2018_September-October.indd

FEATURE

with his immigrant past — consistently Catholic and proudly Mediterranean. With a good sense of story and quick wit, he slowly gravitated from teaching to the “sales professions” (cars, insurance) to provide for his wife and five kids. After his first marriage inWisconsin ended, Joe came down to South Louisiana, where his younger brother had settled after college. Fast-forward a few years to the mid-1970s: He married my mother (Carmelite Hebert) and made a blended stepfamily with eight children, and then nine. From the start, Carm and Joe had their hands full. With two working parents and a gaggle of, at any given time, five to seven kids (toddlers to teens) under one roof, “running the house” required a lot of legwork.Most of the everyday cooking fell to Mama, at least until the children reached “make your own sandwich” age. She kept us consistently fed with a repertoire of simple dishes — pork chops and gravy, smothered chicken, tuna casserole, pepper steak — always in bulk and usually served over rice. Simple, affordable, reliable food. But when Joe got a mind to cook, things slipped into a decidedly theatrical mode. When visiting family, or if impulsive “special occasions” cropped up, Joe would exclaim: “Come over! I”ll make spaghetti!” in a voice that was equal parts P.T. Barnum and nightclub crooner Louis Prima. It was like the father of the Prodigal Son announcing the feast of the fatted calf in front of the Count Basie Orchestra. (One Night Only!) The word “spaghetti” was an identity trigger for Joe. On a normal day, the mere mention of pasta would bring his Italian side into full, boisterous bloom. Usually quick with a joke, Joe expressed exceptionally blunt opinions about other people’s recipes if the subject of sauce came up. When Mama cooked her version — a standard-issue meat sauce that the family liked just fine — he’d say that it was good, but “not real spaghetti.” He’d go on about the manifold difference between her clearly inferior version and the perfection of his mother’s sauce, as Mama rolled her eyes and we all continued to eat. Before he and Mama were married, Joe once opened up my grandfather’s sauce pot, took a quick taste and, as he replaced the lid, dismissed it with a quick judgement of “It’s good. But not Italian...”

out for scavengers (his kids) as he prepped his signature culinary showcase and a sharing of his own table stories. My dad, Joseph Blanco ( Joe, to just about everybody), is one of those guys for whom the phrase “larger than life” doesn’t quite do justice. When I’m asked to describe him in casual conversation, I usually default to a single-sentence description that scratches the surface of the man’s complexity: “He’s an Italian Spaniard from the Lebanese side of Birmingham who looks like the real-life incarnation of Fred Flintstone.” Born in 1930 and the older of two sons, Joe grew up on Birmingham’s south side (near the modern-day medical center) to a first- generation Spanish father and a mother of New Orleans Sicilian descent. His father Gumersindo — short, wiry and fiery — emigrated from northwestern Spain to Birmingham, Alabama and supported his family working as a knife sharpener, the traditional trade of his hometown of Ourense. His mother Mary — a Creole-Sicilian Musemeche from Rampart Street — took the train north and joined Gumersindo in the Iron City. Both sides exerted strong influences on Joe before he left home and made his way through adulthood. As a student athlete at Memphis State University, softhearted military police officer in northern Japan and hard-nosed history teacher/football coach in suburban Milwaukee, Joe always identified

— a Broadway-style extravaganza complete with special guest stars, complicated family histories and the Middle Eastern salads of his youth.The oversized pot was my father’s excuse to celebrate his immigrant heri- tage, explore the foods he remembered from childhood, and pass them on to his family and friends. When Joe cooked, it was a one- man show. His specialty was a very specific red sauce he remembered fondly from childhood — a thin red sauce with a silky texture, deep tomato flavor and the faintest hint of garlic. Hand-rolled meatballs floated in the pot, just a bit too big to surreptitiously steal before supper. In the kitchen, Joe kept a sharp eye

53

WWW.ROUSES.COM