Zucchini Flowers and Concrete

Zucchini flowers! Standing in the train station in Naples, Italy, with a large suitcase at his side, a friend recorded an audio message to me, while waiting for the train home to Vienna, Austria. He explained the contents of the suitcase represented the things he most loved about the land of his ancestors: sausage, zucchini flowers, buffalo mozzarella, and boutique shop items, all evoking a sense of nostalgia. Upon hearing zucchini flowers, excitement and nostalgic feelings raced through me. I barely listened when he recited the names of the other items; all I could think about were the zucchini flowers.

Growing up in the industrial city of Paterson, New Jersey, known for its silk mills, I was surrounded by densely stacked houses and concrete, not exactly a place you’d expect to find zucchini flowers growing. The houses on my block were mostly the same, two-family homes with tiny backyards, separated by narrow alleyways. However, there was something different about the house directly across the street where my childhood friend, Fran lived. Lifting the latch of the green wrought iron gate, I often hiked up the eight steep cement steps to her front yard, and then up another set of six, leading to the front porch, where I rang the bell, eagerly awaiting my young friend to answer. The resonating ring was typically followed by the call of a middle-aged woman with a thick Italian accent. “Franz-a! Nenzi is here”! Such is how Rosina pronounced our names, Fran and Nancy.

Fran ran to greet me in a dress with the big bow in her hair bopping to the rhythm of her feet, clad in little leather shoes and lace socks. There I stood in shorts, a T-shirt, sneakers, and most likely, a scab on my knee, frequently sustained when running around and rough housing with the boys. We were as different as night and day but, when not playing football with the boys or riding bikes, I liked spending time with Fran, playing with dolls, although mine were Teddy Bears and stuffed dogs.

Most fascinating was venturing into Fran’s backyard. Her parents owned the adjacent lot, so the property included a side yard with a manicured lawn and rose bushes, and a backyard twice the size of anyone else’s. That yard had so many things not found or seen elsewhere. On the left stood a cherry tree Fran and I loved to climb. When in season, we’d perch ourselves on the sturdy limbs, nibbling on cherries we had plucked from the branches. A large grapevine arbor constructed of wooden posts that supported crossbars for the vines to intertwine themselves through was the central focus point of the yard. It was large enough to have a picnic table and several chairs beneath. The foliage and dripping bunches of grapes formed a natural umbrella, providing shade for those sitting below. Off to the right, a small wire fence partitioned a large rectangular section of dirt free of grass and weeds, where Rosina, bent at the waist, tended to her vegetable plants. Rosina’s garden was better than the produce section of any supermarket. Her tomatoes were bigger with a deeper red color and the cucumbers crisper. Best of all, she had the most amazing zucchini plants with big orange-yellow flowers, some propped up by makeshift trellises and others sprawling freely.

It was extra special when I had lunch at Fran’s house. The screen door on the back porch opened with a squeak, announcing Rosina was about to call us in to eat. The sweet aroma of homemade marinara sauce drew us in by our nostrils. Rosina set two plates of pasta, topped with her red sauce and decorated with white sprinkles of parmesan cheese before us. One particular summer day, as we twirled spaghetti around our forks, Rosina slid another plate on the table. I had no idea what the little fried things were but they certainly smelled fantastic. When she told me they were fried zucchini flowers, I thought she was joking, giggled, and told her I didn’t believe it. I’d never heard of eating flowers before and didn’t think it was possible …. or safe! Looking at Fran for confirmation that it couldn’t be true, my friend instead nodded, informing me the plate in the middle of the table did indeed contain fried zucchini flowers!

Unsure, I ventured a fork into one, lifting it onto my plate. Before taking a bite, I watched Fran eat one, and since she didn’t keel over immediately after swallowing it, I figured they were safe to eat. Slowly, I took my first bite. The flavor of the sweet fried flowers bounced around my taste buds, opening my eyes wide with pleasure. My fried flower was devoured in no time, and I wanted to eat all the flowers on that serving dish!

I learned that day that you could safely eat zucchini flowers but wouldn’t understand more of the details until I reached adulthood. Zucchini plants have male and female flowers, which look the same from the outside, but are visibly different when you inspect them from within. The male flowers have a pollen producing stamen, whereas the female flowers have a bulge at the base, which is the ovary that develops into the zucchini once pollinated. For this reason, it is best to eat the male flowers, as to not reduce the yield of zucchini. Although not loaded with a very high level of nutrients, zucchini flowers do contain calcium, zinc, iron, magnesium, and vitamins A, C, E, and K.

Plant science aside, for the remainder of my childhood, fried zucchini flowers would always be a special treat at Fran’s house, and something I would forever associate with Rosina.

These gorgeous bright orange-yellow flowers also taught me that beauty can grow among the concrete in their own urban oasis. Rosina cultivated in her American backyard garden the flavors and fruits of her native southern Italy. There was definitely a little bit of Salerno in her soil.

Little did my friend at the train station know, that his suitcase contained not only items that were an embodiment of his past and ethnic identity, but were also a direct link to my childhood, summoning my own sense of sentimentality.