One way that many of us are getting through this pandemic, while spending so much time at home, is with our enjoyment of food. We’re ordering takeout from favorite restaurants, experimenting with new recipes and spending hours in the kitchen preparing special meals. All this attention to our taste buds got my thinking about the history that comes with family food traditions.

We have a few mealtime traditions in my family—both my mother and father are first generation Italian-Americans. For as long as I can remember, the Farfaglias have celebrated Thanksgiving with a type of stuffing we call tubetina. I’m not sure where the name comes from, but it might have something to do with the type of pasta featured in the dish—a tiny tubular pasta that sure made a big hit with young and old alike.

Tubetina was created by my paternal grandmother, Antonia Farfaglia. It seems that my grandfather, Theodore, didn’t care much for traditional bread stuffing, so to please him at Thanksgiving, she improvised by combining the cooked pasta, sweet Italian sausage, chicken gizzards and hearts, garlic cloves and chicken broth on the stove, then stuffed the turkey with it. With that, Grandma started a brand new holiday tradition.

Soon Antonia and Theodore’s descendents were serving tubetina at their Thanksgiving tables, but the side dish was so delicious that we decided once a year wasn’t enough. It started appearing at meals for other special get togethers and when my kids were young and I was cooking, I made it as a regular weekday dish. There were never any leftovers.

While thinking about my family food traditions, I remembered a book I’d seen on the shelves of our Fulton Public Library. It’s a collection of family recipes from Fultonians. I loved the name of the book: “Fulton’s Melting Pot,” because it reflects something that’s true about every town in America: We’re all descendants of those who came from another country and when they left their homeland, they brought their favorite recipes.

That’s how “Fulton’s Melting Pot” is organized. Each chapter features menus from different countries: British Isles, The Far East, France, Switzerland, Germany, Holland, Greece, Italy, Poland, Spain. It also features Jewish traditional foods and is thoughtful enough to begin the book with a chapter on American Indian recipes.

Most chapters begin with a few sample menus, so an aspiring cook can plan a full meal based on one ethnic group. The American Indian chapter featured a menu option that looks like it would make a satisfying Thanksgiving meal: sweet corn, an Indian bean dish, turkey or venison, Indian bread and maple sugar.

For those who like to experiment with the first meal of their day, a menu suggestion in the British Isles chapter features a traditional English Breakfast: Scotch pancakes, breakfast marmalade, scones and coffee. As noted in this section, Brits favor food that is heavy and hearty…stick-to-your-ribs kind of nourishment, which not only works for those cold rainy days in England, but also through Fulton’s long, frigid winters.

Along with exotic-sounding new recipes, the cookbook also provides tips for those new to a kitchen. In the French and Swiss chapter it’s suggested that “A French chef wraps his fingers around a few choice morsels and with love prepares a dish to delight the soul.” To encourage homemakers who must put food on the table day after day there are inspirational quotes sprinkled through the cookbook. “Eating is a necessity, but cooking is an art.” and “Dinners are cooked in the kitchen, served in the dining room, but digested at home.”

I took special notice of the chapter on Italian cooking, curious to see if other families with their roots in Italy enjoyed the same foods as mine. When I got to a recipe for Italian bread, it triggered another food memory. Growing up in the Farfaglia household, baking bread wasn’t part of any menu planning or for a special occasion; bread was part of every meal and so it was part of my parents’ weekly chores. Without fail, Mom and Dad made it once a week during the fall and winter months, and of all my childhood memories it’s the smell of fresh bread that most brings my parents to mind.

Bread making was a two-person job. My dad didn’t cook much at home—he was the main barbequer, though—but when it came to making bread, he took the lead. Starting with an extra large cooking pot, he mixed the simple bread ingredients: flour, salt, yeast, water. Dad never measured and when we kids got old enough to try our hand at making bread in our own kitchens, we asked him to write down the recipe. He had no idea how to explain measurements. He just knew.

Dad kneaded the bread while Mom prepared the warming area for it to rise: our kitchen table covered with clean sheets and blankets. After rising, Mom shaped the loaves and placed them on cookie sheets. No bread pans were used. The loaves continued rising, but they also expanded to their sides, resulting in loaves with lots of crust—the best part of a slice of Italian bread.

While the bread baked, my parents carried out another tradition that makes my mouth water just thinking about it. One or two of the risen loaves never made it to the oven for baking. Instead, they were cut into strips and stretched until they were about the size of an adult hand. Mom heated an inch or two of oil in a pan and fried each piece on both sides. We munched on this fried bread dough topped with sugar, surrounded by the warmth of our family traditions.

“Fulton’s Melting Pot” includes a Kitchen Prayer, written by poet Stecil Pierce. It’s got several verses that explain the virtues of creating meals in our homes. I especially liked its final verse:

So bless my little kitchen, Lord,
and those who share my bread.
Bless its homey atmosphere
and all those I have fed.