Family Food Memory

Meatballs are the most memory evoking dish: milk, cheese, onions, garlic, salt, and pepper, pulled together by homemade tomato paste. It smells of grandma and grandpa’s houses after church on Sunday afternoons. The combination of meatballs and sauce is echoed by my grandpa’s complaints of hunger. The splashing of water being strained from the noodles, are the last things prepared before Grandma’s serves the family sitting around the table. 

            Sunday dinners at Grandma and Grandpa’s were a tradition. Every Sunday it was a struggle for my mom to get my brothers and me out of bed and to church. The only thing that got me though church was the thought of eating at my grandparents after. I would be dizzy with anticipation for the meal that awaited me. We would pull up in the driveway and I would try and hop out before the car was to a stop. When I opened the door open I was greeted with the intoxicating aromas of garlic, basil, and tomatoes. From that moment I found myself salivating and making a dash for the kitchen. I would first greet Grandpa who would be sitting at the head of the table with a kiss. After I would run to the kitchen greet Grandma with a big kiss and beg for a meatball. I would usually steal a raw noodle or two to hold over my rumbling stomach.

Sunday afternoon meals were never just about eating. They were about the whole ritual of cooking that precedes the actual meal and are as much a part of the experience as the meal itself.  With a smile on her face, a smear of tomato sauce on her apron, Grandma would spend two days preparing her signature dish for Sunday afternoon. Sunday dinners were events. Food is the focal point of many Italian’s lives and it is centered on family. Eating together provided time for my family to bond and connect with one another. During a typical meal Grandpa would sit at the head of the table while the rest of us sat around him. He was the head of the house and always got what he wanted. He was very demanding and was always yelling at Grandma about something. He would complain to my grandma, “ Mary you burned the meatballs” or “ the sauce tastes terrible.” While we would wait for Grandma to bring out dinner his loving side would come out when he would sing silly songs that had been passed down from his parents. He would start my favorite song off by singing, “ Seesaw, knock at the door.” I would ask, “ Whose there?” and he would respond, “Grandpa , what do you want? A glass of beer? Where’s your wallet? In your pocket? Where’s your pocket? In your pants? Where are your pants? You left them at home? Get out of here your dirty bum.” Songs like this help me remember the lively chatter and heartwarming laughter that filled the table at every meal.

Grandma’s recipe cards tell so much more of a story. Grandma’s parents were both immigrants from Santa Ninfa, Sicily. Her father worked on Transcontinental Railroad to support the family. He lost his hearing from an explosion working on the railroad and shortly after became very sick and could not work. This was also during the Great Depression, and although they were extremely proud they were forced to go on welfare.  To help support the family Grandma left school at fifteen and began working at Wasserman & Gimbel, which was a big factory in Manhattan that made men’s suits. From these humble beginnings great traditions were born in the kitchen.

When I pull out the handwritten meatball recipe on a 3x5 index card before I cook, I see the person who wrote it. I can remember my petite grandmother standing over the stove for hours to prepare dinner for the family. I collect her handwritten recipes, written in her own words with a fountain pen, in hopes that one day I will be able to perfect one of her meals. As I go through her other belongings I find her wedding pictures, post cards written from my grandpa to my grandma from war, and pictures of her and me. These bring back memories from my childhood as well as teach me more about her life. But it is not just the content that matters; it is the memories that belong with them. Cooking meatballs has become a fun way to spend time with my family. This summer I spent time in Connecticut with my family from New York. My cousin and her children still continue the tradition of cooking meatballs on Sunday afternoons. My cousin was able to teach me how to cook Grandma’s meatballs. We spent a couple afternoons in the summer cooking together. While we cooked I was able to learn more about my family and appreciate the history and tradition my family. It is important to be able to pass on the essence of Italian family experience by sharing the food with family and friends.