When I visit my sister I am not allowed to cook in her kitchen and any idea I have to contribute to the menu gets me a raised eyebrow and a “whatever.” It’s usually followed by, “Colin won’t like that.” Colin is my sister’s only child and my beloved nephew and godson. Of course I’d like to get a hold of his room one day and work my cleanliness is next to Godliness magic on his artfully arranged, “everything is on the floor” décor. During a recent visit, Pete made his way up to the “kid’s” room. It's like hiking into an abyss. When he came back downstairs he said to me, “Don’t go up there, it will just stress you out.” And then he said, with a grin on his face, “It makes me look like I’m neat!” “That’s great honey,” I sighed, as if an 18-year old boy who is in college, hold’s down a part-time job at the “Disney” of grocery stores called Wegman’s, volunteers at the local Fire department, and is moony eyed for a girl named Kate, is a fair comparison. My attention turns back to the "doyenne of the kitchen and all that is prepared for human consumption," my sister, and ask, “How do you know Colin won’t like it?” “Because,” she says. “Well that explains everything,” I retort. Usually "that" means it’s because I suggested it. Don’t get me wrong, my sister and I love each other. But in my sister’s memory of emotion she remembers a big sister growing up who burned boiled potatoes, turned the oven on broil to defrost a roast, and boiled an egg when she couldn’t find the “egg white,” the recipe called for. Guess you can’t blame her for being suspicious of my expanding culinary expertise!
When my mother passed away 3 months after my father I wanted to be in the kitchen and cook up those memories of Sunday dinners all those years ago. We always ate in the dining room rather than the kitchen on Sundays. Dinner was served earlier on Sundays, around 3 or 4. My mom always had a pot of sauce on the stove, made from scratch. The surprise in the sauce was something different every week; meatballs, chicken, pork chops, or brasciole. She made a big salad and the ultimate treat in that salad was a whole can of black olives. My sister and I had our eyes on the prize and we would slyly attempt to pluck a delicious olive (those fleshy little salt bomb prizes better than the prizes in the Cracker Jacks box - at least for two kids growing up Italian) from among the fresh tomatoes in the salad before dinner! But, my mom had eyes in the back of her head and inevitably we would hear from clear across the other side of the room, "Keep your fingers out of the salad bowl!" We also had a loaf of fresh, hot Italian bread from Mr. Steve’s Italian store down the street. It was the happiest day of the week for me. My mom would sing and my dad would snore in his chair. It made my sister and I giggle (my brother was still a baby). The house smelled delicious, and the breeze off the back patio into the dining room and the tinkling of the ice we loaded into the “glass” glasses (used only on Sundays) for refills of fresh-brewed iced tea, made us feel content and happy.
That's the same feeling I have strived to re-create all my life, especially for Pete. In the months after my mother’s death I wanted to cook meatballs for everybody. I have this meatball thing down pretty good now. Last year, two of my supervisors requested my homemade meatballs. One even asked if I could make a tray of meatballs for his birthday. I happily obliged more than once. Pete says we should sell "Brenda's Meatballs." Maybe we will!
When my mother passed away 3 months after my father I wanted to be in the kitchen and cook up those memories of Sunday dinners all those years ago. We always ate in the dining room rather than the kitchen on Sundays. Dinner was served earlier on Sundays, around 3 or 4. My mom always had a pot of sauce on the stove, made from scratch. The surprise in the sauce was something different every week; meatballs, chicken, pork chops, or brasciole. She made a big salad and the ultimate treat in that salad was a whole can of black olives. My sister and I had our eyes on the prize and we would slyly attempt to pluck a delicious olive (those fleshy little salt bomb prizes better than the prizes in the Cracker Jacks box - at least for two kids growing up Italian) from among the fresh tomatoes in the salad before dinner! But, my mom had eyes in the back of her head and inevitably we would hear from clear across the other side of the room, "Keep your fingers out of the salad bowl!" We also had a loaf of fresh, hot Italian bread from Mr. Steve’s Italian store down the street. It was the happiest day of the week for me. My mom would sing and my dad would snore in his chair. It made my sister and I giggle (my brother was still a baby). The house smelled delicious, and the breeze off the back patio into the dining room and the tinkling of the ice we loaded into the “glass” glasses (used only on Sundays) for refills of fresh-brewed iced tea, made us feel content and happy.
That's the same feeling I have strived to re-create all my life, especially for Pete. In the months after my mother’s death I wanted to cook meatballs for everybody. I have this meatball thing down pretty good now. Last year, two of my supervisors requested my homemade meatballs. One even asked if I could make a tray of meatballs for his birthday. I happily obliged more than once. Pete says we should sell "Brenda's Meatballs." Maybe we will!
