Oui Oui Music Newsletter
February 14, 2022
My friend Pickles didn't know what to say to his sweetheart on Valentine's Day.

I told him to tell her, "You mean a great dill to me."

Happy Valentine's Day, Slim People!

And happy birthday to my grandmother, Angela, born on Valentine's Day.

She meant a great dill to me.

Here's a story about her from the first Slim Man Cooks cookbook.
Almost every Sunday, we’d go to my grandmother's house and have a big Italian dinner. The two families would be there; my dad (Philip), my mom and us three kids, and my uncle (Oscar), his wife and three kids. 

We kids would play in the backyard, wrestle on the living room floor, and have pillow fights on the twin beds in the basement. 

Angela would cook, usually a meat sauce that took hours. When the pasta was ready, she'd serve us kids at the kitchen table and say... 

“Eat that spaghetti or I'll shove it down your throat.” 

She was joking, of course. And we kids thought it was ridiculously hilarious. 

Angela was my grandmother. She left Italy with her family when she was a child. They arrived in New York City and settled in Harlem. Angela and her sister Marie started working in a garment sweatshop, like so many other poor Italian immigrant women.

They worked seven days a week, all day long, for next to nothing. Disgusted with the working conditions, she and Marie helped organize the first strike for the fledgling International Ladies Garment Workers Union. 

Their mother, Giuseppina, accompanied them, brandishing a rolling pin, telling anybody within earshot that if anybody messed with her girls, they'd have to go through her first.

Organizing was a tough business in those days. Factory owners didn’t want the unions. A lot of those owners ran their towns. Had the politicians and police in their pockets. 

My grandmother was thrown down a flight of steps when she tried to organize one shop. She was put in jail after trying to organize another. She was beaten more than once, but she persisted.

Why? 

Because she was determined to dramatically improve the horrible way workers were treated. 146 people—mostly young women—died in a fire at the Triangle Shirtwaist factory in New York because the owners had locked the doors to prevent workers from taking breaks. 

Angela wanted to help change all that. So she started organizing.

Her marriage suffered. Her husband Romollo was an old-fashioned Italian from Rome and didn't approve of her radicalism. 

Romollo filed for divorce. During the divorce, their children--Philip and Oscar--were put in an orphanage while Angela and Romollo fought for custody. 
Romollo eventually won.

Angela was heartbroken.

She wanted to stay close to her two boys, so she and Giuseppina moved into a house in Queens near Romollo’s.

When Angela was offered a chance to organize the Delaware, Maryland, and Virginia area, she gathered up Oscar and Philip and moved to Baltimore, Maryland. 

Angela started going to tiny towns on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, trying to organize the workers in the garment shops. She didn't drive, so the ILGWU found her a driver, a one-eyed African American named Jesse. 

I can only imagine what it must have been like going to those small southern towns, an Italian woman and her black driver. They used to eat in the car because Jesse wasn’t allowed in the restaurants.

And Angela wouldn’t eat without him.

It took a lot of blood, sweat, and tears, but Angela took her region of the ILGWU from nothing to more than 16,000 members. She was the first woman vice president of a union. 

She substantially raised the standard of living for thousands and thousands of people. She put Oscar through medical school and Philip through law school. 
And she did it without expecting anything in return. 

She told me more than once... 

“When you give, you give with no strings attached.” 

I remember seeing Angela waiting in the alley in her housecoat during Christmas to tip the garbage men. Homeless guys used to come to the back door. She'd make them a sandwich and then pay them to do yard work.

All this from a woman who was invited to John F. Kennedy’s inauguration. Senators called her by her first name. The mayor would stop by her modest home in Pimlico during the holidays.

I lived with Angela when I was a teenager. I used to do her food shopping. I’d go to DeMarco’s, an Italian deli behind the Lexington Market in downtown Baltimore. I’d buy pasta, cheeses, salami, and wine.

She liked the chianti in the small straw-covered bottle. It couldn’t have cost but a buck or two. 

Angela and I would have dinner, sip a glass of chianti, and she’d tell me stories about her life. I was fascinated. I adored her. Admired her. She was my hero. 

One night, Oscar walked in with a suitcase and a case of wine. 

He told us he had left his wife. He brought the suitcase so he’d have some clothes.

And he brought the wine because he didn’t want his wife pouring his very expensive vino down the sink in a fit of rage.

Oscar moved in. We shared the basement bedroom with the knotted wood paneling and the twin beds.

Angela and I were having dinner one night when Oscar told us he was going out. 

Angela and I finished our dinner and our glass of chianti. When Angela asked me for another glass, I told her there was no more chianti. All we had was Oscar's special wine. She looked at me and said...

“Who more special than we?”

Angela told me to get a bottle.

I pulled one from Oscar's case and poured us each a small glass. Angela took one sip and started laughing, it was that good. After we finished, she wanted to go to sleep. She told me to stick the cork in the bottle and put it in the fridge.

