As a young girl, Fran Tunno yearned for that picture-perfect, 1960s American mom in a spotless apron, waiting at the door with warm cookies. What Fran got was an Italian American force of nature, shoving plates of salami and cheese in front of friends and family then eyeing them suspiciously until they ate an amount she found sufficient.
When not force-feeding guests Fran’s mom kept busy by entering every contest available (legal or otherwise), cooking, canning, baking, chasing her children with a serving spoon, treating her light-up Jesus like her personal therapist, curing her children with questionable remedies, reminding them daily they were the best, and never missing an episode of “The Price is Right.”
That whirlwind of love, chaos, food, and laughter helped shape Fran’s irreverent sense of humor and deep appreciation for the mother she did get. Her hilarious memoir, Come On Down! A Little Story About My Italian Mom’s Big Dream, is a joyful tribute to the woman who made every day an adventure and normal look overrated.
As a young girl, Fran Tunno yearned for that picture-perfect, 1960s American mom in a spotless apron, waiting at the door with warm cookies. What Fran got was an Italian American force of nature, shoving plates of salami and cheese in front of friends and family then eyeing them suspiciously until they ate an amount she found sufficient.
When not force-feeding guests Fran’s mom kept busy by entering every contest available (legal or otherwise), cooking, canning, baking, chasing her children with a serving spoon, treating her light-up Jesus like her personal therapist, curing her children with questionable remedies, reminding them daily they were the best, and never missing an episode of “The Price is Right.”
That whirlwind of love, chaos, food, and laughter helped shape Fran’s irreverent sense of humor and deep appreciation for the mother she did get. Her hilarious memoir, Come On Down! A Little Story About My Italian Mom’s Big Dream, is a joyful tribute to the woman who made every day an adventure and normal look overrated.
Johnny Olson’s voice boomed, “Mary Tunno, come on down!”It was the moment my mom had dreamed of for a decade, and Johnny screwed it up by mispronouncing her name. He said,“Ton-oh” instead of “Toon-oh,” the correct pronunciation. In Johnny’s defense, his delivery was phonetically correct, but my mom was a rather large woman, so the visual was not ideal. If my mother noticed, she didn’tshow it.
“Meeeeee! Dey peeked a me!” my Italian American mother squealedas she jumped up from her seat beside me. Her smile filled her face. The camera followed her as she pumped her fists in triumph, gleefully trot-ting down the aisle while bouncy Price Is Right game show music played. Breathless, she arrived at Contestants’ Row in a bright blue, short-sleeved dress that gently hugged her ample body. Thank God, she got picked! I thought, Finally, I can breathe . . . until a new worry stuck its claws in my heart: Oh God, what if she doesn’t win something?
My father, sitting to my left in the studio audience, leaned over and whispered in amazement, “I’ll be damned, she said she’d get picked andshe got picked!” For years she’d told Dad she believed she’d be a contestant on The Price Is Right, and there we were, on June 21, 1982, witnessing that belief become reality.
While aspiring to be a game show contestant might not be a big stretchfor the average person, it was huge for my mom. With her second-grade education, Italian accent, and Cinderella beginnings, most of her small-town friends just silently shook their heads when she brought it up.
After almost a decade of hoping and waiting, my dad and I watchedfrom one of the back rows of Studio 33 at CBS Television City in Los Ange-les as my mom finally met her idol, game show host, Bob Barker, under the glare of studio lights.
Dad and I sat stunned as Mom worked her magic. Reaching her assigned spot, she captivated the entire audience with her childlike exuberance. The first, almost tearful words out of her mouth were, “I been wanting to see you for a long a time!” The audience responded with a collective “Aww!” Bob stood onstage and teasingly said, “Well Mary, all you had to do was turn on your television.” Mom was completely charmed as her idol asked, “Where do you live?”
She forgot almost everything about herself in her nervousness, only remembering that she was from Pennsylvania. Bob said, “Oh, so you’re out here on vacation,” which was enough to snap her back. She became very animated and then, as if she’d rehearsed it a million times, said, “Well yes, I came a because a my daughter, she says a ‘Ma, you wanna see Bob a Barker? I’mma gonna move to California and you getta to come here.’”
I heard those words and thought, Oh God, I’m slipping . . . I’m embarrassed again. Now it’s not just regular small-town embarrassment, it’s nationally televised embarrassment. Mom’s words were an almost entirely fabricated twist on what really happened, and Bob wasn’t buying it for a second. But my mother was a born storyteller, apparently determined to convince the world that I was the patron saint of game show wannabes.
