The Way We Do It
There's something really cool about being in a room filled with people who share your blood. It's just comfortable, you know?
On Saturday those of us with Fuzzy blood gathered together and while there were a couple there that were not blood-related they are so loved, and so ingrained into the goings-on that there are no illusions, no apologies, no awkward moments. Weiser-Fuzzy, Fuzzy-Weiser...what's the difference, really?
Everything just fits.
The occasion was my brother Jim's 44th birthday. Brand new sausage served as the focal point. It had been Grandpa's recipe, then Dad's, now ours. Jim is the man who gets the job done for us.
But Saturday we helped out. Corinne made a batch of sauce that could have been served in the finest of Italian restaurants anywhere in the country. Old country or new country, besides. I chipped in with about 40 stuffed peppers. It was another handed-down recipe. John, Mom and Dana brought the salads and desserts. A perfect set-up.
The conversation was free and easy. The old funny stories were flying, and suddenly...suddenly...
...I found myself four deep in the line, waiting to get at the vat of pasta. The aroma was causing my mouth to water. Those who had been smart enough to get in line first were passing by me with their filled dishes.
"Hurry the hell up!"
We shouted at my mother who was taking her sweet old time getting a few of the noodles on her plate.
I was seated between my mother and my cousin Steve who evidently believed it was his very last meal. The first forkful told the story of why he was eating as if there was a gun to his head.
"Holy shit that's good," I said.
My mother and I shared a story about my father once cooking for the entire church parish and having had to hide the sauce in a secret location the night before.
(If you ever had Dad's sauce you understand the stealth operation).
I'd been a little nervous about my beautiful wife sharing such a dish. I wondered if the black olives and the chunks of onion would throw her off. She was a long ways away across the lively table.
"I gotta' get a little more of that," I heard her say.
I'd heard my own grandfather say such a thing at nearly every meal we shared.
"You came a long ways for sausage and pasta," I told one of my favorite Baltimorons Larry.
"Worth it," he said.
I finished everything on my plate. I was teetering in that space where not getting more would be a shame, and where getting more would make me a tad uncomfortable.
Take a guess which way I went.
"Yo, throw another pepper on the edge of your dish," Steve called out as I refilled my plate.
Little bastard ate more than I did.
That's just the way we do it.
On Saturday those of us with Fuzzy blood gathered together and while there were a couple there that were not blood-related they are so loved, and so ingrained into the goings-on that there are no illusions, no apologies, no awkward moments. Weiser-Fuzzy, Fuzzy-Weiser...what's the difference, really?
Everything just fits.
The occasion was my brother Jim's 44th birthday. Brand new sausage served as the focal point. It had been Grandpa's recipe, then Dad's, now ours. Jim is the man who gets the job done for us.
But Saturday we helped out. Corinne made a batch of sauce that could have been served in the finest of Italian restaurants anywhere in the country. Old country or new country, besides. I chipped in with about 40 stuffed peppers. It was another handed-down recipe. John, Mom and Dana brought the salads and desserts. A perfect set-up.
The conversation was free and easy. The old funny stories were flying, and suddenly...suddenly...
...I found myself four deep in the line, waiting to get at the vat of pasta. The aroma was causing my mouth to water. Those who had been smart enough to get in line first were passing by me with their filled dishes.
"Hurry the hell up!"
We shouted at my mother who was taking her sweet old time getting a few of the noodles on her plate.
I was seated between my mother and my cousin Steve who evidently believed it was his very last meal. The first forkful told the story of why he was eating as if there was a gun to his head.
"Holy shit that's good," I said.
My mother and I shared a story about my father once cooking for the entire church parish and having had to hide the sauce in a secret location the night before.
(If you ever had Dad's sauce you understand the stealth operation).
I'd been a little nervous about my beautiful wife sharing such a dish. I wondered if the black olives and the chunks of onion would throw her off. She was a long ways away across the lively table.
"I gotta' get a little more of that," I heard her say.
I'd heard my own grandfather say such a thing at nearly every meal we shared.
"You came a long ways for sausage and pasta," I told one of my favorite Baltimorons Larry.
"Worth it," he said.
I finished everything on my plate. I was teetering in that space where not getting more would be a shame, and where getting more would make me a tad uncomfortable.
Take a guess which way I went.
"Yo, throw another pepper on the edge of your dish," Steve called out as I refilled my plate.
Little bastard ate more than I did.
That's just the way we do it.
Comments
Thanks for the pic compliment, Cliffy...Dad.Jeff(&Aunt Carolyn) would have been proud of us and how great the food, esp the way peppers tasted. They would have made fun of you & Steve shoveling the food in for sure. Yes, that's how we do it and it's a effortless with all of us...it has taken us a while to find our way back...but love...sausage, peppers & pasta conquers all.