On any given Sunday, I’m woken up at 9am by the smell of sauce, the sound of my mom shouting into the phone at my grandma about dinner, and the sight of her waving her hands around the kitchen, all while cooking a tray of lasagna.
I know that before I can even set foot through my kitchen, I’ll be given a list of things to do around the house to prepare for the weekly “Sunday feast”. Mop the floor, set the tables, pick up the bread from the bakery, and most importantly, don’t forget to pick up your Great-grandma before dinner.
Every single Sunday revolves around two things- finishing up my homework, and preparing to have over fifteen people over for dinner. So after almost four hours of everyone running around the house getting everything ready, the first guest arrives- my grandma. You can hear her before she even walks into the house- complaining about how much stuff she’s carrying, how hungry she is, or how she’s been so busy all day.
She lets herself in, says hello to everyone, and goes right into the kitchen to help with the dinner. Finally, after waiting for everyone to show up, because no one gets there on time, dinner is ready. Before the food is even set on the table, there’s a mad scramble for the meatballs and garlic bread, and, finally, after 10 minutes, everyone is actually seated and dinner has begun.
There’s about 10 different conversations going on and they’re all so loud, you would think we’re arguing. And even though everyone’s having a different conversation, at any given time, you can be part of three separate ones, and still know what is going on. On top everything happening, all of the food is being passed around you from all different directions, and everyone is trying everything.
So after everyone finally finishes this 4-course dinner, we put out coffee and dessert and the conversations continue. Everyone enjoys these dinners differently, whether it’s my great grandma smiling and not even talking, just happy to be with family, my dad talking to my uncles about the latest sports game, or my aunts shouting to each other from each end of the table about their kids and work.
As stereotypical as this dinner sounds, it’s what we do. These Sunday dinners are what keep us together. And after my typical Italian Sunday dinner, the day ends just as it started. Quiet.
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