Sunday Dinner
My uniform is soaked in sweat, my leg muscles are burning, and I am exhausted. I have just finished playing a 90-minute soccer game. Typically, I have a club soccer game every Sunday morning at a nearby field. On the drive back from the game my dad mentions, “We are going to Grandma’s for dinner tonight.” There are mixed emotions hearing my Dad’s announcement because I know now I have to scramble to finish my homework early, but I am also excited because I know what “Sunday dinner at Grandma’s” means. It means seeing the family, lots of noise, and great food. After I shower, get changed, and work on my homework, my whole family piles into the car to get to my grandmother’s house by four.
We drive up to a small, stucco home in suburban main line Philadelphia. The split-level house is tidy and well cared for, with an incredible profusion of purple and pink petunias, red geraniums, and yellow marigold flowers in the front and backyard. We walk along the short cobble stone path leading to the front door. My dad knocks on the storm door three times loudly then yells “Hello, I’m here” and lets himself in. My dad is the youngest of five children raised in this cramped Italian household. My grandmother, Yolanda, immigrated to America from Italy when she was 10 years old. She loves to cook traditional Italian family dinners on Sunday for all her children, their spouses, and her grandchildren.
We walk in and right away my mouth begins to water as I am enveloped by the familiar smell of garlic and my grandmother’s homemade sauce. We walk about five steps from the front door to get through the living room and into the kitchen and I see my grandma sitting in her usual spot. Sitting right on the edge of a small wooden bench with a picnic size wooden table in front of her, she smiles when we walk in. There is a tiny, black and white TV located at the edge of the table, displaying her favorite Hallmark channel as she prepares salads, chopping vegetables and tossing them with her homemade dressing. This kitchen is the smallest kitchen imaginable. Barely squeezing between the refrigerator and the food laden table, I make my way across the room to say hello to my grandma. She gives me a welcoming hug, wrapping her arms around me and giving me a wet kiss on my cheek. Sliding by family members, I make a quick lap around the packed house saying “Hello, so good to see you” to my aunts, uncles, and cousins.
The living room is where I find most of the family sitting and talking before dinner. The chairs and sofa are reserved for the adults, so I lay down in the middle of the old, but extremely soft green carpet. My dad comes over and tackles me, and we started to wrestle for a short time until my siblings and cousins join in attempting to save me. We break up our wrestling match when Grandma yells at us from the kitchen “stop messing around and come help me make the food”. I make my way across the room to the front door. Next to the front door, there is a small storage cupboard which I sneak into and grab a cookie, or two out of a tin can. My grandma makes the best oatmeal cookies, covered in sugar. The sugar gets all over my fingers, but I quickly rub off the evidence and move back into the controlled chaos in the living room.
After a short time listening in on the adult conversations, my little sister, Katherine and I get bored and decide to go outside. Charging out the front door, we run straight towards our favorite tree located in the middle of my Grandma’s front yard. I try to climb to the top before her, but she has gotten a head start. After hanging upside down on the branches, we lose interest and go to the back yard to play whiffle ball with my siblings. We use trees around the backyard as bases and run all over the place. Yelling from the kitchen, my Aunt Carol says, “dinner time” and we drop everything and run inside to eat.
I go straight for the kid’s table, because no matter how old I am I will still be at the kids table. Sitting down, my Aunt Janet hands me a bowl of minestrone soup. Our meal begins with my grandmother’s homemade soup, then she brings out a giant pasta bowl filled with her homemade spaghetti and sauce. The pasta is served with homemade meatballs and Italian sausage that have been simmering in the sauce for hours. Everyone has a fresh green salad and we pass around the cold mint green beans in vinegar and oil. Happily sinking my fork into the food, I start my feast. Even with the food in front of us, my family continues to talk, argue, and laugh and the volume of noise never diminishes. When I think I cannot eat another bite; my grandmother brings out a platter of roast lamb with rosemary potatoes.
After I finish my dinner, I help all the kids clear the plates and work my way over to the sink. My grandma has no dishwasher, and unfortunately, it is the grandkids job to wash all the dishes, silverware, pots and pans. It takes about 20 minutes to do my share of dishes before I can return back to my seat for dessert. For dessert I find homemade pound cake, lathered with strawberries and whipped cream. The light but fluffy cake is like nothing I have ever tasted before. I eat it all and go back for seconds. Afterwards, there are more dishes to wash and it is dark outside and getting late. I am sad because we have to hug and kiss everyone goodnight and get going for the drive home.
The memories of all those loud, crowded, evenings weave throughout my childhood. It is hard to imagine how we managed to fit 15-25 people in that small house almost every Sunday for dinner. My grandmother’s cooking and generosity brought the entire family together for those few hours every weekend. I realize now that those Sunday dinners helped shape who I am today. During those evenings when we all came together to eat, play, talk and catch up, I experienced love and acceptance. My large Italian family helped me become more personable and outgoing. I learned how to communicate and express myself with people of all ages at an early age and as a result of this, I became more confident. I am able to speak up for myself, meet new people and talk to adults with assurance. I loved to listen to my family’s crazy loud conversations and arguments. These conversations helped me appreciate the fact that people have different views on politics and religion. But it also made me realize that people with different opinions can still be supportive and love each other. My large Italian family may be overwhelming and loud, but the Sunday dinners at my grandmother’s house represent what I love most about them. I love their constant, caring presence in my life, their noisy chaos, and of course the amazing food. I wouldn’t trade those dinners at grandma’s house for anything else in the world.
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