Literanista
October 9, 2024
I can picture us. Two, little rail-thin girls with long braided hair down our backs, holding hands as we walked to the Italian bakery on Sunday mornings. The air was delicious with the scent of bread rising. Afterwards, we crossed the street to buy the Sunday paper and ran home to take turns reading the funnies.
There is something primal and ancient, soul pleasing, about the scent of baking bread. I love to watch my son devour Pan de Agua, a Puerto Rican staple, made with water and no fats. Even though now, I keep a gluten free diet, I love that he loves bread because I too, loved bread. Love bread. Mourn bread. Love to explore different types of bread, minus the gluten. Bread seems to be some sort of universal, spiritual thread tying humanity together.
The winter my mom first arrived on the mainland from Puerto Rico, she found work in an East Harlem bakery on 103rd street waiting on the customers. It’s interesting to me that the Taino diet was gluten free. Wheat was not native to the Caribbean and the indigenous people relied on Yuca, a root vegetable, which they processed and grilled on a flat top into a thin, round flat discs known as “casabe.” These could be stored for long periods without spoiling, making it an essential food for travel or during food shortages. Maybe this is why my body attacks itself.
When on occasion, my mom took me to the bakery, she took me to the Spanish bakery on 116th St. you could order a cake, a sandwich or fresh bread to dip in your freshly brewed coffee. She would let me choose a treat from the pastries and I was always struck by the pressure of decision fatigue and the inability to choose just one.
As I researched my paternal side of the family, I found that my grandfather was also a baker. He shares a last name, “Cerbone,” with a famous New York bakery and restaurant, making wonder if there’s a connection there. My grandfather worked at two bakeries according to the historical documents I surfaced. His 1917-1918 WWI registration card has him listed as a baker, employed at 335 E.115th St. NY NY 10029 while his WWII card has him listed as a baker at the Triborough Bakery, 2355 First Avenue, and his naturalization papers are signed by Guido Rescigno, a witness, who was also employed as a baker at the same bakery.
As a college kid, I worked at the 92nd St Y, and co-taught the “Mommy & Me Cooking Classes” on Sunday mornings. Using really simple recipes with the toddlers and their caregivers, sometimes nannies and sometimes daddies, we made items like pizza or zuchini bread.
These moments, culinary flashes, olfactive and taste memories are what family and Sundays are to me.
