L'Italo-Americano

THURSDAY, JUNE 15, 2017 www.italoamericano.org 14 L'Italo-Americano FRED GARDAPHE T he days of the old tradition of everyone in the extend- ed family coming the grandparents' home for Sunday dinner, every Sunday, might be gone, but through our stories they will never be far from our consciousness. The front door to Grandma and Grandpa Rotolos' apartment was always left open on Sundays. The hallway smelled of freshly waxed woodwork and garlic frying in olive oil. I'd head straight for the kitchen where Grandma would be standing in front of the stove, turning cloves of fresh garlic in a pool of siz- zling oil, and forever stirring her big pot of gravy. She'd look up from her work, smile, lean over to kiss me, and then turn back to her work. From there I'd head to the back porch, Grandpa's workshop, where he made his sausage, dried his peppers, and bottled his giar- diniera. Grandpa would usually be out in the back yard, tending to his garden. There was his dream world; his eyes would glass over, as he'd sit in the shade and yell out for me to pick the basil and fennel, peppers and tomatoes. I'd leave when I heard Grandma yell that it's time to grate the cheese. Atop the kidney shaped Formica table is the hard, yel- lowed Romano cheese wrapped in crinkled wax paper. I kneel down on a wooden chair, unwrap the cheese and stuff a loose chunk into the grater. My left hand grips the tongs that press the cheese into a rotating assem- bly. My right hand turns the handle. After a few turns, the flakes like fingernail clippings fall onto the wax paper. Soon, I reach a rhythm that stops only when metal scrapes metal. I take a large knife in both hands, push it through the block of cheese until another hunk topples and I pop it in and continue cranking the grater. I stop when I hear Grandpa huffing up the two flights of stairs. Grandpa appears in the doorway, his wrists black with dirt and his hands full of green herbs that he hands to his wife, as though they were a bouquet. He returns to the back porch where he begins mixing together the ground beef, pork and fennel seeds that he will feed into the sausage casings. I throw another chunk into the grater; a sliver flies out and I sneak it into my mouth. The stove begins to sing the readiness of the meal. Peppers and onions are popping in the hot oil of the black pan. The sauce gurgles as it sucks in the ingredi- ents that Grandma throws in with her left hand and stirs with her right. She never measures the pepper, salt or oregano. She doesn't even look to see if she is grabbing the right ingredients. She just dips her hand into the brown bags of spices that sit on a small enameled covered table next to the stove. If she ever went blind she could probably contin- ue to cook with no change in the taste of her meals. Grandma leaves the wooden spoon in the sauce to grab the sausage. She drops the links into the large blackened cast-iron skil- let, and turns the heat under the gravy higher. She makes the sign of the cross and looks up to the picture of the Madonna that hands over the stove. The glass over the picture is spotted red and gold from the gravy and oil, and the Madonna seems to be sweat- ing blood. The living room fills with family. Soon the kitchen is crowded with uncles, aunts and cousins, who kiss, yell at and hug each other. Men don't sit in the kitchen on Sunday afternoons, so after greeting her, they head for the living room to share stories of their weekly exploits. Grandma ruled the kitchen wielding her will through culinary powers that controlled everyone's appetite, creating and fulfilling all our gus- tatory desires. The men might make money, she used to say, but they can't make meals. And she was right. She'd let me stay only long enough to grate the cheese, then she'd shoo me out, so I would take my time, because I preferred to be there watching her food come to life, instead of playing in the back with the kids, or sitting and listening to the men tell stories in the living room. Directed by Grandma, the women lay padding on the large oak table, smooth out the lace tablecloth and place piles of flower printed plates and silver- ware on top. They scurry in and out of the kitchen, wearing flow- ered aprons that were once pre- sents to Grandma. All are tinged red and in various stages of wear. The pile of cheese reaches my wrists and I know that in just a few turns I'll be finished. Grandma yells, "You bett' 'urry. Prett' soon we eat." I speed the grating and with both hands bal- ance the flakes on the wax paper that is presented for her inspec- tion. She nods and I slips the cheese from the paper into a blue ceramic bowl, lick the palms of my hands and flick my fingers. I dry my hands on my pants and walk into the living room to join the others in the wait. I pass aunts hurrying though the narrow hallway. One is in the bedroom that opens out into the living room, preparing the card table for the children. Others are placing the huge wooden salad bowl, salt and pepper shakers, decanters of wine, platters with finocchio sur- rounding pools of oil, pepper and salt, baskets of bread onto the already over crowded table where the adults will eat. I take a seat on the plastic covered couch. The living room is filled with uncles drinking beer. The chil- dren have gathered in another bedroom and play with their par- ents' old toys: wooden blocks, metal soldiers and cotton stuffed, faceless rag dolls. "Go grab me another beer," calls an uncle. I return to the kitchen to see the stovetop covered with steam that pours out from the two large pots cooking more than five pounds of pasta. I peek into the pot of gravy. The heavier neck- bones and sausages have sunk to the bottom and meatballs bob on the surface. Uncle Carmen walks by and dips his fingers into the boiling red, plucking a meatball with his thumb and forefinger. He then stuffs the whole meatball into his mouth and walks back into the living room. His white shirt holds a drop that escaped his tongue. As my hand reaches the rim of the same pot, Grandma emerges from the pantry, bounc- ing a colander against my head, "Don't be a porco. We gonna eat now. Hold this ova the sink. The pasta she's ready." "Grandma would be standing in front of the stove, turning cloves of fresh garlic in a pool of sizzling oil, and forever stirring her big pot of gravy" Preparing Sunday Dinner LA VITA ITALIANA TRADITIONS HISTORY CULTURE

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