Growing up in a close knit, Italian-American family is one of the small pleasures in life I am truly grateful for every single day. Not everyone is fortunate enough to have memories of dinners, holidays, or celebrations where their family is present.
Lucky for me, I not only had my immediate family around, but my extended family, too.
There's the four of us -- my Father, Mother, Sister and I. Then there's our Grandmother, Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, Great Aunts, Great Uncles, Second Cousins, friends that are so close you call them family, their kids, boyfriends, girlfriends, best friends of your cousin that basically become your cousin, and let's not forget Rocky, our 17 pound overweight Yorkie who has his own booster seat at the head of the table at Thanksgiving.
A majority of my childhood was spent at my Grandparents house with my Sister and Cousin. We would go over their house just about every day and play on the blue carpet in the living room while my Mom, aunt and Grandma had tea in the kitchen. Friday nights were just about always spent at my Cousins and we would huddle up in sleeping bags on the family room floor and watch Disney movies over and over.
Sunday's were, and are, the biggest day of the week. No special occasion or holiday is needed to cook pounds of pasta and there is nothing I love more than waking up to the smell of my Dad's gravy (sauce as most people call it) on the stove. My Sister and I roll out of bed at 10 a.m., shower, go to church, and then wait until everyone arrives at our house for Sunday dinner.
No matter the occasion, you can bet that our dinner conversation will be one to remember. First my Dad will make a stupid joke, then my Mom will roll her eyes. My Uncle will talk politics, my Grandma will chime in, and then one of the "kids" at the "kids table" will knock something over and start a whole new discussion. Regardless of the conversation, I can assure you it will be loud and at least 3 people will be talking at the same time.
My favorite story that's told at just about every family gathering is the one of my Aunt meeting my family for the first time. She grew up in a non-Italian-American family. Of course, her first dinner at my Grandparents house was a typical dinner of spaghetti and gravy with an assortment of Italian meats and breads. Everyone held hands around the table, said "Grace", and began eating. My Aunt picked up her knife and fork and began cutting her pasta -- an act that is apparently unforgivable. My Grandma, mortified by her actions, began mumbling in Italian. From this day on, my Aunt at every dinner makes it known that she isn't cutting her spaghetti.
Family traditions and memories are something that I will always hold on to. I'm so lucky for my dysfunctional, loud, big and crazy family, and I love them with everything I have.
