Making Sunday Gravy On Wednesday?
Yes I am. I have a giant pot of gravy boiling away on the stove. Not gravy for biscuits or roast beef, spaghetti sauce. And now, on Sirius Dean Martin's "That's Amore" is playing. Joy. I spoke with a friend in Cleveland this morning (she's drowning in snow) and she said "You're making Sunday gravy on Wednesday?" She didn't grow up in Boston - anyone remember the old Prince Spaghetti ads "Wednesday is Prince Spaghetti Day" as Mama hung out the window calling "Anthonyyyyyyyyyy!" and he sprinted home for dinner. Or supper as my Mom called it.
I went through a phase where I didn't like being Italian American. I went to a preppy preppy prep school and always felt sort of excluded. No one made me felt that way - it was an adolescent wanting to fit it thing. My friends were Cabots and Putnams and Pratts and Episcopalians and white bread. My my folks picked me up at my dorm in a '76 black Cadillac Coupe DeVille we had named TONY. I knew what Bracciole was. The shame.
Now, as a full fledged grown up I adore my Italian heritage. And my Irish. And my bit of Venezuelan. I cook. I drink. AND I have a temper. What a gal!
So yes, I'm cooking away on this snow day. Listening to Dean and Frank, remembering my grandmother, my father in law (whose recipe for gravy I use) and my old great aunts who plied me with food as a kid. I always think of Auntie Angie when I eat a non-pareil. Weird what you remember.
And my childhood and memories help my writing. Add flavor I guess.
It's good to be comfortable in your own skin. Olive or not.