Nonfiction by Robert Wright

At the turn of the last century, they came to Oregon from Italy to start new lives. They labored in the fields of Southeast Portland. With Italian roots from my immigrant grandparents on my mother’s side, I grew up in this area.

The Italians’ culture and traditions were reflected in their recipes. My grandmother and mother could cook with the best of them: ravioli, lasagna, minestrone, meatballs with spaghetti smothered in mushroom-tinted Bolognese sauce – and Lies.

I was fascinated watching my mother prepare Lies. With a rolling pin she made a thin pasta sheet, pasta sfoglia, from sugar-sweetened dough. She cut away inch-wide strips about six inches long and cut a lengthwise short slit down their centers to make her signature Lies. One end of the dough strip was folded and loosely pulled through the slit resulting in a loop resembling a bow. They were a holiday treat at Christmas time.

Floating on the surface of deep hot oil, the puffed bows became crisp, airy and slightly brown. Then, fished out, while still hot, they were laced with powdered sugar looking like they had been dusted by winter snow. A bowl filled with Lies was often the centerpiece of our dining room table where friends and family gathered during the holidays.

These thin crispy powdered-sugar treats were linguistically linked to an unfortunate pervasive part of human nature: lying. In Italy, lies are called Chiacchiere, for chit-chat, light bits of possibly untruthful, sweetly anticipated gossip.

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A flock of Rhode Island Reds lived in a chicken coop out back. I gathered their eggs or fed them vegetable and fruit scraps from the kitchen. The chickens pitched right in and eventually became the central part of my mother’s recipes: Pollo alla Cacciatora, Pollo alla Parmigiana, and crisp fried chicken. In the interim, they were happy unknowing creatures, made all the happier one year, indirectly, by Christmas Lies.

Across the street lived the Okamoto family. They settled there following their forced removal from Portland to Minidoka War Relocation Center in Idaho during World War II. The wounds and racial suspicions from the war healed slowly. One Christmas holiday season my mother decided to help with the healing process. She prepared a large batch of Lies. I accompanied her to deliver the gift. She held the big bowl and knocked on the door. A short, polite Japanese woman answered: Mrs. Okamoto. Of course, they knew each other. But this was special. With a customary slight bow and a smile, she reached out and accepted the Lies and my mother’s holiday intent.

The following evening, I heard a knock on our door; there stood Mrs. Okamoto. Again, there was a slight bow as the gift from the Okamoto family was held out to my mother. The plate was covered with wax paper that hid the gifts underneath. My mother reached out and accepted it with sincere thanks. Mrs. Okamoto left having contributed to neighborly healing. My mother put the plate on our kitchen table for the unveiling; it felt like we were opening a Christmas present.

The array of Japanese handmade edibles was beautiful. Short cylinders of white rice, about the size of small round tuna fish cans, were wrapped around their sides with black dried seaweed. On the center of each rice cake was a small cluster of raw reddish something. We all looked at each other, then at the rice cakes, then at each other, then at the rice cakes. Finally, my mother nibbled at the seaweed edge and wrinkled her mouth, then took a bite out of the center. She knitted her brows and pursed her lips. My father and older brother were next with the same reaction. Watching their expressions, I hesitated, then summoned up all the young tastebud courage I had and gave it a go. The taste was certainly different, far different than Lies or my favorite ravioli.

Without further ado, the plate of rice cakes found a home in our refrigerator to possibly tempt us in the days ahead. There were no takers. European and Asian palates and eating habits were different. For us, the rice cakes were an acquired taste. We lacked patience for this acquisition.

Finally, following my mother’s instruction, I unceremoniously dumped the rice cakes on the ground in the fenced chicken yard. The hens ran over fully expecting kitchen scraps and didn’t hesitate. They pecked and pecked and devoured everything; rice, seaweed, red something, and all. They clucked and clucked. The colorful rooster watched over his feasting hens, stretched his neck up and crowed. They were happy chickens.

In the following days, there was careful questioning. We didn’t want to offend and learned that the red something was raw octopus. We lied, and said we enjoyed the rice cakes. Rarely, lying sometimes can be for greater good.  

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After an Air Force career, Robert Wright took to writing in his retirement years and capitalized on his extensive life experience. He has self-published: You’ve Got Rocks (anthology of memoirs); The Brass (non-fiction, famous pub in Portland, Oregon); 3FTx – Timed Terror (fiction, suspense/terror); Nudging Nyame (hard science fiction, suspense/thriller).