the first was a florist shop to get flowers for Grandpop’s grave. He always had a flag on his grave since he served in World War l.

Me with Nana and Grandpop in Warinanco Park in Elizabeth.

The second stop was Zimmerman’s bakery. It was a wholesale bakery with a door where people could go in and buy freshly baked bread. I can still smell that heavenly scent that filled the air.

After we picked out a colossal rye bread, I loved watching a burly-looking woman dressed in all white with a hairnet put the oval loaf into the slicing machine.

Next, the lady put it in a white waxed paper bag, my mom paid for it, and I carried it out to the car like a baby in my arms. Like the bagels, it was warm and smelled mouth-wateringly delicious.

That big loaf of bread would be divided, giving Nana a few slices, and the rest would be for Sunday breakfast which my dad would make, slathered with lots of butter and dippy eggs.

Holy shit! Until I found this sign, I thought the name of the cemetery was St. Olive, as I wrote. I didn’t change it, I like it as I remember it in my head.

At the cemetery, I would take the metal vase out of the ground at Grandpop’s grave and fill it with water from a nearby water spigot giving the flowers we brought a drink. Nana would sob at his gravesite, and seeing her cry upset me. I would hold her hand and tell her it was ok.

After we left the cemetery, we would all eat slices of Zimmerman’s rye bread. I love the heel and would put it in front of my teeth and pretend they were false teeth like Nana’s. I was in the backseat, so my mother couldn’t see me and yell at me for playing with my food.

In front of Nana & Grandpop’s apartments on Easter in 1968.

On many of those Saturdays, I stayed at Nana’s house. My mother, who used to clean Nan’s apartment since she was blind, decided I was old enough to clean Nana’s apartment while I was there.

This was long before my role as Cinderella began when we moved from Elizabeth to Iselin. I didn’t mind; I would clean and talk to Nana the whole time. One week Nana told me she lost her mother’s ring in the apartment.

While scrubbing her toilet, at 6 or 7 years old, I found her ring on the rim of the toilet bowl when I lifted the seat. I yelled, “Nana! I found your ring!” Nana cried and hugged me.

Nana’s ring that I found. I took it out today, and I am wearing it. It spins around on my finger as it did on hers.

She gave me that ring when I was older, telling me I deserved to have it more than anyone. I never told my mother she gave it to me; she would have taken it away in a fit of rage one day. I keep it locked up in a safe. It is platinum and has tiny little diamond chips in it.

After cleaning, I would lead Nana into the elevator and go downstairs to take her to mass in her building. Afterward, I walked her carefully to the corner store around the block. I was very careful and walked slow. I would tell her when there was a step or crack in the sidewalk.

When I think about it now, that was a little crazy for us to do since Elizabeth was a dangerous place to live even back then. I was responsible for my age, and she trusted me more than anyone she told me.

The corner store had a yucky smell and wood shavings on the floor. I held my breath when we went in there but had to gasp for air and get a big whiff. I knew it was impolite to hold my nose, plus I had to walk Nana through the narrow aisles with her shopping cart she brought from home.

Even though I was only 6 or 7 years old, she would talk me through making dinner for us—simple things like Spam, grilled cheese, tuna, or egg salad sandwiches. I liked standing on a step stool and cooking on her electric stove. I set the table, she washed the dishes, and I would dry.

Anheuser Bush Plant and the eagle that lights up at night.

At bedtime, we would look out her 8th-floor apartment window, wave to the Anheuser eagle, and say, “Good night, Grandpop.” Nana would cry. She missed him so much. I slept on his side of the bed and told her it was ok. We would say the rosary in the dark; I would fall asleep after the first round of Hail Marys.

These are special memories for me and my time with my Nana. Writing about them made me cry since I miss her and our relationship. My mother was jealous of our relationship, so I never told her anything we did.

The same thing went for the games Mema played with me and that she rubbed my back when I was falling asleep. One night I asked my mother if she would rub my back like Mema. Mistake. She yelled at my dad to have a talk with his mother and stop doing that. What a bitch!

This is me with Mema, Pa, my father, and my mother. I wonder why Pa is the only one smiling?

Come to find out, Nana was merely a babysitter to my mother, just like Mema, on Saturday nights. The joke was on her since I loved spending the night at their homes. I kept them company; they treated me with respect, love and made me feel special.

Nana, Mema, and Great Grandma in their older, thinner years. Nana continued wearing her glasses until the end, even though she couldn’t see from them since 1970.

Our boys didn’t get the chance to have any special Saturday night memories like mine, but we always had Sunday breakfast together. We rarely went out for breakfast; I would make something special every Sunday.

I hope Noah and Sam remember some of that now that they are older. If luck is in my favor, I can do the same for my grandchildren someday and let them have a sleepover with us.

This morning I made Marty and me cannoli pancakes that were delicious. I started with chocolate chip pancakes. I used dark chocolate because I didn’t want them to be too sweet. Marty prefers semi-sweet chocolate, but tough shit, I told him. 😜

I made a whipped topping with whipping cream, ricotta cheese, and a touch of sugar. I topped the pancakes with warm maple syrup, ricotta whipped cream, and chopped pistachios.

I am always adding dishes to the menu in my made-up restaurant called, “Six and under.” This would make the menu, but Marty pointed out that people would prefer semi-sweet chocolate chips. You all know me well enough by now to imagine what I replied.

Thanks for going down my breakfast memories path with me. I hope you enjoyed the photos I dug out. Lol. Have a great rest of your Sunday and upcoming week.