The Garbage Collector

When my husband first moved to New York, he had to adjust to a lot of odd traditions and customs that my family had. I’m sure it was a daunting task alone to understand my parents – the yelling, the thick Italian accents and the general direction of their gesticulating. Those early days must have determined whether he was going to get back on a plane to Mexico or stay here and confuse it out.

A month after he arrived, my dad had asked my husband to go out to Long Island to get some ‘garbage’. Being the new kid, my husband certainly had no idea what my dad meant about getting garbage. He must have thought there was some kind of composting area or recycling plant. Regardless, he was a sport and brought my dad out there.

When my husband informed me that he was going to get ‘garbage’ with my dad, I knew what my dad’s intentions were. But I didn’t explain it to my husband. I just said ‘Ok. Sounds good!’ I really wanted to see my husband’s reaction.

Off they went and around 11am I got a text from my husband saying “So garbage is cabbage”. I laughed. My dad really enjoyed cabbage and often got lots of it from a farm on L.I. that he would then store in the cellar to eat through the winter. My dad had done this for years. Growing up I remember eating a lot of ‘garbage’ and my husband thought this was crazy because he wasn’t much of a fan. 

My dad got many heads of ‘garbage’ day and my husband was perplexed on where my dad would keep this inventory. I informed him of the very cool spot in the basement where he would create a pyramid of cabbage and at least once, if not twice, a week, my dad would ask my mom to boil the cabbage or he would make a salad of it. 

On this St. Patrick’s day, I remember how much my dad would enjoy corned beef, potatoes and ‘garbage’ to honor a holiday that was not his but which he enjoyed and appropriated as his own like every other American.