Yes, I know Italians don't really say "Gran' Dio" except in Verdi operas.
But this is truly a "Gran' Dio!" moment. And what it boils down to is: getting old sucks. I mean, it sucks the big one.
This posting is dedicated to my childhood pal, Jim Provenza, who turns 51 next month. I turned 50 last October. Jim and I live about 600 miles apart, but each of us managed to make it to the other's 50th birthday party.
Jim suffers from a condition of the esophagus that makes him subject to killer heartburn. He has to take medication for it. I forgot to ask him if it had put a crimp in his eating habits, e.g. whether there are now things he can no longer eat at all. Jim's family roots are in Sicily, and he's been enjoying Italian food all his life. (As a side-note, Jim's wife Donna's family roots are also in Sicily--their children can boast of being fairly undiluted Italian-Americans.)
Be that as it may, I recently made a horrifying discovery that puts Jim and me in something of the same rowboat.
I can no longer eat pizza in the evening. (sigh.)
Once was a time, and it doesn't seem that long ago either, when my pals and I would wrap up a Friday-night bull session with a cruise across town to Filippi's, home of Chula Vista's best pizza. We'd tell them to lay on the toppings, dig into it with gusto, wash it down with beer or cold duck, then go home and sleep like babies.
Not any more. At least not me. Not long ago my wife and I ordered pizza delivery. I ate one slice, just one solitary slice. I suffered the tortures of the damned all night long. Heartburn from hell. I must have made three trips to the bathroom to chomp down more Rolaids.
I asked my friend Brett, who's a health-and-fitness expert, what might be going on.
"It's the tomato sauce," he announced, his tone brooking no appeals for clemency.
He was right. I can no longer eat anything with red sauce on it without suffering dire consequences. It's not just pizza, either: spaghetti, too, (another of my favorites) is on the enemies list, as are eggplant parmesan, meatball sandwiches or anything else that might come resplendant with Ragu, now for me something of a suicide substance.
I suppose I could go to the drug store and get something that would enable me to eat these foods without suffering. But somehow I just don't want to--if I can't eat pepperoni-mushroom-and-sausage on my own terms, if I have to ameliorate my meal with special medicine that enables me to enjoy it, well, dammit, that's...giving in to old age, that's what it is!
I'd just as soon do without.
My wife and I were travelling recently, and decided to order a pizza one evening. But we had to scour the take-out menus until we found a place that served so-called "European" pizza: it came with a white sauce on it rather than a red one. Cheese, something green (spinach perhaps?) big chunks of roasted garlic. Nothing red. Oh, it was tasty enough; I can't complain about that. I felt fine all night after eating it, too.
But felt somewhat gloomy the next morning, reflecting upon the fact that this appears to be the way it's going to be, from now on. Used to be, whenever I'd catch The Godfather on cable TV, and it got to the scene were Al Pacino is being shown how to make a batch of spaghetti for 15 guys, I'd suddenly get a craving for a good, tomato-soaked plateful of that yummy stuff, accompanied by a lovely cheap chianti. Now that craving will have to stay a craving. Oh, I can go chew on a hunk of pepperoni mashed between two slices of garlic bread, I suppose, but somehow it just ain't the same.
This is life after 50, everybody, and there's nothing for it but to adjust.
So I'll adjust. Last night we decided to have spaghetti, damn the torpedoes but leave the Paul Newman's in the cupboard. Since I do most of the cooking at our house, (Valerie's the business manager, I'm the cook, grocery-shopper and sommellier) it was up to me to figure out some way around this terrible, life-crippling dilemma.
I recently discovered a talent which it took me more than half a lifetime to uncover in myself: I'm not bad at making up recipes. I can rustle around in the fridge, pull out some leftovers and make you the best-tasting casserole or Bisquik-pie you ever tasted. With sauce (not red.) I have, in recent months, come up with two or three recipes of my own that I have gone so far as to write down. We're thinking of buying a bed-and-breakfast, Valerie and I, and since it seems fated that I'm going to be in charge of the galley, it behooves me to have a decent collection of dishes I can dish up to our guests.
So, I'm going to conclude this posting, for the first time since I began to blog, with a recipe. Cut-and-paste it, and bon appetit.
KELLEY'S NO-HEARTBURN (because not red) SPAGHETTI SAUCE:
Ingredients:
1 pound ground beef
1 cup diced onions
1 cup sliced mushrooms
1 package frozen spinach
1/2 cup chopped fresh parsley
1 1/2 cups cream
1/2 cup sour cream
1/2 cup marsala wine
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1 tsp. garlic powder
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. pepper
1 tsp. dry mustard
Brown the ground beef, adding onions, mushrooms and spinach as the meat browns. Sprinkle chopped parsley over the mixture. Once the mixture is well-cooked, add the marsala wine. Season with salt, pepper and garlic powder to taste.
Mix the cream and sour cream in a separate bowl, season with dry mustard, add parmesan cheese, then stir into pan with the other ingredients. Cover and let simmer for ten minutes.
Dump over spaghetti pasta (preferably laced with olive oil) and dig in.
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