Thirty years ago I couldn’t wait to get out of Windsor; uncultured, blue- collar auto town. It has taken me as many years to realize what a rich tapestry of cultural diversity I was fortunate to grow up in, and I have come full-circle from feeling sorry for my old chums who seemed stuck in that factory town, to wanting back in! I have been lucky in my friends, and they always welcome me back with overwhelming hugs and even more overwhelming meals.

            Jordan and I returned to Windsor last week for my highschool reunion. As always, I am humbled by the talents my Italian girlfriends demonstrate in the kitchen. It felt great to be back to where it is still important whether you are Calabrese or Neapolitan, and the regional cooking of Italy is reflected in the restaurants of the Italian district and in the homes of my friends. In Windsor, arguments over where you can find the best calzone could lead to fisticuffs.

            I am sure that although I am a Maloney, there must be an Italian in me trying to get free. Maybe that’s why I married a Sorrenti. I cherish my days at the kitchen tables of my Italian friends, where their mothers would hold informal cooking schools. I learned how to make a proper sauce and fresh ravioli. There was always a “summer” kitchen in the basement, where we would sit for hours over wine, always served in juice glasses, wedges of provolone cheese, olives and oil-cured sausages, all homemade.

Our week in Windsor started with dinner at a relatively new addition to Little Italy that my girlfriend Toni said was one of the best.  I am sure that the Italians must have started the Slow Food movement because dinner with any of my old friends can take hours. There are even breaks between courses, when those who smoke, smoke. We were warned not to each order a full entrée, but Jordan and I didn’t listen. Despite having to force the final mouthful down, I ate it all. I had come a long way to eat food that doesn’t make excuses for having gusto. There was no fear of capers, garlic, anchovies, strong cheeses and good olive oil here. The breadbasket had delicious bread that was chewy like a bagel, because it is boiled before baking, and has fennel seed in it. I couldn’t get enough; so Toni ordered more. Help!

            On the night of the reunion, my dear friend Adele invited us for breakfast for our last meal in Windsor. We arrived on time, ten-o’clock, to find the kitchen looking like there would be dozens joining us. But all of the food was for us. Four hours, two bottles of wine, five courses and two “cigarette” breaks later, we were cooked. 

Breakfast began with Bocconcini cheese, sliced tomatoes, fresh basil, drizzled with olive oil. This was eaten standing up in the kitchen while Adele put together a huge mushroom frittata, oven-roasted potatoes, snow peas and pancetta, three presentations of antipasto, a green salad and a large basket of baked goods. Yes, I did say breakfast. The first bottle of wine was gone by 11AM.

            Adele, like Toni, makes her own wine vinegar. The procedure involves the use of a bacterial “starter”. Adele got her starter from her father and told us that it is over 50 years old. A crock is used that has a spigot on the bottom, similar to a sun-tea container. The method is simple: you keep topping up the container with left-over red wine (OK, that may be a stretch) and draw the finished vinegar off from the bottom into a bottle to age. The process is done in a warm spot, and usually takes 4-6 weeks, but everyone has different tastes and you can take it off whenever it has the flavour you want.

Adele also dries her own olives, makes all of her own antipasto and in her spare time, supplies an Italian dessert called Bocci, which she assured me was not a lawn bowling game, to a local bakery. She is also a full-time HomeEc teacher, holds Italian cooking classes at home and every summer she travels to Italy with the school soccer team as a guide and chaperone. If that weren’t quite enough, she told me that she was heading out with her mom that afternoon, to collect pruned tree branches. They will save these until they are ready to roast their red peppers for the next year. Apparently, propane just doesn’t cut it, and the branches burn hotter than briquettes. One good tip I did pick up was that rather than canning all of the peppers immediately in oil, they are frozen down in small batches until needed. By doing this, botulism is avoided. That’s a relief!

            Despite continual looks at our watch (J and I were supposed to be in Lansing, Michigan by 3PM) we still had dessert, Italian espresso and Sambucca. All I wanted to do was curl up on Adele’s couch for a nap. We finally tore ourselves away and as we drove over the bridge to the States, I felt the tug of Windsor and couldn’t help but remember that in the year I graduated, the number one album was Tapestry by Carole King. I remember the words to the title song now and wonder why it took me 30 years to understand the lyrics.