Ravioli

Fragrance. Summer's night fragrance of promises and longing. pulled out Nickie, a tug of war competeing with the familiar scent of his mama's Italian kitchen. Both winning. As it should be at dusk.

"Hey, Nickie you-a got the tables set up? The ravioli, they's a ready. I a bringa it outside now."

"Yes, mama. All set." No Italian accent.

The makeshift tables—long sheets of plywood resting on sawhorses, with a bed sheet as a tablecloth set. The kids table, a hive of activity and laughter. Food consumed at an unbelievable rate. Laughter full of meatballs and pasta. The tablecloth a map of care free outdoor dining splotched with sauce, grape soda, orange soda, and laugh-spray—pretty much filling any spot that had managed to dodge the initial children’s barrage.As it should be at summer dusk.

Papa broke off the horseshoe game and lit the candles, their mild citronella slight scent combining with all that was summer night and italian feast. A fragrance that lived forever in the hearts of all lucky enough to eat in that timeless yard. A scent even faintly close to tonight would bring them back to this summer night, tender, exquisite and eventually extinguished by age. The adults filling every seats at the 2 open tables.

The younger kids, his brothers and sisters, were finishing and drifting back out into the neighborhood. Mama's summer meals were not to be missed so there was full attendence.

Arriving outside, Mama look around. "Good boy Nickie. The professor when he a comes he a sit next to you, ok?"

A modest car, just starting to get old, carefully inched up the narrow driveway stopping where the backyrad opened up to the outdoor feast. He got out of the car flowers in hand.

Mama called out, "Hey everyone, looka the professor, he's a here. Professor how was a Bonnie-ville. You a have a nice swim? Ahh, you dough not looka wet. Maybe too cold for a you?"

Lucia laughed at her joke. “Professor, you a hungry? We got lotsa food.” A bowl of ravioli and meatballs steamed in her hand. “Here—you sit down next to Nickie here. Mangia!”

Nickie, the oldest son, sat at the kids' table and looked up, smiling.

“Here, Professor—let me make room for you.”

The tablecloth was a splotch-work of sauce, grape soda, orange soda, and laugh-spray—pretty much filling any spot that had managed to dodge the initial children’s barrage. He slid his book to a rare clean patch, creating space for Harold.

“That’s a clean chair. Probably the only one left without kid juice on it. Nancy sat there. She’s very neat.”

“Here, Professor,” Nancy said, pulling the chair out for him. “As you can see, I’ve learned—but I can’t teach them yet.”

“Don’t fret,” Harold, the Professor said, smiling. “They’ll get there. In the meantime, table manners aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.”

From the kitchen, Lucia called, “Nancia, come-a here! Take-a this plate to the Professor before he starves. Look at how skinny! You no worry—we gonna take-a good care of-a you.”

She handed over the plate, still speaking as Nancy approached.

“Nancia, careful! Don’t-a drop-a the fork and spoon. You like-a sausage, Professor? Micaela makes-a the best sausage. I don’t-a think it’s too hot for you.”

Nancy set the clean plate in front of Harold—their best one, saved from the old Rialto movie house. The fork and spoon were mismatched.

Lucia followed with a bowl of homemade ravioli, meatballs, and sausage. Each ravioli was the size of her hand—and there were ten of them.

Lucia turned back to the kitchen. “Oh, Professor, you want something to a drink? Let-a me get you some of Micaela wine… You gonna like like something else,” she exclaimed.

Momma, Nickie corrected her gently: “Like nothing else.”

Lucia spun. “What-a you mean-a, Nickie? Like something, not-a like nothing. The Professor no want-a nothing!”

Nickie rolled his eyes up from his textbook and looked at Harold.

“You know she’ll be disappointed if you don’t eat all of them.” He whispered.

Harold repeated the line in his head: She’ll be disappointed if you don’t eat all of them.

And for the first time in this new city, he felt it—the belonging.

The dusky sky invited. The scents drifting out of the open kitchen window.

The cooling, still-warm summer air invited.

The men ringing horseshoes off the iron post invited.

The children running and laughing, tangled in freeze tag, invited.

Nickie, struggling with summer school algebra, invited.

Even Caruso’s static voice on the radio, tugging everything together—surely his words translated:

Harold, you’re invited.

Nickie noticed the faraway look in Harold’s eyes and gave the table a little nudge.

“Hey, Professor, you better start eating—or she’s gonna stand behind you with her wooden spoon.”

Harold smiled, nodded thankfully and dug in.

This was not going to be a problem, he mused—

but ten ravioli and sausage?

Nickie grinned, already watching for the first bite.

Somewhere in the kitchen, Lucia put down her favorite wooden spoon.

Harold slowed down with two to go.

Nickie, who had watched Harold’s novice pace from the start, was ready for this moment.

“You know, Professor,” he said casually, “I’m still hungry. I could do one for you—and just tell her you’re saving the last one for later, it was so good.”

He glanced toward the kitchen.

“If she smiles, we’re safe.”

Nickie leaned in, lowering his voice like he was passing on a secret.

“And some more advice—she doesn’t mind a little, you know, burp. Believe me, it helps…everyone.”

Nickie lowered his eyes, pretending to concentrate on the text.

Lucia arrived like a train—right on time.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Professor, you must-a been so hungry! You wait—I get you some-a more!” she cried, slapping him heartily on the back.

Harold’s protest—“No!”—was drowned out by a long, loud burp.

Loud enough to silence the crowd.

He could’ve sworn even Caruso paused mid-note.

The backyard erupted.

“Salud!” came the chorus from all sides—children, neighbors.

Lucia beamed at everyone, hands on her hips.

“Thatsa my-a boy!”

Harold stood—and got his hug. to be continued

Harold stood—and got his hug. to be continuedHarold stood—and got his hug. to be continuedHarold stood—and got his hug. to be continuedHarold stood—and got his hug. to be continuedHarold stood—and got his hug. to be continued