This is the second of the posts being migrated from my prior .org site. (See Day 81 post for more detail). Originally from May 25, 2020.
Sunday dinners have been a staple in my life since before I can even remember. I have pictures of myself in candy cane outfits as proof. Growing up, these weekly dinners always meant the same thing. The cream colored house, with 4 windows staring wide-eyed at you on your walk up to the front door. The ever-familiar scent that tickled your nose as much as it touched your soul of my grandfather’s sauce simmering in his Nesco. A home filled and prepped for another big, crazy, loud, Italian dinner.
Some weeks we would head over early to help my grandfather make meatballs. These were always such sweet moments shared with a man of few words. His lesson in meatball-making will live with me forever. And whether marble-sized or gargantuan, our meatballs were always perfection in his eyes. Other visits were meatball-less because it was someone’s birthday and birthdays meant you got to choose between meatballs or Italian sausage in the sauce. Every week was a lesson in patience. We probably only lived 20-25 minutes away from my grandparents, but as a kid, it felt like an eternity. Trying to memorize roads and turns and curves so I could gauge just how much longer it would take to arrive. Closing my eyes in hopes that when I let them slip open again we were down the road from the warmth of my grandparents home. Arrival meant hugs, porch swings, backyard tomato picking and soaking up the best hours of my week.
Countless memories were made during Sunday dinners. There is a kitchen pantry that spanned a short distance along one wall. Although the pantry was small, the memories made in it spanned decades and generations. Secret worlds conjured up while surrounded by butter dishes and salt and pepper shakers, adventures in space travel and exploring the cabinets that hid stories from generations past. The “Girl Scout” closet filled with arts & crafts projects, book, toys, and puzzles that entertained many a cousin on the too-cold and rainy days that precluded the Ghost in the Graveyard games that otherwise would have dotted the post-dinner horizon. On one particular Sunday a cousin and I may have emerged from that closet after painting our faces with permanent markers. A crowded living room prepped for the weekly episode of America’s Funniest Home Videos. Too many renditions of Happy Birthday that ended with my sister in tears for reasons that remain unknown today. Sheepshead games that entertained many a relative after dinner. But onto the dinner portion of the evening.
Two tables. Two rooms. The small, round kitchen table lovingly known as the kids table. The adult table you yearned to be a part of, all the while enjoying the secret conversations you could have as a kid just out of ear shot from the long, rectangular table that ran the length of the dining room. My grandfather sat opposite my grandmother, capping both ends of that dining room table. A table that spanned decades, dozens of family, friends and those that by time spent rather than by blood that have become family. The incredible bond my grandparents had enveloped every one of us at that table and created a family I will cherish for the rest of my life. An unbreakable love shared by two people that have left an indelible mark on my life.
Graduating to the adult table was exciting. New adventures. New places to seat. More relatives to sit with. The same great sauce every week. A sauce that has ruined me to all other red sauces because nothing can compare. It may be the recipe my grandfather crafted and perfected but I have a sneaking suspicion it was more than just the basic ingredients that he put into that sauce every Sunday. I think the love he had for those days went into the sauce just as much as the peppercorns and bay leaves.
Being at the adult table meant being privy to what felt like a whole new world. Stories that made me chuckle. Others that went over my head. And some that live in infamy to this day. Like the time my grandfather was poking fun at my grandmother’s desserts. She warned him. “Peter, you better stop.” And when he didn’t she loaded up a spoon full of whipped cream and flung it from one of the table to the other and hit my grandfather square on the lens of his glasses. If you’ve ever sat at that dining room table, you know what a feat that truly is. Grandpa never again made fun of grandma’s desserts. Although, I don’t know if grandma every baked another dessert.
No matter how many hours you were there, our Sunday dinners were always so filled with love and laughter. And no matter how those were spent, every Sunday ended the same way. As we would prepare to say our plethora of good-byes, my grandfather would pull each one of us to the side of his chair at the end of the table and say, “I have a secret for you.” I quickly came to realize that the secret was the same every single week and I cannot imagine it any other way. It has always been one of the best memories I carry from all our Sunday dinner. Three little words that when he said them to each of us, I know he truly meant them with all his being. And when I whispered those words back to him, I meant each one with all my heart and soul.
As our kids get older, we’ve worked to create some of these Sunday dinners for ourselves, family and friends. I’ve invested in a Nesco. Found those Number 10 cans of tomatoes and my own little helpers in our munchkin butts. But the best part of the few Sunday dinners that we’ve hosted so far is being able to recreate the sauce my grandfather shared with all of us. That our home is overtaken with that same scent I lived with for so many years growing up. Filled with the warmth of family and friends and hopefully in a few years with those that by time spent rather than by blood that have become family. I look forward to having a our own kitchen pantry and “Girl Scout” closet and yard filled with generations of kids soaking up Sunday dinners.
Too Much Laundry, Not Enough Wine 