Sunday Dinner

I can't tell you how many people I talk to that

get nostalgic about their families Sunday

dinners. And for the most part, we all feel the

same about how disconnected we've become

as a society. I have conversations all the time

with all walks of life, Italian or not, about how

generations passed understood the importance

of family Sunday dinners…All the aunts,

cousins, relatives, and neighbors.

We miss it.

We crave the familiarity of our family. The

chaos of our family. The family that gets along

or the family that has weekly fist fights in the

front yard. At the end of the day, I don't

ever remember anyone saying they hated it or that it

sucked. Oh, I'm sure that there are those of you

that believe that their dysfunctional families

were the only ones in the world that could “fill in

the blanks”. Never the less, let’s be honest, we

miss them.

We attempt to get back to our roots and we

make a pact to get “all of us together on a

regular basis”. And while it may last a month or

three, in the end someone will undoubtedly

have some sporting event for the kids, dance

recital, or whatever life delegates is more

important than the connection to your cousin

and his new girlfriend what's her face.

And we get back to life.

What do you remember most about Sunday

dinners other than all the touch football games

with cousins in the neighborhood that you grew

up in was the food! It was the glue that your

family used to get everyone together on Sunday

afternoons. Your grandmother, Nonna, Bocce,

meme, or Situ all worked all week long to

showcase the meal that gels us all in this family

cocoon.

Sunday dinners for Italians was the best way to

celebrate the ability to provide an abundance of

food only seen on the tables the rich. Certainly

not the tables of the peasants where they had

come from. It was a celebration of their

accomplishments. A Job well done.

I vividly remember my own childhood Sunday’s.

My Nonna's basement, a 20 ft table with 25

people crammed around it. The women of the

family scurrying around waiting on the men

hand and foot.

And the food, well dear readers, I wouldn't be

where I am today if it had not been for my

grandmother's and their constant doting over

me- the firstborn American. Fearful that I

wouldn’t keep the traditions.

Nonna would always have a plate of Home

cured meats, homemade cheeses, and her own

pickled vegetables that she jarred diligently

every fall. My great-grandmother is bread would

crown the center of this 20-ft table. As if by

magic, food would keep appearing on this table-

homemade pizza, eggplant parmigiana, and

stuffed mushrooms.

Finally, at the point where our last late family

member would take their seat (usually my

Uncle Tom) the pasta would get served. The

platters of meats that had been simmering in

the sauce all morning long alongside of the

mountains of pasta in our dishes. It took me 45

years to understand that was not the correct

portion size.

And 7 minutes later, all the women would jump

up and clear the plates for the next round of

food. Usually a roasted chicken, potatoes, and

salad. Of course, if we had special guests, a

pork roast with some fancy broccoli would be

my Nonna’s winning meal.

Nonna always ended Sunday dinners with a

bowl of fruit, espresso coffee and a sweet little

dish of cookies or pizzelle. Sometimes, she’d

surprise us with something the women of the

factory taught her how to make. Who knew how

much excitement a pound cake could be!

To signify the end of the visit, everyone would

break into groups of playing card, watching

some sort of sports on TV and the women of

the family feverishly cleaned up to leave the

hostess with a tidy kitchen.

My Nonna always look as if she had gone

through a war by the end of each Sunday

dinner. Smears of sauce on her smock, flour

on her glasses, and a sweat over her brow. It

was hard work.

How I miss those Sunday dinners.

How I miss her.

How we should all miss the simplicity of life

back then.

Dear readers, reconnect. Reconnect to the

sacred memories of well-earned pasts.