Air Banada

Banada is a stuffed bread, and an italian favorite. It's not as doughy as a calzone or as commercial. I remember growing up to the aromas of spinach and anchovy (back before I knew what they were) or broccoli and sausage. My grandmother made them and my Auntie Goosey inheirited the talents/task. They were ususally made around Easter and were a warm up course in the marathon holiday meals we used to eat. One big table and the satellite table for the kids. Then more kids arrived and it became two large tables, then eventually buffets took over so people could go eat wherever they wanted (where the deals were being made). Eventually the banada disappeared from view.

When I relocated to the city of angels I found a vacuum for italian culture, albeit any discernable Culture, but I digress. It's taken time and torture to find the niceties that I took for granted back east: cookies, breads, olives, cheezes, meats, opportunities to piss on the french, you know what I'm talking about here, creature comforts. I was seated next to a warm (crazy) italian woman last year on a return flight from the east coast and we were both comparing our premade sandwiches replete with provologne and roasted peppers. Her soppresata was homemade so she got points for authenticity, again I'll make mention that she was crazy and my xanax hadn't gotten to my Kettle quick enough to put off the conversation. We were both packing cheeses and cookies in our carry-ons in lieu of altoids. It turns out, bear with me here, that she went to the same HSchool as my older brother and gave me her email, to pass on to the star football player of her day. John, I'm publishing it below for you and anyother crazy that needs a good woman with a moustache who can knit, kill a chicken, make pasta and raise a family. Email early, email often.

I digress. This year I had such nostalgia and homesickness I nearly broke my cell phone speed dial buttons keeping up with my sib's and fam. It's especially hard for an italian to not be around family on the holidays. Easter time found me crazed and wanting, you heard me. I called Aunty Goosey, more on her and her words of wisdom as he develop here, and said,

"Goose, ya gotta hook it up." She set down her second scotch and oj,
"Sweetie pie, I don't know what that is."
"Goose, ya gotta make me banada."
"Oh, you."
"Serious Goose, I havent had it in years and I need it. Yours is the best and you could bang out two and get them here in time for Easter. Overnite them to me, I'll pay for the whole thing."
"Sweetie pie, I wasn't planning on making any this......"
"Goosie, serious. I need your banada." Begin the manipulation, "If you make it I'll have Carole come pick it up and mail it for you, you won't even have to leave the..........."
"Carole?" Sidenote, there was coldwar (not so much a fatwah, as a spatwah) between the two, "Dont you bother her. I can go to the post office all my own." Prepares third scotch and oj. "Now tell me what's new in California."

It arrived five days later, my carepackage. Overnited, and STILL WARM. She ran from the oven to the post office with it screaming, "Damn the torpedoes, my sweetie needs my banada." Two of the most perfect banadas I'd ever hoped for. I'd hoped that I hadnt promised her I'd go to church or anything silly like that, because I was going to have to eat my words, and for a sicilian, that's a meal.

I promise to tell you about the time Goosey and went cruising in Rome, how she got us thrown out of Florence and her person to person relating skills with female prisoner chain gangs. Until then I'd give you the email of the nice divorcee I met on that fateful plane ride but my lawyers advise against it. Ciao bella.