“We don’t care what we eat.” So a friend once said to me of her family. I nodded, but, hopefully, hid my disdain. I come from a family where, for example, a first cousin and another first cousin’s wife, finding themselves in a situation where they couldn’t cook dinner one night decided to get a take-out pizza from one of the chains. They’d never before done such a thing, but said to themselves: How bad could a chain pizza be? When they got it home and each had had a bite, their reaction was to put the rest of it back in the box, place it on the floor, and stomp on it.
Along with the pizza stompers and many other relatives of mine, as well as some specially invited like-minded friends, I have been attending an annual timpano party at the home of another first cousin, in North Brookfield, Massachusetts, whenever I can. It has taken place for nearly twenty years, that is, ever since the film Big Night came out, in 1996. along with a cookbook detailing the way to make a timpano of one’s own. Madelyn, who hosts the party with her husband, Richard, is friends with someone related to Stanley Tucci, who plays one of the brothers in the film. Who knows? Without that celebrity assist, the tradition probably wouldn’t have started.
We gather to make the timpano in the morning, taking turns rolling by hand the pasta dough that creates the “drum.” It goes into a very large ceramic-glazed steel bowl with the pasta dough overlapping its edges. We then fill it with cubes of provolone, hard salami, and hard-boiled eggs, tiny meatballs, and al dente ziti or other pasta shape coated with tomato sauce and sprinkled with parmigiano reggiano. The overlapping pasta creates the top of it, and the drum is sealed.
After the timpano goes into the oven, we play bocci or go for walks or, most recently, play ladder golf as it bakes, then eat it in the afternoon. Everyone brings delicacies to accompany it. This time one of the pizza stompers brought freshly dug clams from Maine, where she lives. We also drink wine and speciality coffees made by Rich with his espresso machine. For me, there was a perfect cappuccino and some homemade Amarone from grapes that came from California. Who’s ever heard of homemade wine being delicious? The maker, Gene, a friend rather than a cousin, explained how he learned to make it from a guy who went to M.I.T. and, Gene claimed, invented the eyeglass lenses that turn into sunglasses when you go outside. Apparently, making good homemade vino is a kind of rocket science.
A gathering of this kind is certainly a throwback to the days of our aunts and uncles and grandparents, except for the timpano. I can say with certainty that the older generation lived and died without having heard of it, much less having made it. But it doesn’t matter. We are all in our seventies and eighties now and understand that traditions undergo change. For example, Madelyn and Richard say they are planning to move from their historic house, called Eddy Place, and its 90+ acres, and no one else has a place big enough to host it. They claimed in 2024 that that would be the last timpano party, except it obviously wasn’t. And I don't see any signs of them making real plans to move. Who can give up the eggs bought around the corner, the meat (same deal), the vegetables and fruits grown on their own land and nearby? “You live in one big farm stand,” my husband told Madelyn. And how can Richard, a fifth-generation cabinetmaker, give up his huge workshop in a large, former barn on the property—let alone his work? I have a feeling we will be having more timpano parties in North Brookfield for a few more years to come.
Along with the pizza stompers and many other relatives of mine, as well as some specially invited like-minded friends, I have been attending an annual timpano party at the home of another first cousin, in North Brookfield, Massachusetts, whenever I can. It has taken place for nearly twenty years, that is, ever since the film Big Night came out, in 1996. along with a cookbook detailing the way to make a timpano of one’s own. Madelyn, who hosts the party with her husband, Richard, is friends with someone related to Stanley Tucci, who plays one of the brothers in the film. Who knows? Without that celebrity assist, the tradition probably wouldn’t have started.
We gather to make the timpano in the morning, taking turns rolling by hand the pasta dough that creates the “drum.” It goes into a very large ceramic-glazed steel bowl with the pasta dough overlapping its edges. We then fill it with cubes of provolone, hard salami, and hard-boiled eggs, tiny meatballs, and al dente ziti or other pasta shape coated with tomato sauce and sprinkled with parmigiano reggiano. The overlapping pasta creates the top of it, and the drum is sealed.
After the timpano goes into the oven, we play bocci or go for walks or, most recently, play ladder golf as it bakes, then eat it in the afternoon. Everyone brings delicacies to accompany it. This time one of the pizza stompers brought freshly dug clams from Maine, where she lives. We also drink wine and speciality coffees made by Rich with his espresso machine. For me, there was a perfect cappuccino and some homemade Amarone from grapes that came from California. Who’s ever heard of homemade wine being delicious? The maker, Gene, a friend rather than a cousin, explained how he learned to make it from a guy who went to M.I.T. and, Gene claimed, invented the eyeglass lenses that turn into sunglasses when you go outside. Apparently, making good homemade vino is a kind of rocket science.
A gathering of this kind is certainly a throwback to the days of our aunts and uncles and grandparents, except for the timpano. I can say with certainty that the older generation lived and died without having heard of it, much less having made it. But it doesn’t matter. We are all in our seventies and eighties now and understand that traditions undergo change. For example, Madelyn and Richard say they are planning to move from their historic house, called Eddy Place, and its 90+ acres, and no one else has a place big enough to host it. They claimed in 2024 that that would be the last timpano party, except it obviously wasn’t. And I don't see any signs of them making real plans to move. Who can give up the eggs bought around the corner, the meat (same deal), the vegetables and fruits grown on their own land and nearby? “You live in one big farm stand,” my husband told Madelyn. And how can Richard, a fifth-generation cabinetmaker, give up his huge workshop in a large, former barn on the property—let alone his work? I have a feeling we will be having more timpano parties in North Brookfield for a few more years to come.
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