Sunday dinner

In my dreams, it’s Sunday dinner at 149 Waverley. Mom is there, Dad, Mamina, and Nonnie too. Dreamy, right? We languish at the table for hours. We eat and talk and laugh. We pass food and bread, pour wine, and grate cheese.

I loved Sunday Dinners

I get to sip wine from Mamina’s wine goblets even though I’m small. I eat big portions of pasta with heaping mounds of sauce. I dip earthy bread into the sauce, sink into my chair, and ransack the sauce-soaked bread.

Scent of Sundays

I loved waking to the scent of meatballs and braciole simmering in olive oil and garlic on Sunday mornings. I stood by as Mom delicately turned the meat in the pan until each piece was golden brown. I waited for tastings of the browned bits Mom scraped from the pan.

On the best of days, I’d go with Dad to get bread. We had a choice: soft cake-like bread from Antoines or rustic bread from Magni’s.

On days we ate meatballs and braciole, we choose Magni’s—a rich and earthy bread from a bakery in Nonantum. The crusty bread held up well in the robust ragù.

We set a table fit for aunts and uncles

First we’d fan a pink, blue or white plastic table liner over the long table—holding it end-to-end—laying it out ever so perfectly over the table. To say we were obsessed is the truth. Over the liner, we placed a white lace table cloth. The color of the liner peaked through the lace. I loved blue best.

We arranged each place setting. Dinner plate, pasta bowl; silver atop cloth napkins; wine glasses and water goblets. Mom put silver candle sticks with red or blue candles on the table.

Sunday Dinner Table Fit for Aunts and Uncles

Us girls were busy bringing dishes of food to the table—to where Dad sat. Mom sat at the other end of the table—for easy access to the kitchen. I sat next to Mom for easy access too.

First we ate pasta, then meatballs, braciole, and Mamina’s sautéed peas and onions. In the kitchen, an aunt or grandmother washed dishes and set them on the kitchen table for restocking in the china cabinet.

Dad sat at the table and filled up on water or wine and waited for the symphony to continue.

Later, when dinner dishes were washed and put away we served dessert, American coffee, and Espresso. Dad rolled back the tablecloth at his end of the table and played Pinochle.

Today, we still have Sunday dinner when we can—in honor of the past and in need of the present. Everything is new again. In our home, regeneration is happening. Marriages, babies, and all the life events that follow.

I’m keeping it fresh and Salty Mamina gives me space—space to recreate a family recipe, to write it all down, and to languish at the table again.

Peace & Love,

Mamina