Reader's Praise

“...a delight to the heart...
I (was) laughing out loud.”
– Don H.

“...a charming memoir...
a masterful job!”
– Judy L.

“I was mesmerized.”
– Tom S.

“Well crafted and entertaining.”
– David E.

“Inspiring!”
– Mikala W.

One special dish I’ll always remember was mom’s spaghetti. As non-Italians, you wouldn’t think spaghetti would be the great family treat, the great cooking memory from my childhood, but it was. There never was spaghetti like my mom made, and I’ve never tasted anything like it since I left home! She made it about twice a year, usually on holidays.

She would casually make an announcement about a couple of weeks in advance to properly pique our interest and get us salivating. It became a topic of conversation for the two or three nights before the cooking began. Mom never had a recipe; it was all in her head. She never used measuring spoons or cups. She just added whatever felt good to her at the moment. She was like a witch concocting a secret brew, except it always became the most flavorful and tasty sauce you could possibly imagine! How she did it was a mystery, every time.

It originated as a thin and watery base with large chunks of tomatoes floating in a giant pot. She began with about three or four gallons of liquid. As the hours went by she added herbs, spices, onions, and greens . . . and eye of newt and toe of frog. Naw, not really, but who knew what she put in? Slowly the liquid cooked down, filling the whole house with tantalizing aromas that would permeate every room, and every towel or washcloth. It cooked for almost two full days.

At night she let the coals go out in the stove and everything sat, distributing flavors. Then with morning, the heat again was applied and more secrecy was added throughout the second day. The buildup was almost more than we could take. In the last few hours she turned her attention to making a plain French bread loaf into marvelous chunks of garlic bread. These by themselves almost brought tears to our eyes when we first chomped into a slab.

The last accompaniment was the salad. Mom sliced iceberg lettuce heads into quarters and then lavishly poured a homemade dressing over each quarter. The dressing was a magical composition that too was indescribable. It was similar to a cross between a great Thousand Island and a Caesar. She began with large jars of mayonnaise and ketchup, and then added various dollops of mustards, sauces, and who knows what? It had random chunks of unknown tasty bits floating through it, which made our mouths water.

By 4:00 PM we all were delirious in anticipation, knowing we had another hour to wait; mom’s spaghetti dinners were always served precisely at 5:00 PM. That was the routine. We all purposely skipped lunch so we could stuff ourselves at dinner. The last half-hour was spent cooking the spaghetti, the last magical ingredient. Where she found the pasta I also do not know, but it tasted nothing like the plain pasta I have had since.

When we finally sat down, and dinner was served by mom with a flourish, it was a true family feast and celebration. Uncle Johnny always showed up for that dinner, and sometimes one of mom’s other brothers, Uncle Joe, also came. I ate and ate until I couldn’t move, under the possibility that I would lose it all. It was glorious.

Then near the end, mom would rise, and suddenly produce from a cabinet a homemade apple pie, which in itself was a masterful delight. Out would come the ice cream, and my uncles and step-dad would gorge themselves on dessert. I always had to wait until later when I finally had some spare room in my tummy to squeeze in a thin sliver of apple pie. Doug and I went to bed those nights simply stuffed, lying on our backs, afraid even to move. It was heaven. And mom always made far more than we could eat. We always looked forward to leftovers the next night.

To this day, I never have had another spaghetti dinner like those my mom made. Her homemade spaghetti twice a year made all of the slumgullion in between worth it!