When I was in kindergarten, my mother married George Mitchell David. My first memory of him was of a very tall, dark-haired man wearing a trench coat with pockets full of Juicy Fruit gum and Mary Jane candies which he happily doled out to this wee holder of boring suspicious eyes. He was a wonderful man who not only stepped into the very difficult position of stepfather to two young children but also folded us into his very large, very close Lebanese family.
I didn’t start out as a fan of granola. There’s something about the flavor of the sort you get in the box that never sat well with me, and after that wayward Summer we spent with the cousins when the aunt decided that orange juice was a suitable wetting agent for cereal, namely granola, the fate of the oated pariah was sealed for me.
This dish is the reason that I started this blog. If I think of Nonnie in the kitchen, it generally involves her making pasta fazool and me being shooed away from the pot. “Elizabeth! Go. Out. Side!” To be sure, I know this is correctly referred to as pasta e fagioli (pasta and beans) but we have never called it that and I see no reason to start now. Plus, I don’t think most of the family would know what I was talking about if it I called it Nonnie’s pasta e fagioli.