Turning the Tables: From Housewife to Inmate and Back Again (4 page)

Sometimes, though, he was too much of a perfectionist. Ten or eleven years ago, a thirty-something-year-old woman brought in a pair of hot Christian Louboutins to repair at the store he bought in Ramsey, New Jersey, after his first store burned down. Now, we all know that Louboutins are known for their signature red soles. They’re a total status symbol. But my dad thought the soles looked badly scuffed, so he spray painted the bottoms of these very expensive shoes super-black and then applied a special polish to make them shine. He thought they looked great—just like new. When the woman came to get them, she was like, “These aren’t my shoes! My shoes had red soles!” I had to set him straight and tell him, “You cannot spray paint the bottoms of Louboutins!” He didn’t want her to be upset, so he spray painted the bottoms red again. She was happy when she saw the red soles again, but at first? Not so much.
Madonna mia!

After all the years my dad worked at the repair shop, which he really loved, he had to sell his store in Ramsey eight years ago because of his health. He had to have two open-heart valve replacements. On top of that, he just couldn’t bear to breathe in the fumes from the chemicals he used in the store. He would get pneumonia all the time. We were sad that he had to sell it, because we have so many happy memories there. The store is still there and I get a little teary-eyed whenever I see it. But, as we all know, with life comes change . . .

W
hen I was growing up in my family, there was a lot of love. We lived a very simple but very happy life. I was raised in a strict Italian Catholic household that had strong values. Loyalty is everything to me. Family is everything to me. You never go against your family in my eyes. That’s what I was taught.

My dad was home with us every night after work. We went to church every Sunday and sat in the same pew at Mass every week. On the weekends, we would sometimes go to my parents’ friends’ houses or they would come to ours. My dad would play cards with the men. My mom would sit and talk with the women, drinking coffee and having desserts while my brother and I hung out with all the kids.

Even though our apartment was modest, it was so warm and welcoming. I have such good memories from living there. When you walked in the door, the kitchen was right there. That’s where we spent most of our time. To the right of the kitchen were three bedrooms right next to each other—my parents’ bedroom and then mine and Joey’s. Then there was a bathroom and the living room. That was it.

Even though we had no grass in our yard, just asphalt, we lived across the street from the Paterson Falls, which are spectacular. I loved being able to hear the rush of water when we had our windows open. We would always see people going there to take pictures because it’s such a famous landmark in our area. They held a big carnival there every year. Joey and I loved going to that carnival. I remember how I couldn’t wait to look out the window each year to watch this man walk across the falls on a metal wire. I loved seeing him walk the tightrope because you don’t really see things like that a lot anymore. Especially out your window. I was always so worried that he was going to fall! (He never did, thank God . . .)

One thing I loved about living in that apartment house was a massive mulberry tree across the street. Its branches hung down low, so we would go and pick mulberries off the tree when they were ripe and eat them. When Joe and I were little and he would come over to the house with his mom, we would run across the street and pick as many as we could and sit on one of the big rocks under the tree and eat them. Our hands and faces were dark purple from the berries, but we didn’t care. I loved the bond that Joe and I shared, even back then. We always felt so comfortable with each other. As kids we joked about how we wanted to marry each other one day, but back then I had no idea that I
was
sitting under that beautiful tree with my future husband!

M
y dad and I have always been close. He was—and still is—one of the most powerful forces in my life. Growing up, he was like a god to me. He was incredibly strong—emotionally and mentally, but also physically. What always struck me were his strong hands. They were enormous. He wore something like a size 16 ring.

When I was little though, boy, was I terrified of my dad. My father was king. The boss. We always said, “What he says, goes!” He never hit me. He didn’t have to. If he was mad, he just shot you this
look
. Whenever he did that, I would be shaking in my shoes. I actually peed my pants when I was in first grade when he was yelling about something I did and gave me that chilling look. Grown men were wary of it! I got so scared that I couldn’t help but wet my pants—or run.

