dinner is ready

Dinner is Ready... paul mcwade

I perched atop a tall kitchen stool watching Mommy hand-roll tiny meatballs as late winter sun cast a dusty wave of light through the grimy window. Like a warm hug, her nimble fingers gave a pinch of veal, beef and pork the assurance that she wouldn’t cheat them the care and consideration that each of these posthumous ingredients deserved. A sudden aroma jumped from the big blackened iron skillet and danced past my nose when a gem of spiced meat kissed the sizzling olive oil and garlic. First the aroma of the peppers woke me to attention, then shallots squinted my eyes, followed by a gently subtle parsley which was quickly outranked by sweet basil and then the spirited Italian oregano’s after burn kicked in.

My eyes welled up watching dozens of tiny puffing volcanic steam bubbles in the marinara cauldron as I approached too close, lured in by the intoxicating purple fat from a short lamb shank poking out of the gravy. Mommy noted that while short shank was the cheapest cut of lamb, it was clearly the best for the job, a rule of thumb handed down through the generations.

I felt unstable high on the stool when two thick dog tails thumped rhythmically whacking hard against both sides of the chair. Luke and Leah leaned heavily against me with their butts, as if to push me aside or to block me out. The three of us sat intensely on edge, spellbound by Mommy, getting lost in her complex meal preparation rituals. She was a master in the kitchen and did everything with flair. A pinch of this and a hand full of that. She was simultaneously cracking, breaking, beating with a small fork against a large steel bowl with one hand while the other was kneading, pounding and pressing dough into long white floured ropes. Swift cuts, rapid fire dicing, chopping and grating so close to her finger tips, yet she never got a burn or a cut but often warned me of the dangers. “Don’t touch that knife, you’ll lose a finger” or “That pan is hot, pay attention, you’ll get burned.”

The clank of heavy white dinnerware rang out like church bells as she commanded, “Set the table. Bring the butter and the bowl of cheese. We will need big spoons too and a cutting board and a basket and ice water. Don’t forget the napkins, not the paper ones, but the real cloth ones. Take your time and put some yellow flowers in the vase in the center of the table. Then come back in here presto pronto.”

I returned and settled back onto my roost and watched her with intensity, when with a flick of her oven mitt, the Blodgett oven door burst open to a roar of convectional hot air and then in an instant, silence filled the room. She bare handed a hot loaf of bread, broke a chunk off with a crunch and a snap, swiped it deep into the sauce and like the talented ballerina she was as a child, Mommy spun on her tip toes and stopped graciously as she waved it gently under my nose. I went into a food coma taken in by the intense sensory overload that froze me. I snapped out of my trance when Luke and Leah hit my chest hard with padded front claws, jaws slobbering as they gulped down the tester in a spontaneous passionate attack.

“Shush! Sit!” Mother commanded and they retreated but not before frantically licking little droplets of sauce off the checkered linoleum tiles. She wiped her red gingham apron then tore off another chunk of bread, plunging the sauce even deeper but this time adding a perfectly round tiny meatball, then covered it with a basil blanket and a pinch of Parmesan for good measure. Mommy placed the sampler in my hand, folded my fingers over it securely just like the twenty dollar bill she gave me last Easter Sunday. All the while, she stared down the two eager pups that didn’t dare make another move.

She gave me a nod of safety and I took the smallest nibble. Olive oil kissed my lips, foreshadowing the crisp crust of the homemade bread, a raft for the unctuous red gravy. She looked at me for confirmation that the flavor profiles were in alignment. I could no longer hold back. In one bite I stuffed the entire sample in my mouth and was spiritually transported to another time and place.

When my taste buds experienced the flavors of the spiced meatball it was like I was vaulted through another dimension back to 1910 through the eyes of my Great-great-grandfather Spartico Grey in the Second Class Promenade Deck Smoking Room on the Lusitania. There were Venetian men playing Dominoes, as the Sicilian Mothers laughed when the young boys whistled at the pretty girls from Calabria. A man called out joyously, “Spartico, it’s your turn. Waiter, more Polpetta please”.

The images started to fade just when I felt the crisp crust of the homemade Bread. I was whisked forward to 1963, in my great-grandmother Beatrice Grey Acone's kitchen. Her daughters were learning the art of bread making watching a chef on the television; “place a pan of water on the lower rack...”

The light started to fade when the zesty sauce hit my tongue. I was abruptly shot through a cannon and landed in 1986 to my youthful grandmother Joan Acone McWade crushing kitchen tomatoes as she was watching spaghetti water boiling with my Mother as a child on the edge of the counter; “Angela, put the pasta in now”.

These images felt real as I could smell and taste the generations of foods and then suddenly everything went black. I was dizzy but I felt safe with the hand of my Mother on my shoulder, gently messaging me. When I opened my eyes, my mother smiled at me, “Is it good?”

I was intoxicated with joy, “It’s perfect Mommy. Someday I hope to cook like you.”

She whispered in my ear, “Jessica Draper, tomorrow I'll teach you how to make rissotto. It's from an old recipe that your ancestor Galileo grew up on. Let’s eat. Dinner is ready."

"I can hardly wait.”