Uncle Vinny's Chicken Cacciatore

One of my fondest food memories is of the day that "Uncle" Vinny introduced us to the joys of chicken cacciatore. Vinny worked with our father and, having no children of his own, had taken an active interest in my brother and me. Secondhand reports on our progress at school no longer satisfied him, and had given way to an exchange of handwritten letters. Vinny and I shared favorite books and movies, and he became my confidant in any matters of surpassing urgency to a teenager. His advice was wise, well considered, and always weighted more heavily in my mind for his lack of formal family ties. He was the Italian uncle every boy and girl should have, but only the luckiest few get.

The Sunday that Vinny drove down from Mt. Vernon, he was determined to teach us the proper way to eat. He commandeered our kitchen early in the morning, respectful of our father's strictly kosher guidelines, yet fully and admirably in charge. By noon, the range was crowded with pots, which he tended to while regaling us with stories and peals of his boisterous laughter. I didn't know my thyme from my tarragon back then; my successive kitchen awakenings were many years off. So there was still mystery, if not honest-to-god magic, in the act of cooking. I had no idea what base ingredients were being commuted into sauce before our eyes, nor was I even aware enough to ask.

I remember that Vinny declared dinner ready to serve some time well after sundown. By then I was almost full to satiety on the aromas that had filled the house all day. So, while the tomato sauce was surely the finest and freshest I'd ever eaten, the chicken so tender that it had reduced itself to shreds, the meal itself was less of an experience than the production leading up to it. To this day, I find the act of eating to be almost anticlimactic. The real pleasure is to be found in the preparation and in the sharing.

Uncle Vinny passed on in December 2008, a fact of which I became aware only a few weeks ago, when I was attempting to reconnect with him via the social networks. We had fallen out of touch over the years, but the sight of his obituary seemed unreal, impossible. Blinking back tears, of anger as much as grief, I succumbed to a flood of sensory memories, essentially reliving this day in detail.

I don't know if the chicken cacciatore I prepared for my dinner with Master lived up to the standards set by Uncle Vinny's example, but it was good. Very good. And the act of cooking it was not just a little bit cathartic, enabling Vinny to live again, in some small sense, for one more day. I could only guess at what ministrations he had performed, back turned to us, powerful arms working at odd angles, as hot oil crackled and flavorful steam poured from the pots. I imagine he, too, dusted the chicken parts with seasoned flour before browning them in olive oil. Did he also add a slip of butter, knowing that the deeper flavor was worth a little extra fat? Vinny wasn't one to compromise taste for the sake of a few calories. I can assume that he sliced his onions into thick rings and finely minced the rosemary, added the ribbons of fresh basil only at the very end, as the pasta drained. I don't remember if he added carrots, zucchini, crimini mushrooms, and a touch of crushed red pepper, but it doesn't matter. I realize now that I saw and learned that day, even if I didn't comprehend it at the time. It all came back to me as I cooked, and intuition filled in the remaining blanks. I think my Uncle Vinny would have been very pleased. And nothing is more important to me than pleasing people.