As I got older, though, I started to push the limits with him. I wasn’t fresh. I just wanted to have my say, like all teenagers do. Sometimes when he told me to do something, I would say, “But . . .” He did not like that. I think he thought I was being disrespectful, but I was just trying to get my point of view across—or get something I really wanted. I remember asking my dad if I could have a sleepover at my friend’s house. He said no. “But her parents will be there,” I said. “Why can’t I?” The answer was
always
no. He couldn’t believe that I would dare to continue to ask him about it. Finally, he said, “You sleep home. I don’t want to talk about it again.” That was that. No sleepovers.

I remember my mom or my brother shooting me looks to keep quiet when I said, “But . . .” (I laugh now when I think of
all
the crazy things my little spitfire, Milania, comes up with! Like when she said to Joe, “Gimme pizza, you old troll!” I cannot
imagine
what kind of look I would have gotten if I had said that to my dad!)

When my dad got really mad at me, he would slam his hands on the table, just like my brother did at his son’s christening on the first episode of Season 3, after he called me “garbage,” which started a huge brawl. (I will
never
forget that horrible day . . .
Oh, Madonna mia . . .
)

Unlike me, my brother would never talk back to my father. He would always stay quiet. My mom was a saint. She would never talk back, either. Once in a while she would give him an eye roll, but that was it. As I got older, I always remember my mom saying to me, “If you were married to your father, you would have been divorced already . . .”

My mom and dad were always good at balancing each other out. My mom knew to keep quiet when my dad was fired up and how to speak to him when he calmed down. This really worked for them because they have been happily married for so long. I never heard my mother raise her voice to my dad, who treated my mom like a queen. He would always say to her, “This is how a man treats a woman . . .” I think one reason my brother treats his wife, Melissa, so well is because he learned that from my dad.

Even though my dad could be strict and scary when he shot me
the look
, the funny thing is that today I see that my dad is really just a big teddy bear. My mom is now the boss, although I’m not sure he would admit that. My dad cooks and cleans a lot more now because it’s hard for my mom with her rheumatoid arthritis. I think one of the reasons Joe and I have such a strong marriage is because I learned so much from my parents’ relationship. He also learned from his parents, Frank and Filomena Giudice, who were happily married for decades, like mine. Joe and I rarely raise our voices to each other and work out our differences in a loving way. I can only hope that Joe and I are able to pass down what we learned from our parents to our daughters. I want them to have the kind of happy marriages we have all had in my family.

I
’m grateful that my parents were so strict with me. I never did drugs growing up. I was too terrified of my dad. He would tell me, “If you do drugs and the drugs don’t kill you, I will.” I always thought of him before doing anything I knew I shouldn’t do. Plus, I never wanted to do anything to disappoint my parents in any way. They were so supportive of us, and had given up so much for our happiness, that I never wanted to do anything that would make them think that I wasn’t grateful. I was always afraid of what would happen if I ended up in the hospital from taking any drugs. My parents would have had to come and get me, and they would have been devastated. And they would definitely have killed me. Or at least made my life beyond miserable.

M
y mom is the best mom in the world. So caring and loving. She was always so attentive to my brother and me. We were her life. Her whole world. Growing up, my mom was always home with us. That is how my dad wanted it. We never had a babysitter. My mom would always invite my friends and my brother’s friends to our house, so she could keep an eye on all of us and so that she knew where Joey and I were at all times. When I was little, my friends would come over and we would play Barbies for hours.

My dad didn’t want my mom to work, although she would come to the shoe repair place every now and then and help him out. She would do any repairs that needed the sewing machine, so she would sew straps on handbags and sandals—that kind of thing.

Dinnertime at my house was sacred. It was family time. It’s the same in my house now. My mom had dinner on the table at 5:30 p.m. on the dot every night. We all loved that she made us delicious, healthy home-cooked meals. After we finished dinner, we would have to stay seated at the table for dessert, which was always fruit. We couldn’t get up from the table until everyone was done eating. My dad was very big on that. I still carry on that same tradition in my house, too.