Why Mom felt she needed to win and why she chose a game showhost as her vehicle for infatuation, fame, and fortune, are questions only she could answer. And I’m sure she had her reason for telling the entire world that I quit my job and moved 2,500 miles away so she could be on The Price Is Right, but I have my theories.
I think Bob reignited a spark lit in Mom when she was in her twenties and told she looked like Pola Negri, a Polish film star. They shared a beautiful broad face, black hair, and expressive eyes. When she sat in darkened movie theaters in the 1930s, she could imagine she was that star on the screen. For that golden ninety minutes every few weeks she could forget she was her tavern-owning parents’ least favorite child, in her twenties, still unmarried, and living under their roof . . . and thumb.
Movies were her favorite escape from hours working as her parents’ tavern barmaid for no pay and fueled secret dreams of being that starlet. Decades later, and married with four kids, The Price Is Right became her last chance to grab that fast-evaporating sliver of Hollywood fame. After a lifetime of being an obedient daughter, then a good wife and mother, she could now, without a doubt, prove to the world she was the star.
She felt she had a chance on The Price Is Right, where everyday people could win via a combination of knowledge and luck. One woman in her 500-card club scoffed at my mother’s chances saying, “And what makes you think you have a chance?” which thoroughly inflamed Mom’s finely honed revenge gene. It was another person not believing in her and made her even more determined to get on that show and win.'
As for her attempt at getting me into the annals of sainthood, maybe she thought she could make me famous. As we all know, producers and directors frequently watch game shows hoping to find their next Meryl Streep.
Mom could only dream of being on The Price Is Right after it firstaired in 1972 because my bricklayer father did not share her enthusiasm for Mr. Barker. He said all Hollywood celebrities could go jump in a lake for all he cared, so Dad was not spending his hard-earned money to fly to LA and do the game show circuit. Mom’s children were all grown. I was in college and the others were working, two with families of their own, so they weren’t going to take her either. And she was too afraid to go alone.
So she passed her time in the ’70s watching The Price Is Right on the portable TV in her western Pennsylvania dining room. Every weekday at 11:00 a.m. she guessed along with the contestants, dreaming of the day she’d join them. Interruptions were not well-tolerated. If any of us walked in while the show was on and tried to talk to her, she held up her hand and said, “Wait, I’mma watchin’ da Price Issa Right!” My father called it the holy hour.
The rest of her day was spent cooking, canning, force-feeding anyone who dropped by, doing laundry, ironing clothes, scratching off lottery tickets (with all her fingers crossed—try it, it’s not easy), cleaning, praying for grandchildren—males first, of course (more on that later), and plotting how soon she could get her (hopefully virgin) daughters married.
She resigned herself to thinking that if there wasn’t a chance at getting her moment of fame on national television, then she’d continue doing her best to make sure her offspring made something of themselves—that would be almost as good. Years went by like that until that day in June 1982 when everything changed because of me.
She was finally going to prove, to her long-dead parents, who never valued her, and anyone else who dared doubt her, that she was extraordinary. But first, she’d have to win. And the road from our home in New Brighton, Pennsylvania, to Television City would include delays, detours, heartbreak, child-rearing, embarrassment, contests, spatula-wielding chase scenes, Italian curse words, a lot of food, intense scrutiny of potential spouses, and the holy Catholic Apostolic Church.
Fran’s “Italian American” Pasta Sauce
Serves 10 to 12
Sunday sauce is a must for Italian families and a great dish for celebrating getting on a game show. I loved my mom and learned all I know from her, but her sauce was not my favorite . . . I’m waiting for the lightning bolt. Anyway, this sauce is hers with a few tweaks. I’m also including the recipe for my uncle Richard’s famous meatballs.
I N G R E D I E N T S
1 whole head of garlic (about 12 cloves), separated, peeled,
and crushed or minced
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons butter
5 to 6 meaty pork ribs with bones
6 mild Italian sausages
5 (28 ounces) or 2 (90 ounces) cans Cento Italian Whole
Peeled Tomatoes (The added basil makes them taste as close as
you can get to my mom’s homemade canned tomatoes, which
were godly.)
1 (6 ounces) can tomato paste
2 tablespoons dry Italian seasoning
2 tablespoons chopped fresh basil
7¾ teaspoon fresh rosemary
1 tablespoon fresh parsley
½ cup cabernet or merlot
¼ cup apple juice concentrate (optional, for sweetener)
Salt and pepper
ST E P S
1. In a large, deep pot over medium-low heat, add the garlic,
oil, and butter. Brown the pork and sausage—taking care
not to burn the garlic. (Turn off the heat while processing
the tomatoes or it might burn.)
