Another onion field happening occurred in early spring when we were planting onion sets for summer crops. My father had meticulously plowed very straight rows in the ground, about four inches deep, which allowed enough depth to place each onion set correctly in an upright position. The rows of onions were then covered with dirt. This was very arduous, tiring work for little ones. The fields were very close and convenient to our grandparents' house. It was an easy escape to quench our thirst from a cold water tap that lay outside their home. One day we decided we wanted a little more than just cold water to quench our thirsts. It was a very hot 90º day. Wouldn't it be more fun, we thought, to go beyond the cold water tap and descend to the downstairs basement in the house? In a very cold damp dirt cellar awaited oak barrels of grape juice fermenting into that heavenly drink, red Zinfandel wine. It was bubbling, which meant it was getting close to the time for tasting. We knew the wine had to be ready, because we had all helped to crush grapes and press the juice into large oak barrels the previous fall — another eventful time in our lives. The aroma was divine, indeed. A sampling sounded great to all of us, and a little mischievous at the same time. We proceeded to sample, and sample, and the more we sampled the more giggly we got. By the time we had to return to the field and plant those little green plants, we were feeling pretty gay. We proceeded to our designated rows and started planting sets one-by-one, not right side up, but upside down! Then we covered them up with dirt. Grandpa's obscenities in Italian were more profound than ever, and it was funny to watch him chase us once again through the fields, waving his hoe at us. A gentle but funny sight it was.
      In the afternoon, my sister and I would return to our house for our daily bath. We were sweaty and dirty from working and playing in the onion fields. My mother would bathe me and wash my hair in a large galvanized tub. We had yet to have the convenience of a real bathtub with running water in our new home. In those days, my father couldn't afford to hire help, like plumbers, electricians, and carpenters, to complete those tasks. Therefore, it took quite a few years for him to complete rooms in our house, including the bathroom. Mother would get us dressed, and she would brush and meticulously braid ribbon into my long hair. I always wanted to look like my favorite actress, Margaret O'Brien, who was the same age as I and who also had long braids. My sister, Mary Ellen, didn't wear braids, but she brushed her beautiful black hair up on both sides and tied it up in a bow with thin grosgrain ribbon. My dad, the last to arrive from the fields, proceeded to bathe in the galvanized tub which my mother had emptied nd filled up again with clean hot water. Dressed in slacks and a white shirt against his bronzed skin, he was extremely handsome. Mother and Daddy had another job to attend to. Mother worked as a waitress and Daddy as a bartender in an Italian restaurant called the Pastime — a name given by its Italian owners who were fresh off the boat from Naples. Mr. Rizzuti and Mr. Fazzari were their names. "Why didn't they give it an Italian name?" I wondered. Apparently they had given it some thought: the meaning of pastime is "to pass the time away." It was a rather inviting name, and the restaurant was a comfortable place to gather for many Italian immigrants. It was a place to chat in their foreign tongue, drink their whiskey, and dine on their favorite food — spaghetti and meatballs, what else? They played their Italian card games, as they did in Italy. It was also a great place to discuss important matters, such as the upcoming onion harvest and the vegetable crops. My grandfather was part of this gathering, and he was escorted to the Pastime every Saturday morning by his sons (my father and uncles) in their Model-T Ford. The sons did not partake; they remained in the car until his visit was over, and then drove him home. This ritual was so vivid to me as a child.
      In the evenings, my parents always took us with them to the Pastime, never leaving us with anyone else. We had the pleasure of ordering our dinner off the menu, which never seemed to change. We could have spaghetti with tomato sauce, spaghetti with tomato sauce and meatballs, or just plain spaghetti with olive oil and garlic. Ravioli were second choices, with meat or cheese fillings, smothered in a tomato sauce. A small bowl of grated parmagiano cheese was on every table, to be generously sprinkled on each plate of spaghetti. Also, a platter laden with mixed hot peppers, green onions, black olives, and long bread sticks was placed on each table to whet our appetites. I preferred the bread sticks.

      I ate spaghetti rather sloppily. It was a sight to behold! Only children our age could get away with it. With long strands of spaghetti dripping and dangling from our forks, we sucked each strand separately through pursed lips, making whooshing sounds as they entered our mouths. What a treat, and what a show we put on for the customers!
      The robust meatballs and delicate ravioli were prepared by Mrs. Basta, a very beautiful, sweet and gentle Italian lady, that I dearly loved. She was the best Italian cook in the whole town, besides my mother. I remember going to her home and she made roasted peppers soaked in olive oil. She began her day at 4:00 in the morning in the kitchen in order to have food ready for the café by 8:00 am. She is 85 years old and continues to be on that schedule to this day. Her meatballs are still the very best in the state of Washington.
      We were treated well by customers — mostly soldiers who were home on leave in 1942. The Pastime was a good place for soldiers. There they received the warm welcome and graciousness of the Italians, as well as their wonderful food. They would fill up our pockets with money and play games with us until we fell asleep on the hard wooden booths that graced the restaurant. They covered us with their heavy army overcoats, kissed us goodnight, and continued their party. They overdid it with the coats: boy were we warm, and rich by end of the evening! We slept on the booths until midnight. Our parents finished their work, gathered us up, and took us home to our cozy beds.
      We ended a very busy day in the onion fields and at the Pastime Café.

Joan Deccio Wickham is a nationally known food stylist and cooking instructor. She was born and raised in Walla Walla, Washington, where she helped her family raise the famous Walla Walla sweet onions. Joan now lives on Vashon Island, Washington with her husband. One of her favorite pastimes is to entertain her grandchildren. We hope to publish more of her heartwarming stories in future issues.

The Pastime Café is still open and operated by the third generation of the families who founded it. If you are ever in Walla Walla, don't miss some of the best Italian cooking in the state!