I had peanut butter toast "logs" dipped in hot chocolate this morning. My Grandma Pagni used to make that for breakfast every time we slept over at her house. I will never forget the smell of her homemade hot chocolate drifting up the stairs. Nothing could wake me up and get me out of bed faster as a child.
Grandma was entirely Italian. She wore "house dresses," knee-high nylons, and practical shoes. Oh, and the apron - always the apron. Her hair was in pin curls, and her bejeweled cat glasses were a thing of classic 50's beauty.
I loved that woman. Her house - disheveled, broken down, small, unimpressive, and only two blocks from my own - always felt like home.
In keeping with her Italian heritage, food was always at the center of any visit. Grandma wasn't satisfied until you accepted something, anything, that she would offer from her pantry, fridge, or garden. All washed down with an ice-cold glass bottle of Pepsi, of course!
Every Sunday at noon, our families converged on that tiny house for Grandma's Sunday "Supper." It was always the same thing, but no one was ever disappointed by that: Grandma's special Italian chicken (which, of course, there was no recipe for), rigatoni, homemade sauce and meatballs, sausage, bread, salads, and always some weird Jell-O-Mold filled with things I never thought belonged in Jell-O.
After Sunday supper, the women and the teenage girls would head to the kitchen for cleanup. The men would move to the living room for a cigarette or a cigar, and maybe a shot of whiskey. Sometimes they would pull out the guitar or ukulele for a sing-along. Other times they just sat around and solved world problems. The younger cousins (of which I was one) would chase each other in a game of tag, play with Tinker Toys and toy soldiers on the front porch, or head across the street to splash around in the community fountain.
The dining room table was for adults only, but when it was your birthday, you got a seat at the "big" table, a cake, and a rousing round of "Happy Birthday" belted out with gusto by the whole crew.
To earn some extra money, Grandma made wedding cakes. As kids, my three sisters and I could barely contain our excitement when she would call to let us know that she had leftover icing (which, we know now, she always made on purpose.) She would set out the extra bowl of icing, a box of Nilla Wafers, and prepare for the onslaught of delighted little girls. Then, as every grandparent takes great pleasure in doing, she would send us home to bounce off the sugar high and let our parents deal with the aftermath.
She was the best.
I have countless warm and loving memories of Grandma and her home. We could do no wrong in her eyes. Not only did she love us, but she also loved being around us. We knew that we could stop in at any time and find her pushing her ridiculously heavy Kirby vacuum over those old, threadbare carpets, picking grapes from her backyard for homemade jelly, or maybe watching her "stories" while something amazing was simmering on the stove. She would drop what she was doing, wrap those jiggly soft arms around us, and give us a "God love ya!" squeeze. Genuinely happy to see us. Every time.
Even after we all grew up and moved on, we would stop in whenever we got the chance to see Grandma.
Her magnetic brand of incredible love and acceptance was (and is) so inspiring. I want to be her when I grow up. I hope and pray that my children and future grandchildren will always feel like my house is truly "home."
Love her and miss her always, and so very grateful for her legacy in my life.
Edit: I wrote this blog about my Grandma long before I had any grandchildren of my own. We have seven now, and the Sunday Dinner tradition has continued in my family without skipping a beat. First, it was at my mother-in-law's house. Then, when she couldn't do it anymore, it moved to my house, where it has remained since. And someday, when I'm no longer able, my daughter-in-law stands ready to keep this family bonding experience alive and well. (Fun fact: I inherited Grandma's Sunday Chicken pan and still use it to this day.)
As a child, I didn't understand how rare and special the whole "Sunday Supper" experience was, or how the tradition would almost entirely disappear from the family landscape of the future. We are among the rare few whose children and grandchildren are all still local, and we are determined to always prioritize this time together. One time, once a week, for all who can make it.
It was and is a beautiful thing.