Grandpa’s homemade wine. “You need an elevator to get up this hill, Pop. It’s even worse in winter, if you can believe it.”
Dad came in last, glaring at his brother. He didn’t say a word, but I bet he was looking for some excuse to hustle to the basement to saw wood.
“What I tell you about living up on this-a hill, Angelo?” Grandpa said. “Should-a been smart and bought a level lot you can mow without rolling over your foot.” He walked straight to the kitchen, passing us kids as if we were tree stumps.
Ray-Ray slipped outside, probably to look for baby turtles to tape firecrackers to. Nicky slunk to his room to crack open the pocket Webster’s he had bought that morning at Flannigan’s Pharmacy. I leaned against the kitchen archway and watched Grandpa sit at the head of the table and demand a juice glass for his wine. Dad obeyed as Betty presented the prosciutto.
Grandpa again pulled out his handkerchief to swab his neck. That simple gesture made my hands ball into fists. Yes, it was insufferable in that kitchen with the oven pulsing and pots simmering, but the grand production of Grandpa wiping sweat felt like a dig at my father.
Mom pulled the tinfoil from the plattered T-bones. “Take a look at these.” She held them toward Grandpa as if they were manna from heaven, or a stack of nudie pictures.
Grandpa’s eyes widened and he held his index finger up to one to measure. “That’s a two-inch-thick steak.”
“Spettacolare,” Nonna said.
Dad wore a prideful expression I rarely saw, and then Uncle Dom opened his fat cannoli-hole. “Where’d you steal those, little brother? They fall off a truck? You certainly couldn’t afford them on your paycheck.” Uncle Dom would know.
Grandpa’s eyes narrowed. “You no steal this-a meat, right?”
“Of course not.” Dad’s face was as red as the T-bones. What I didn’t know at the time was that my father had bartered his labor for those steaks. He worked every night for a week at O’Grady’s Grocery putting in a new floor. I often wondered why Dad didn’t just tell Grandpa the truth.
Mom rushed to her husband’s defense with a lie. “We used the birthday money my mother sent me.”
Uncle Dom jabbed, “So the woman of the house puts the meat on the table.”
I wanted to punch him.
“No!” Mom’s apologetic eyes bounced over to Dad.
Dad grabbed the platter of steaks and went outside.
Uncle Dom followed. “Don’t burn them! Your wife works hard to bring home the bacon.”
“Shut up,” Betty said, and I was glad.
The men congregated out back and Mom and Betty set the table. I sat on my stool watching Nonna peel an orange in one continuous spiraling ribbon, our E note drifting from her lips. Grandpa barked from outside, “Stop-a that damn humming!”
Half an hour later the fam-i-ly was called to the table, all except Dad, still at the grill with his tongs. Ray-Ray, born with some freaky internal alarm clock, returned from his expedition looking rumpled. Uncle Dom didn’t notice the grass stains on his stepson’s dress shirt, the dirt smudges on his cheek. He noticed his hands, though. “Go clean out under those nails. They’re disgusting.”
By the time Ray-Ray reappeared, the table was crammed with salad plates, dinner plates, bowls of cottage cheese, water glasses. Butter and salt and pepper and a basket of rolls. There was one empty spot at the center of the table, the most sacred space, where the meat would sit when Dad brought it in.
Uncle Dom aimed his head toward the window. “You’re not overcooking them, are you?”
“No,” Dad yelled back. “I just don’t want them to be too rare.”
“There’s no such-a thing,” Grandpa said. “You getta more iron when they are still bloody inside.”
Bloody inside? The image made my stomach lurch. On the rare occasions when we had some cheap cut of steak or hamburger in patties instead of crumbled in a tomato-macaroni calamity, Dad would cook my meat to well done.
Dad came in last, glaring at his brother. He didn’t say a word, but I bet he was looking for some excuse to hustle to the basement to saw wood.
“What I tell you about living up on this-a hill, Angelo?” Grandpa said. “Should-a been smart and bought a level lot you can mow without rolling over your foot.” He walked straight to the kitchen, passing us kids as if we were tree stumps.
Ray-Ray slipped outside, probably to look for baby turtles to tape firecrackers to. Nicky slunk to his room to crack open the pocket Webster’s he had bought that morning at Flannigan’s Pharmacy. I leaned against the kitchen archway and watched Grandpa sit at the head of the table and demand a juice glass for his wine. Dad obeyed as Betty presented the prosciutto.
Grandpa again pulled out his handkerchief to swab his neck. That simple gesture made my hands ball into fists. Yes, it was insufferable in that kitchen with the oven pulsing and pots simmering, but the grand production of Grandpa wiping sweat felt like a dig at my father.
Mom pulled the tinfoil from the plattered T-bones. “Take a look at these.” She held them toward Grandpa as if they were manna from heaven, or a stack of nudie pictures.
Grandpa’s eyes widened and he held his index finger up to one to measure. “That’s a two-inch-thick steak.”
“Spettacolare,” Nonna said.
Dad wore a prideful expression I rarely saw, and then Uncle Dom opened his fat cannoli-hole. “Where’d you steal those, little brother? They fall off a truck? You certainly couldn’t afford them on your paycheck.” Uncle Dom would know.
Grandpa’s eyes narrowed. “You no steal this-a meat, right?”
“Of course not.” Dad’s face was as red as the T-bones. What I didn’t know at the time was that my father had bartered his labor for those steaks. He worked every night for a week at O’Grady’s Grocery putting in a new floor. I often wondered why Dad didn’t just tell Grandpa the truth.
Mom rushed to her husband’s defense with a lie. “We used the birthday money my mother sent me.”
Uncle Dom jabbed, “So the woman of the house puts the meat on the table.”
I wanted to punch him.
“No!” Mom’s apologetic eyes bounced over to Dad.
Dad grabbed the platter of steaks and went outside.
Uncle Dom followed. “Don’t burn them! Your wife works hard to bring home the bacon.”
“Shut up,” Betty said, and I was glad.
The men congregated out back and Mom and Betty set the table. I sat on my stool watching Nonna peel an orange in one continuous spiraling ribbon, our E note drifting from her lips. Grandpa barked from outside, “Stop-a that damn humming!”
Half an hour later the fam-i-ly was called to the table, all except Dad, still at the grill with his tongs. Ray-Ray, born with some freaky internal alarm clock, returned from his expedition looking rumpled. Uncle Dom didn’t notice the grass stains on his stepson’s dress shirt, the dirt smudges on his cheek. He noticed his hands, though. “Go clean out under those nails. They’re disgusting.”
By the time Ray-Ray reappeared, the table was crammed with salad plates, dinner plates, bowls of cottage cheese, water glasses. Butter and salt and pepper and a basket of rolls. There was one empty spot at the center of the table, the most sacred space, where the meat would sit when Dad brought it in.
Uncle Dom aimed his head toward the window. “You’re not overcooking them, are you?”
“No,” Dad yelled back. “I just don’t want them to be too rare.”
“There’s no such-a thing,” Grandpa said. “You getta more iron when they are still bloody inside.”
Bloody inside? The image made my stomach lurch. On the rare occasions when we had some cheap cut of steak or hamburger in patties instead of crumbled in a tomato-macaroni calamity, Dad would cook my meat to well done.
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