A little after midnight I heard Oscar yelling my name. He was standing by my bed. He wasn't too happy about finding his fine vintage wine in the fridge with the cork jammed in it. 

“What the **** were you thinking!” is what he said.

I told him the story.

When I got to the “Who more special than we?” part, he started laughing. 

Then he explained that the wine was a 1954 Chateau Mouton Rothschild. Every year the Rothschilds had a different famous artist create the artwork for the label. Artists like Salvador Dali, Picasso, Miro. 

When Oscar told me what that bottle was worth, I couldn't sleep.

For about three years. 

And that's my Angela story.

Happy Birthday, Angela.

And Happy Valentine's Day, Slim Folks.

Keep in touch. And keep smiling...

While you still have teeth!

Who loves ya?


Uncle Slimmy

PS: Here's a recipe for Angela's chicken stew...
INGREDIENTS

2 pounds chicken thighs, boneless, skinless (6 thighs)
4 ounces pancetta cut in small pieces
1 cup each—chopped onions and celery
1 ½  cups chopped carrots
1 ½ cups green peas (fresh are best, frozen are OK)
Celery tops—those leafy green things? Save 4 or 5 leaves!
3 cloves minced garlic (about 1 tablespoon)
½ teaspoon dried oregano
4 cups chicken broth
2 tablespoons of flour (fine fine fine)
4 small red potatoes, skin on, cut in half (you’ll need about 2 ½ cups)
2 tablespoons medium sherry (or sweet vermouth, or sweet marsala)
 
Here we go…

If you’re using frozen green peas, measure out a cup and a half and let them sit. You don’t have to defrost them. By the time they’re ready to go in the stew, they’ll be defrosted.

Rinse the chicken and pat dry with paper towels. Salt and pepper both sides, I use kosher salt and fresh cracked black pepper. Rub it in. Rub-a-dub-dub.

Heat a large pot, like a Dutch oven, over medium heat for 2 minutes.

Add the pancetta, let it cook for 3 or 4 minutes, or until brown. Try and turn the pancetta over and let the other side brown for 3 or 4 more minutes. The objective here is to try and get all sides of the pancetta pieces golden brown.

When the pancetta has browned, remove with a slotted spoon to a small bowl.

There should be some drippings in the bottom of the pan. We need just enough to coat the bottom of the pan—about 1 tablespoon. 

If there is not enough, add a drizzle of olive oil until there is. If there’s too much oil, the chicken won’t brown. If there’s too little oil, the chicken will stick to the bottom of the pot. You’re smart. You can do this.

Turn the heat to medium-high for 1 minute.

Add the chicken and let it brown for 5 minutes. Don’t move it around! Let it brown.

When it’s brown, use some tongs and turn each piece over. Let them brown on the other side for 5 minutes, until golden.

The chicken is gonna cook in the stew for another 40 minutes. We don’t want to cook it all the way. We just want the outsides to be seared brown.

Remove the chicken thighs to a platter, and let ‘em cool, baby.

Turn the heat down to medium. There should be enough juicy stuff in the bottom of the pan. We’ll need about 2 tablespoons. If there’s not enough liquid/oil in the bottom of the pan, add a little olive oil.

Add the celery, carrots, onion, garlic and oregano to the pot. Cook the vegetables for 5-6 minutes, until the onions are translucent. Stir frequently.

Put the heat on high. Add the cup of white wine. When it starts to bubble, let it cook off for 1 minute.

Reduce the heat to medium, and cook for 5 minutes, stirring often.

Add the chicken broth, and turn the heat to high.

Whisk in the flour, 1 tablespoon at a time, make sure it’s smooth.

Add the potatoes. When the broth comes to a boil, let the potatoes cook for 3 minutes, while boiling.

Reduce the heat to medium. Add the 2 tablespoons of sherry or sweet vermouth.

Cook for 15 minutes.

The chicken should be cool by now. Cut each chicken thigh into smaller pieces, about the size of a golf ball.

Put the chicken in the pot.  Reduce the heat to medium-low. Cook for 20 minutes.

Don’t stir! This is a stew. Let it sit and stew for a while. You keep stirring this thing and potatoes are gonna break up, and chicken is gonna break down.

After 20 minutes, give it a stir. Then cook for another 20 minutes.

Add the peas and the pancetta. Cook for 10 minutes.

Scrape the sides of the pot, right above the stew-line. Scrape it right into the stew, this is some flavorful stuff! Give the stew a gentle stir, taste for salt and pepper and adjust.

Stab a potato with a folk—it should be tender. Take a bite of the chicken—it should be firm and just a bit flaky—like me.

Dish it up, and…

MANGIAMO!!!!!!!!! 
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Craig Chesnut on drums, Chase Huna on sax, and Tateng Katindig, the Thrilla from Manila, on piano.

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