Sunday Dinners

Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I cried "Oh my god!"

"Wow Mom. You've got some serious bed head going on."

"Look who’s talking, kid. Have you even bothered to comb yours?"

"Yes, I have, but this," pointing to his head, "is not my fault.  It's yours," said Josiah.

"Don’t blame me; it's genetics; blame your Grandparents."

                                                                             ***

My father's parents came over on the boat from Sicily.  Grandpa's first job was making wine. He used to tell me as a little girl how he'd stand in huge wooden casks stomping grapes.  This was an odd image for me to comprehend at age seven. As I got older, I learned that Grandpa used the bathroom tub to mix his own recipe for sweet red wine.  Every other Friday, I'd spend the night with my grandparent's. When it was time to take a bath, I'd imagine soaking in a tub full of wine and think, Yuk, this can't be good.  But come Sunday dinner, gallon jugs of wine were carried upstairs from the basement, and it was wonderful.  Everyone had some; even the grandchildren were allowed a shot glass full.

Grandma was the matriarch of the family.  She had light olive skin, curly hair, a round figure and a mole above her top lip.  She was both controlling and demanding.  Not a very kind-hearted soul, she let you know in no uncertain terms when you were on the naughty list.  Grandpa Auggie was different. He was a small man, about 5'6" tall, fair skin, with white frizzy hair.  Contrary to my Grandma, he had a heart of gold.  I don't remember him ever raising his voice; he'd argue with Grandma wearing a smile, and he'd spoil the grandchildren by always having an extra coin in his pocket.

Grandma Jean didn't work. She and my Great Grandma Nana Rose, who only spoke Italian and dressed in black with a gold crucifix around her neck, spent hours cooking, cleaning, sewing, and praying.  Being good Catholics from the old country, I became used to their quiet mutterings and making the sign of the cross.  But come Saturday, both women were found in the kitchen preparing Sunday dinner. They'd make antipasto, homemade ravioli, meatballs, and various other meat dishes, homemade breads, cannolis and cheesecake for dessert.  Espresso and Anisette, an after dinner liqueur, was served to help with digestion. Once dinner was finished and the table cleared, the men went outside to smoke while the women sat on plastic covered living room furniture and chatted. The grandchildren slipped away, one-by-one, to a quiet corner and napped.

The meal was always loud.  If you were a stranger looking in, you'd think everyone was angry, but that wasn't the case.  Conversations were just boisterous with family members jockeying for position, but there was also love and laughter, lots of it.  Having buried Grandma and Grandpa over 20+ years ago, the closest I get to sharing with Josiah the likes of my childhood Sunday dinners is by watching Everyone Loves Raymond.  We sit and in short exchanges, I say, “I remember Grandma hitting me over the head.  And did you see what Raymond just did?  My cousin tried that very same thing and couldn’t sit for a week.”    Apart from not having that crazy Italian family around, I’ve been able to instill in my son the passion for family and food.