A Recipe To Remember

Back in 2005, we had the opportunity to travel to Italy with my parents and sister and brother-in-law on a pleasure trip that was also a mission of sorts. We went in part to visit Tuscany, but our primary purpose was to visit the site of a World War II memorial near the northern Italian city of Mantova.

In October of 1944, four aviators from my dad’s unit, the 319th Bomb Group, were lost on a mission to take out a rail bridge in Mantova. Two of those lost, Don Treadwell and Joe Prebil, were close friends of my dad, who was a pilot in another B26 bomber on that mission. My dad was able to return to his base in Corsica that day, but that mission clearly was a defining moment in his life.

The idea of our 2005 trip started when I learned about the memorial that the village of Redondesco had recently built to the four lost aviators. I’d learned about it by chance through my brother-in-law—a history professor fluent in Italian who had read about it in the Mantova newspaper. I was only half-serious when I announced later at a family gathering that I was going to visit. My dad surprised me when he immediately asked “can I come with you?”

A few months later, my parents, Souzz, me, my sister and her husband headed off to northern Italy on a trip that we’d never even imagined. We set things up entirely through email using web-based language translation programs (I think this internet fad might be here to stay).

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Once in Mantova, we were met by the Mayor of Redondesco along with a very knowledgeable Mantova historian and a volunteer translator from Redondesco. The three of them proceeded to take us on a guided tour of targets and crash sites, a tour that was simply amazing.

During our tour, we met a local farmer that witnessed the 1944 crash as a young boy, and he shared his emotional story as if it had happened yesterday. Later we were joined at the memorial by a huge group from the village of Redondesco—a group that waited for us for quite some time, undeterred by steady rain. We then closed our visit with a remarkable meal at the Mayor’s family farmhouse.

Calling our experience at the farmhouse a “meal” understates things quite a bit, as it was more like a commemoration and a celebration of friendship–and it was also the most amazing cultural experience that I’ve ever had. Lunch lasted five full hours, and there were seven courses, all hand-prepared over the previous two full days. Wave after wave of food came out while gregarious townspeople chatted away in Italian. Several times, our new friends did their best (in English) to thank my dad and the US for helping to bring Italy its freedom in World War II (and “their best” was pretty great, just perfect).

At the center of the meal was a regional favorite called tortelli di zucca, a pumpkin-stuffed pasta that is a Mantova specialty.

After we returned home to Virginia, our new friend Ivano (our translator on the trip, one of several new friends with whom we are still in touch, some 14 years later) generously shared his tortelli recipe. Since then, tortelli has become one of our favorite dishes. We’ve made it twice in just the last few months, and it’s always a crowd pleaser. And perhaps best of all, it is both a meal and a story.


Like any food experience, the memories of our meal in Redondesco are shaped by the context―the people, the situation and the emotions involved. Lunch that day in 2005 offered us a chance to connect with people from another country and to acknowledge a sacrifice that should never be forgotten—and we had the opportunity to share that experience with my parents and my sister and brother-in-law, pretty special.

And through my dad’s stories, our trip also offered a glimpse into what our troops did for us in 1944–and what they continue to do for us today.

Each time we make tortelli di zucca, we raise a glass to Don and Joe, and to all of the others that never made it home. As I’ve learned time and again, food can be a meal, an experience, a memory, a connector, or even a tribute. Sometimes it’s all five.


Right at Home

I’m in San Juan, Puerto Rico this weekend as the volunteer videographer/photographer for an annual reunion of Army veterans that served in Vietnam between 1967 and 1971. Gatherings like this aren’t so much about the food or the place; they are about the people and the experience that connects them–people like Manuel and Brian and Charlie and Rolla, guys (and now their families, too) that see each other maybe once a year, and each time in a different city.

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IMG_5126Folks did enjoy the place, too, of course. Puerto Rico means Rich Port in Spanish, and San Juan is the second oldest European settlement in the west (after Santa Domingo in the Dominican Republic). The city was first settled by Ponce de Leon in 1508, and it is chock full of history. The fort here dates to the 1500s, and it was still in use as late as World War II. The island also has a proud history of military service, with nearly 50,000 Puerto Ricans serving in Vietnam–including SGT Manuel Rivera, who hosted this year’s reunion.

The weekend has been packed with activities like tours of the Yunque Rain Forest and the Yunque_waterfallcity, including a visit to the Governor’s mansion and the Capitol–but the main attraction is the people standing in this room. There are nearly a hundred folks here from places ranging from San Juan to Maine to California, and they have more in common than one might think–especially when one surveys a room mixed with suit jackets and tank tops.

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PFC Mead’s monkey

Conversations ranged from catching up on the past year to good-natured kidding about things that happened almost 50 years ago–like the time that PFC Mead bought a pet monkey in Bien Hoa, or img113the time that Ken “accidentally” bumped the Colonel into a trailer full of ice water. Oh, and apparently getting a bulldozer stuck in the mud is something that stays with you for life (I’m going to keep that in mind the next time I set out to clear a few acres).

Mixed in with the tours and banquets was a touching memorial service for the 21 members of the unit that didn’t make it home, a ceremony that has become the centerpiece of each reunion going back to 1996. A candle was lit for each of the soldiers lost in Vietnam, a somber moment in the midst of a weekend that otherwise felt like a celebration. I never served so I can’t even pretend to understand, but it seems that remembering these soldiers is the very least that we can do–just as was done last year in San Diego, and just as will be done next year in Indianapolis.

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All in all, it’s a wonderful weekend of fellowship and remembrance. The veterans and their families that came to Puerto Rico traveled hundreds or even thousands of miles to get here, some even having to dodge Hurricane Joaquin on the way, but right now they are all right at home.