Roosta Food

          When I was young, my Nonna made dozens of meals for my cousins and I. Pasta, pastina, polpette, you name it. However, one meal stood out to us from the rest. One that filled our plates with an assortment of meats, greens, and potatoes fried so well that we could smell them from across the house. Roosta. It's what English people call a roast, but Italians make it a bit differently. We threw in a portion of ribs instead of meatloaf or steak, and most importantly, Salsiccia Salsiccia was the main ingredient. At least for me it was. 

          I always chose my pieces of meat before Nonna served the rest to everyone else. I didn't forget to choose which potatoes I wanted either. I always picked the crispiest ones, just the way I liked them. Nonna always saved those ones for me. Whenever I went over to Nonna’s house knowing I was going to eat Roosta, I never ate beforehand. I didn't fill up on juice boxes or iced tea from the cantina. This meal was like family; you had to have it all together and leave nothing out. In Italian households, there is one big course and no breaks. You eat until you’re full. That's when you know you're done. This wasn't a meal you’d have on a quick visit or a pop in. This was something you’d be invited to have. Prepared by family, for family. It was evening dinners in Nonna’s basement with my Zias, Zios, and cousins. It was a time to bring up old times and old memories, play classical Italian music and spend the rest of the night playing Scopa.

          I didn't even know there was an English version of Roosta until university and had to explain to my class what Roosta was. I just didn't know. I just sat there for a minute trying to think of what to compare it to. I couldn't even think of a name. Even Google didn’t know what Roosta was. The only word it could spit out was “arrosto”—the general word for roast in Italian, but I was convinced only the Rosettani family knew about Roosta. It must’ve been some ancient recipe hidden from the rest of the world. I knew Roosta as a combination of Salsiccia, not sausage, Patate, not potatoes, and Sallatta, not salad. But anytime someone asked me what Roosta was, it was meat, potatoes and greens. 

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          I sat in class starving one day, waiting for the classroom clock to strike eleven. Once the bell rang its siren-like whir, I bolted to the coat rack and snatched my lunchbag from my backpack. Nearly every day my lunch included a a panino. It was a bun with mortadella, provolone, and sometimes prosciutto if I was lucky. It was the easiest meal to prep for Italian families. That's what mom said, and I never complained. It was a sandwich, I couldn't get tired of sandwiches. I scurried back to my desk, unzipped my lunchbag, and flicked open the plastic tupperware, only to smell the familiar aura of fried Salsiccia, crispy Patate, and garlic beans tucked in between. Roosta. I never had Roosta for lunch before. Not at school and only at home when there were leftovers, which there rarely were. What did it matter? I was having Roosta for lunch! Before I could grasp the plastic fork wrapped in a paper towel, someone in my class pointed a finger at my desk. I don't remember their name but their sarcasm stuck with me. 

          “What's that?” they asked.

          “Roosta.”

          “Rooster? That doesn't look like a rooster. Or even chicken.”

          “It's not an actual rooster. The name just sounds like it. It's Italian.”

          “That's Italian food? Don't you guys eat pizza and spaghetti?”

          My face turned as red as a tomato. 

          “Yeah, but this is Italian too. Not everything has sauce and cheese.”

          “What’s Italian about it? It's just meat, potatoes and beans.”

          “It’s Italian, okay? What don’t you get about that?”

          Some other kids turned their heads. They stared at my clear blue tupperware like it was a UFO that crash landed onto the surface of my desk. My eyes were on the verge of leaking tears like broken faucets. Even my Italian classmates looked at me like they didn't want to back me up. I wanted to stand up in front of my class and tell them what Roosta really was. I knew how Nonna felt when someone tried to talk her out of Roosta. I wanted to call them Mangiacakes like she did, like how all Italian immigrants called Americans and Canadians. I wanted to let them know they were Mangiacakes to their faces for joking I was eating a rooster. But not behind their backs. I wanted to let them know they were Mangiacakes to their faces for joking that I was eating a rooster, as if I was Wile E. Coyote trying to eat the Road Runner. I stayed put. I scraped the crust off the potatoes and sliced the sausages into thin, greasy sheets with my plastic fork. 

          They don't know what they were missing. With their lunchables and baloney sandwiches with the crusts cut off. The stale chicken nuggets, soggy fries, and cold chicken noodle soup. I knew that everyone had some food in their culture that had a bizarre name and a weird smell. Maybe it looked like it was from another planet. Maybe they couldn't even pronounce the name without stuttering. I didn't want to show my Italian food, aside from the stereotypical dishes at first, but I knew that we were all alike. I remember classmates who tried to hide or quickly scarf down their fish or bean stew so no one could see it, smell it, and point a finger in its direction for all to gawk at. Now I knew that Roosta wasn't something to be ashamed of, let alone afraid of. It was part of my culture. It was part of my family. 

          It was part of me. 

 

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          I learned that I liked having a meal that no one else knew about. It felt more exclusive. More special. No restaurant in the new world could mess it up and ruin it with the wrong ingredients or a new recipe that would appeal to westernized Americans and Canadians. Cake eaters. Mangiacakes are what Italian immigrants like Nonna called them. I didn't know how to speak Italian fluently and still don't, but knowing some words and phrases made me satisfied enough to relate to where I came from. Even though most of my Italian vocabulary was made up of food, I was still happy to know I knew the names of foods in Italian– taught to me by my Nonna– not a menu at a restaurant or some wannabe chef on TV. 

          If there was anything I knew, it was that some meals couldn't be recreated in a restaurant. Even with the world's best chefs and five Michelin stars, six even. Meals like Roosta held a place only in Nonna’s kitchen. 

          And in my heart.