Essay 6- Food Essay- My BIG Fat Italian Meal

When asked to write about one food that has had a strong impact on me, many different ideas came to mind, but all of them had one thing in common. They were Italian foods. I wondered if I should write about gnocchi, wedding soup, spaghetti and meatballs, pasta fazool, ravioli, or another one of the traditional Italian dishes my family loves to make. These foods are all so delicious and important to me, I couldn't choose just one. The dishes we enjoy are more than just food, they represent memories, traditions, and life lessons I hope to pass along to my children one day.

Because I could not choose one food in particular, I decided to discuss a whole Perno Sunday night dinner. Ever since I can remember, my huge crazy Italian family would pile into my grandmother’s house for dinner every Sunday night. There would always be something dramatic going on: plates being broken, drinks being spilled, people singing and dancing to Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin in the kitchen, kids breaking bones, people getting pushed into the pool, or even fights breaking out in the back room. It was always a fun time with family that we all still talk about and fondly remember today.

Right after arriving and kissing every member of the family, the kids would be sent outside to play house, freeze tag, baseball or swim. We might be lucky enough to watch Home Alone or some other movie with our older cousins. All the women would convene in the kitchen around appetizers of salami, prosciutto, cheeses, olives, and bread, chatting and finishing up any of the last minute details for the meal. The dads gathered in the living room to watch the weekly ballgame.

When the time for dinner finally came, a mom would round up the men and kids, and we would make a big circle around the kitchen to say the prayer, which was usually led by one of the kids. Then everyone would go to their weekly seat; men and older women in the dining room, young kids and mothers with babies in the kitchen, and the rest of the children on the porch, at the bar, or wherever they could find an empty seat. If we moved too slowly, my grandmother would worry that the food would get cold and make a huge scene. The meal often included salad, bread, spaghetti, meatballs, pork, chicken, and potatoes. On special occasions, we might have homemade ravioli, manicotti, or gnocchi, my personal favorite. We would impatiently wait our turns as the different components of the meal were passed around the large table.

I usually sat in the kitchen because of my age, and we got pretty silent as we devoured the best meal of our lives (or week). The kids listened to the conversation in the dining room, which was usually an argument, but we just laughed. We knew that no matter how loud the disagreement became, when the meal was over, so was the argument. If we were at the table with Grandma, she told us about growing up in a large, poor Italian immigrant family. We heard about how her mother made all the spaghetti by hand-no pasta machines and definitely no store bought pasta! She described the way her mother made gnocchi by hand, first making the dough, then cutting and curling each individual piece of potato dough with her fingers or a fork. Grandma, who still made gnocchi at the time, would tell us about wedding soup and the work it took to clean the escarole, roll the veal meatballs, and cut the small sponge cubes. She remembered that it was a treat because they could only afford it a few times a year. Knowing that Grandma made those things for us made us feel special, even though she seemed to forget we had heard all of her stories before. Now I realize that hearing them over and over made me remember them. The stories were about sharing what you had, loving one another, and being there for each other.

After we heard all Grandma’s stories for the billionth time, we would set our dishes next to the sink, thank the mothers for dinner, and run to the back to continue our game or movie. All the women and teenage girls had to help clean the kitchen and dining room and wash the mountain of dishes. It was a treat to avoid clean-up when we were younger because all the girls dreaded the day we would be old enough to help. Once everything was finally cleaned and put away, out came the dessert. Dessert might be anything, but it always included homemade biscotti or pizzelles. Biscotti are thick crunchy Italian cookies that can be made with nuts and are usually eaten with coffee. Pizzelles are very thin vanilla flavored “snowflake” shaped cookies. Whenever it was time to leave everyone would make the rounds to hug and kiss everyone goodbye until the next Sunday night. At least one kid always seemed to be crying because they did not want the night to end.

Even though we do not have Perno family Sunday night dinners regularly anymore, we still eat Italian food often. Whenever we do, I think of those weekly dinners with the whole family. They are the strongest memories from my childhood. These meals are not only important to me because I love the food; they are a large part of the traditions and values I learned from my family especially since all four of my father’s grandparents immigrated from Italy.

Grandma rarely cooks the big meals these days, so my mom and aunts have started to make some of these dishes. To keep these family recipes in the family, one day my sister, my cousins, and I will learn how to cook these foods. More than the food, though, the traditions and values I was taught while sharing food I loved with people I loved is what I want to bring to my own family one day. I think the way we have used Italian food during family meals as a way to share memories could have such an impact on families all over the world if they made the time for each other they way my family always has.