remembering my grandfather...
through spaghetti, tomato, egg, and ham
A few weeks ago I found myself at an unremarkable restaurant eating a seemingly unremarkable pasta, but for some reason I could not put my fork down. The dish consisted of strozzapreti (which for untold reasons translates to “priest-strangler”) in a garlicky sauce with tomato confit, pancetta, olives, spinach, and cured egg. I thought the combination was a little strange, and I couldn’t figure out why the dish was so evocative for me.
Then it hit me: I have eaten this dish before.
My family moved to Canada when I was very young, and my first memory of meeting my paternal grandfather was when he came to live with us when I was ten. I became very fond of him, and would accompany him on long walks around the neighborhood while we chatted about his life back in China. He taught me Mandarin during the summer and would keep me company while I did my homework during the school year.
And he cooked for me. He wasn’t a good cook by any means, and his repertoire was limited. However, he learned how to use the bread machine, so every afternoon I came home to the scent of freshly-baked bread. It wasn’t the bread that I thought of the other day, though. It was a spaghetti dish he concocted one day when I told him I was hungry after school.
He used what we had in the fridge: tomatoes, eggs, a block of ham. There was always a plethora of garlic in our house, which he made good use of. He would get the oil hot in the wok and throw some minced garlic in, and immediately the kitchen would be filled with the scent of alliaceous goodness.
Next came the ham, which he’d cook in the garlicky oil until the edges became slightly crispy. Then the diced tomatoes, which would sweat in the sauce until it had become a confit. He would whisk in an egg to thicken the mixture, and then season with a dash of soy sauce. It was all served atop a heap of spaghetti.
It wasn’t fancy but it was delicious. I would devour it in mere minutes and ask for seconds. It was one of the only things my grandfather cooked for me, and I savored every bite. I asked him to name the dish so that I could more easily request it and he called it “三和一” or “three plus one”: tomato, eggs, ham + spaghetti.
A brief aside: you’ll notice that garlic is not included among the numbered ingredients. That’s because it was basically a given in my family’s cooking. It wasn’t a question of “Garlic or no garlic?”, but “How much garlic?”. Or more accurately, “How much garlic can we get away with before it becomes offensive?”
When I raved about 三和一 to my mom (who is an excellent cook), she would ask, “What’s so special about that dish anyway? I could make it for you.” But for her to try would have been a wasted effort. Nobody could make it like my grandfather because, circuitously, part of what made that dish unique was that he was the one making it for me. It was a special meal that he and I shared in the early afternoons when it was just the two of us.
A year passed, and my grandfather had to return to China. I was heartbroken. Before he left, I asked him if he would ever come back to Canada, to which he responded “I don’t know”. When we got home from dropping him off at the airport, I went to his room, which still smelled just like him, and wept.
He did come back, though, four years later. My uncle had decided to move to Canada, and my grandfather would come stay with us, this time for good. I was very happy to welcome him back, but we didn’t bond as easily as we did the first time. I didn’t have time or desire to learn Mandarin anymore. We didn’t chat as much after school or go on as many afternoon walks together. I was too busy talking to my friends.
However, I always had time for a plate of 三和一. By then, I already knew how to cook, but I continued to request that he prepare this dish for me, and I continued to devour it in minutes and demand seconds. It was one of the ways we felt close to each other, even though there was a cultural and generational chasm between us.
In my senior year of high school, my uncle was in town to celebrate the holidays and my grandfather, seated at the head of the table and flanked by a son on each side, proclaimed, “When I turn 80, I want us all to gather to celebrate like this.” We all agreed, but almost dismissively, because of course we would all celebrate together. Of course he would turn 80.
A week later, he had a stroke. After a series of scans, the doctors informed us that he had stage IV lung cancer, and that it had metastasized to his brain. The ending was swift and ruthless. A little over a month after we had promised to celebrate his 80th birthday, we were putting him in the ground instead. He was 72.
As I continued to bring forkful after forkful of this priest-strangling pasta to my lips, I was struck by how similar it tasted to 三和一. It transported me to those early afternoons when I would come home from school starving, and my grandfather would dutifully prepare a fresh plate for me. I hadn’t thought about 三和一 for years, but every bite of the strozzapreti brought me right back to my childhood.
To this day, I don’t know if I’ve fully processed my grandfather’s death. In the month between his stroke and his final breath, I mostly remember feeling numb. I tried to go about my life as if everything were fine, and when he passed I even felt a modicum of relief. The only time I remember crying was when we got home from his funeral, and I went into his room and it still smelled just like him.
When I look back, I regret not giving him the time of day, and am still flooded with sadness when I think about how lonely he must have felt. Did he know the end was approaching? Was he afraid? There are so many things left unsaid, so many questions I’ll never be able to get the answer to.
In writing this article, I decided to try my hand at cooking 三和一. As the warm scent of garlic wafted through my apartment, as the ham sizzled and crisped, and the tomatoes bathed in their juices, I reveled in the nostalgia.
When someone leaves us, what do we have left of them but the smell of their clothes, their stuff exactly as they left it, the memories we shared? All of that is ephemeral and all of it will eventually fade.
My grandfather left me with a dish that I can recreate ad infinitum, each time as delicious as the last. Every time I take a bite of 三和一, I am that ten-year old child once more, imploring him to make the dish even though he made it yesterday and will probably make it again tomorrow. I am grateful because every time I take a bite, I feel close to him again.
When I offered the dish for my partner to try, he chewed then paused briefly before saying, “You know you’re going to have to make this all the time now, right?”
I smiled, because I intend to.