Last night I talked to my brother Jeremy for a couple of hours.  It was a rare opportunity as we live in time zones that are 8 hours different.  He introduced me to a Facebook page for the Maulucci family from Accadia, Italy.  Accadia is a small town in the region of Puglia, Italy.  Jeremy has done a lot of research into the family history of our parents.  He shared several interesting stories that I will not relate here.

While we enjoy the variety stock of being Americans (with some German, English, Polish, Italian, etc.), identity in nomenclature is a natural phenomenon.  As I went on this Maulucci Facebook page, I was whisked to my Buffalo childhood and the Maulucci family.

My grandpa Daniel Rocco Maulucci was the first Maulucci in our line to be born in America.  His parents, Paul and Bridget Pelosi Maulucci immigrated through New York City at the turn of the 20th century.

Grandpa died way too young at 76.  I thought about Grandpa today.  He talked in a high, raspy voice.  He liked his cigars and there was always fruit around and he liked ice cream.  One of my memories of him is sitting at my Aunt Bea’s (Maulucci Quinn) house at the kitchen table next to grandpa eating ice cream.  I have memories of him eating ice cream at Aunt Barb’s (Maulucci Murdough) and, of course, at his home in Lackawanna.

I remember Grandpa would load us cousins up in his big old 70’s boat of a car and take us to some Italian Club in Buffalo at Christmas time.  We would get presents.  He would buy us ice cream.  It would be snowing.  It was Buffalo, after all.  He would be smoking.  I miss Grandpa.

Grandpa married Grandma Jean.  He was soft-spoken from what I remember.  Grandma Jean – the Polack – was anything but soft-spoken.  She would cook Polish – gwumpkies, pierogies, sauerkraut, sausage – but we would have spaghetti dinner at least once a week at Gramps and Grams’ house.  I have never ordered spaghetti at a restaurant in my life.  It is an insult to all Italian cooks.  And you can take your “pasta is from China” and shove it up your left nostril.  Italians perfected pasta.  End of story.

The Maulucci family did not do dining rooms.  Life revolved around a kitchen table.  All of my aunts’ had kitchen tables and as I think about it, they were all round.  For as many houses as I can remember, my parents (David and Susan Maulucci) have always had kitchen tables around which to eat dinner.  We Mauluccis didn’t do the whole “dining room” thing.  On rare occasion.

Life happened around the kitchen table.  It wasn’t just a place to eat although eating happened there.  It was a place for family to interact.  For the Maulucci family, everyone was always welcome any time.  There was always food.  And the gene of story-telling was imbedded into all four of Grandpa and Grandma Maulucci’s children.  That gene was passed on to about 20 of us cousins too.  There was no curfew at the Maulucci house in Lackawanna.  I can remember dozens of times, dozens of cousins and family members talking and debating and laughing and living late into the night until 1 or 2 or 3 am.

My Aunt Diane (Maulucci Gabioud), tells the story of how she took in Grandma Jean when she was about 87 or so.  Grandma Jean had two sisters (of her 11 siblings) still living and they would come over and play cards and talk and make such a racket late into the night that my Aunt finally had to tell the 3 almost 90-year-olds to settle down and get to bed – they were keeping up the neighborhood!

Grandpa Maulucci was our patriarch.  It was as if he was the only soft-spoken one in the family.  When we would get together for Christmas, we’d have 30 or 40 cousins and aunts in the same house – all telling stories loudly and simultaneously – and grandpa seemed to revel in his family, often off to the side.

I remember one time, I was about 12 years old or so.  We went to visit Grandpa and Grandma Maulucci.  When we walked in I did not give Grandpa Maulucci a kiss.  Oh my, Grandma threw a fit until she was in tears.  “What do you think, you are too old to give your Grandfather a kiss?!  Don’t you ever come in here without kissing your Grandfather!”  I never missed another kiss.  What I wouldn’t give to kiss him today.  And that’s another Maulucci trait – emotion, public emotion.  We just don’t do monotone.  Every sentence is accompanied with tears, laughter, anger, passion.

Maulucci life happened around the kitchen table.  There may be 5 chairs around the table, but there would be 15 people there.  Touch was big in the Maulucci family.  It was old school.  A little of the old country.  Slaps, pats, caresses, massages, squeezes, hand-holding, and of course the famous Maulucci dupa-pinching.  Hey, the second most important function of the dupa after sitting, is being pinched.  Everyone knows that.  Well, if you are Maulucci, you know that.

Maybe the hardest thing about life in Europe is being so far away from family.  I barely know my cousins’ children.  I barely know my 25 or so nephews and nieces.  (Katie and I look forward to spending time with many of you this year when we are in the States.)

My Grandpa Maulucci only had one sister.  Although my Dad had a brother, Sonny, he died having his tonsils out.  While all of my cousins have French or Polish or Irish names, I know that there is a little bit of Grandpa Maulucci in all of us.  Mauluccis accept everybody.  Italians are lovers, not fighters.  I have to admit that Grandma Jean had her grudge or two, but she had some Polish blood after all.  Mauluccis accept all.  Life is about relationships, not about how much you weigh, how much you make, or what kind of car you drive.  I look forward to meeting Maulucci family that I never knew existed up until last night.  I do not fear getting along with them because family trumps everything else when you are a Maulucci.

Sixteen years ago, Katie, my wife, became a Maulucci.  She originally was a quiet, reserved, menonnite Slav-German.  After 16 years, she is doing her part in keeping the tradition of Maulucci strong by birthing our 11 children.  She has learned to speak her mind, be loud, laugh long, stay up late, hold her own in an argument and cook like a real Italian mama (and pinch dupas!).

We look forward to continuing the Maulucci family traditions.  Life revolves around food, family, faith – many times in that order.  Thank you, Jeremy, for digging into our past.  If you do not know where you are from, it is hard to know where you are going.