My wife and I were invited to an Italian family dinner several years ago. A large Italian family. Twenty-six adults and children packed into a three bedroom home.
Six courses. I’ve forgotten the order and the items, but the experience was loud and sublime. Love, food, football, food, laughs, food, wine, food, prayers, food. We were guests of their oldest son — the second oldest of six kids — and made to feel like family.
The people were even more amazing than the food. I’m thinking of using each one as a character in a short story.
Grandmother, Marie: Born in Naples. Came to America as a young child, in 1940, fleeing Fascism. Believes red sauce should be a sacrament while supposing the belief puts her final destination at risk. She told the story twice and winked at me three times.
Grandfather, Paolo: Eighty-six years old. Manhattan window washer. Once dropped a head cheese and Limburger sandwich from the forty-seventh floor of a residential building on Park Avenue. The front desk radioed to let him know a pedestrian dropped it off with a note asking him to stop eating head cheese.
Mother, Chiara: Unafraid to discuss the shape of her uterus in front of company, along the size of her children’s heads. She effectively induced a collective guilt trip among her adult children, by discussing their domes, with the intent of getting each to pick up the phone to call more. She’d named her uterus after a saint.
Father, Marco: Unafraid to dry-heave when his wife talks about the shape of her uterus in front of company. Has named her uterus after the most famous Italian New York Yankee. Offers everyone he meets a Tic-Tac to make them feel self-conscious.
Oldest daughter, Aurora: Has taught third grade for twenty-two years. Giant smile. Giant breasts. Pulled a sweaty deck of cards out of her bra and asked me if I wanted to play Texas Holdem. She thought it was funny as hell.
Third oldest, Paul: Union movie grip. Stole a bowling ball from the set of The Big Lebowski. Bowled a 290 with it. Believes it’s cursed.
Fourth oldest, Tim: Insists he saw Bigfoot while on a hunting trip in Idaho. Likes to tell his grandfather that head cheese and Limburger sandwiches smell worse than Sasquatch.
Fifth oldest, Marie: Quiet. Buried a piece of gum in Tim’s pasta while he wasn’t looking.
Baby, Anthony: Looks like Joey from Friends. Builds and installs custom sex swings as a side business. Proud that his swings can hold over 1000 pounds. Full time high school physics teacher. Kind of makes sense.
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