My family traveled to Long Island, New York frequently when my grandparents lived there. We’d usually stay a few days through the weekend and leave on a Sunday. Every time we left it was [thankfully] always the same routine.

I have never been much of an early riser. In my uncle’s old room, I’d try hard to sleep in late but once the smell of garlic and tomato sauce came trickling down the hall from the kitchen to the bedroom it was game over. I was wide awake and salivating instantly… like the most instinctual auto response you’ve ever experienced in your life.

By the time I would get up around 10am, Poppy (my grandfather) would already be back from the bakery. He had bagels for us to take home and Italian bread for dinner. Let me tell you something right now. If you aren’t privy to the New York dough situation I highly suggest enlightening yourself to it. Basically it’s like breaking bread with the gods.

Sunday Dinner was always around 1pm or 2pm. My logic of waking up late was so that eating wouldn’t be long away. I did various things to occupy myself in the meantime. Reading, drawn out packing, an hour shower… I steered clear of the kitchen so I wouldn’t be considered an extra helping hand. I love to eat, hate to cook. Occasionally I would sneak in to grab a piece of Italian bread and dip it into the gravy pot for a taste. A big debate between calling it sauce or gravy. We call it gravy. There were always meatballs, sausage or braciole cooking in it. Call it whatever you want, its fucking delicious.

Time to Eat.

I remember the table set up had a nice white tablecloth with lace detail around the middle and edges and then a clear plastic overlay with white trim to cover it. God forbid something cloth wasn’t topped with plastic. To be fair, the plastic did get splattered with gravy and wine regularly so in my adult life I can appreciate the need to preserve the tablecloth.

Homemade red wine used to flow like the Amazon. The wine cellar in the basement was always productive with wine in various stages of its lush life. Gallon jugs were brought upstairs and poured into two decanters for each end of the table. What remained in the jugs would sit on the floor by Poppy’s chair. I was too young to legally drink but at Sunday dinner I was allowed a heavy pour mixed with some ginger ale. I was guaranteed more wine if I sat next to Poppy or my godfather. I’d hold my glass low under the table for seconds and one of them would pour it out from the jug.

So now imagine a serving bowl big enough to fit your toddler sibling in. There was macaroni by the pounds. We had gravy boats the size of genie lamps, meatballs in a separate dish covered with tinfoil and sometimes there would be a plate of flank steak, broccoli rabe and potatoes with string beans the length of your arm from the garden. A block of fresh parmesan cheese and a vintage grater were passed around followed by a little bowl of crushed red pepper. When the main course was finished, a big salad waited on the counter to be dressed. Oil and red wine vinegar with some salt and pepper did the trick every time.

God Bless the Italian Americans and Vice Versa.

The food was so good I swear sometimes these meals brought me to tears. Thankfully I don’t think anyone noticed twelve year old me as I shed a tear or two into my wine spritzer(s). I’m extremely grateful for these memories I have with my family. I’m also thankful that my future husband is a great cook otherwise I would be doing unspeakable things to get me a good Sunday Dinner around here.