My mom was always in the kitchen cooking and baking, like other Italian mamas everywhere. The house always smelled so good. Everything she and my dad made, since he liked to cook, too, was just so delicious. It was all about food in my house. We didn’t grow up in a mansion, but our house was the best of the best when it came to food.

Every Sunday, I remember my mom making meatballs and braciole (pronounced
brajole
), thin slices of meat rolled with garlic and parsley and held together with a toothpick. So delicious . . . She would also make her own sauce and stir in homemade sausage, which made it taste even better. I still do that today with my sauce.

I would watch my mom all the time, asking questions about how she prepared things. I would help her cook, too. I think I started helping her when I was five. I would fry eggs in olive oil (like Milania would do with me, later on) and make espresso every night for my dad after dinner. As I got older, especially after I got married, I learned so much from her, which is why I am so good in the kitchen today—and was able to write three
New York Times
best-selling cookbooks!

Everything my mom made was mouthwateringly delicious and done to perfection. During the week she would make us eggplant parmigiana, escarole and beans (which I love to make for my girls now), linguine in white clam sauce or red sauce with crabs, stuffed eggplant, and chicken parmigiana. I love my mom’s lasagna, stuffed mushrooms, and homemade pasta. We couldn’t get enough of her food. And the smell of her freshly baked bread in the house? Heavenly . . .

My father would always make dinner on Wednesday, his day off. He would roast pork chops or chicken in the oven with onions, potatoes, and vegetables.
Delizioso!

I loved helping my mom make desserts, too, like
nocché
, which is Italian for bow tie cookies. We would make them for parties and holidays. They taste so good and look so beautiful on the table, but are
a lot
of work.

My mom went all out on Christmas Eve, which was huge for us. We always hung out with our neighbors, who were Sicilians. My mom would invite something like thirty-five people over every year. The kids all played and ran around while the adults laughed, drank homemade wine, and ate all the amazing food my mom spent hours making. (Italian families love to have everyone over all the time, especially for holidays!)

One longtime Italian, Roman Catholic tradition our family followed was the Feast of the Seven Fishes on Christmas Eve to celebrate Jesus’s birth. Just like during Lent, when Catholics aren’t allowed to eat meat, we are supposed to fast until Jesus is born and can only eat fish while observing the
Cena della Vigilia
—the Christmas Eve vigil dinner. So it was all about the fish that night.

We would have linguine in red sauce with seafood (one of my favorite pasta dishes), seafood salad with octopus, shrimp, and scungilli, another favorite of mine. We would eat a lot of
baccala
—salted cod, which is a southern Italian tradition. We would
mangia
on
baccala
salad,
baccala
in a red sauce, or fried
baccala
, clams casino, mussels in a hot, spicy red sauce baked in the oven, as well as fried shrimp and fried calamari. For dessert, I would help my mom make
struffoli
—fried balls of dough with honey and rainbow sprinkles, which look so beautiful when you serve them. I always loved eating all the fish on Christmas Eve, which is another tradition I uphold at my house now.

At Easter, my mom would make pizza
chiena
or
piena
, a traditional Napolitano recipe.
Piena
means “full”—so it’s a thick pie with a crust on top stuffed with ricotta, prosciutto, eggs, and cheese. Absolutely amazing.

O
ne of my favorite childhood memories was going down the Jersey shore with my parents and my brother. Sometimes we would go with Joe’s family. We would go for the day every Wednesday and Sunday, since those were my dad’s days off. My mom would pack the most delicious sandwiches: prosciutto, fresh mozzarella and eggplant or chicken cutlet. Instead of sprinkling salt and pepper on the sandwiches, she would put homemade jarred eggplant in olive oil or roasted red peppers on the sandwiches. So good! My mom would always pack a big container of iced tea to drink and fresh fruit, like juicy peaches or refreshing watermelon slices. For whatever reason, everything always tasted so good on the beach—and still does.