2. Remove the tomatoes from the cans and cut each in half;
remove the seeds. Place them in a large blender or food
processor for a few seconds, until just blended.
3. Pour the tomatoes over the meats and garlic and cook over
low heat, stirring well to combine. Add the tomato paste,
Italian seasoning, basil, rosemary, and parsley. Add the
wine and taste; if it needs sweetening, add the apple juice
concentrate—it’s optional. Add salt and pepper to taste.
4. Place a heat diffuser under the pot to avoid burning. Cook
the sauce for 3 hours, stirring every 20 minutes or so, until
the meat is falling off the bone.
5. Serve over pasta with grated Parmigiano, Romano, or
Pecorino, and enjoy!
Uncle Richard’s Famous Meatballs
Makes 22 to 25
Even Mom knew his meatballs were better than hers. She didn’t like to admit it, though. Anyway, you can make sauce with meatballs instead of the sausage, but the best sauce always has a few pork ribs in it, so don’t forget those. Add these meatballs to your sauce and let them cook about an hour.
Addendum: This was the recipe Uncle Richard shared with me. But, his daughter, Nancy, says Uncle Richard changed his recipes all the time. She says he often used one pound of ground beef, a half-pound of pork and a half-pound of veal, which she thinks tastes best. But he altered his recipes depending on what was in the refrigerator. (Italians and their recipes! Sheesh!)
I N G R E D I E N T S
1/3 cup fresh basil, finely chopped
¼ cup finely chopped fresh parsley
4 cloves of garlic, minced
¾ teaspoon finely chopped fresh rosemary
2 slices of white bread, soaked in water or milk, then squeezed
1½ pounds ground beef
1½ pounds ground pork
2 mild Italian sausage links
1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
1 teaspoon hot sauce (optional)
¾ teaspoon pepper
1 tablespoon salt
3/4 cup Italian-style breadcrumbs
¼ cup grated Parmigiano or Romano
2 eggs
8 ounces red wine for dipping the meatballs in
1½ cups flour for rolling the meatballs in
3 cups vegetable oil (canola or olive) for frying
ST E P S
1. Place the basil, parsley, garlic, and rosemary into a food
processor. Then add the soaked, drained bread and pro-
cess until it’s all combined.
2. Mix the three meats and add the processed bread-and-
herb mixture in a bowl. Then add the Worcestershire sauce,
hot sauce, pepper, salt, breadcrumbs, cheese, and eggs.
Mix thoroughly with your hands.
3. Take a small piece and fry
it in some oil in a frying pan. Taste it and see what it needs.
We discovered it might need a little more salt when we did
ours. (Uncle Richard and I tested this, of course . . . but this
is all to taste, so you can decide.)
4. Roll the mixture into two-inch balls, first in the red wine, then
in the flour.
5. Fry the meatballs until browned on all sides; then add them
to your tomato sauce. Cook for about an hour, then serve
with the pasta of your choice.
Italian-American Fran Tunno has lived a long and varied life and has jumped onto writing in recent years. Come on Down! A Little Story About My Italian Mom's Big Dream is her personal memoir, an extended look her upbringing, culture and adult life.
From the early 1930s through to the early seventies, Fran takes the reader through every major moment of her life. Descriptions of daily living, the biggest achievements and basic mannerisms are all included, making for a book that is very easy to get into and absorb. The language is very casual throughout which brings a more light-hearted tone for the most part. It isn't quite as self-reflective as other memoirs and can feel quite basic at times, but casual readers will be very happy to dive in.
There is a hefty ode to Italian culture as well alongside plenty of older pictures to illustrate the story. The family's Catholic religion and devotion are shared in the book's latter half. It also goes into the darker side of family life as Fran's parents were deeply focused on teaching obedience through intimidation and corporal punishment. We learn just about everything there is to know about Fran and her mother, who had a penchant for sweepstakes, rising optimism and endless cooking.
If you're a food lover, you'll really appreciate the level of detail applied to the meals and all the little recipes. Many of the chapters start off with the author's favourite dishes which tie in directly with the main action. From a warm dessert when she was feeling sick all the way to regular comfort food, there's a ton of variety and the reader is compelled to make the same dishes themselves. This casual presentation may not have the same impact as a more serious memoir, but it still boasts some quirky commentary.
Come on Down! A Little Story About My Italian Mom's Big Dream is fairly casual and lighthearted in nature, but if you're willing to embrace its quirky mannerisms and frequent use of food, you'll find a likeable memoir.