Kitchen Talk

I remember the ends of wooden spoons always burnt black because they were ever in contact with bottoms of hot pots full with gravy/sauce or big cast iron fry pans browning pork sausage or braciola. My grandmother, the angel of Baltimore, silently presses fresh pasta dough for ravioli. She seemed to always have a fennel seed to chew between teeth that sat beside her on a bedside table while she slept.

Dad taught me to love seafood. I had my fist steamer in Bayonne. He won a stake in a restaurant by winning hands of poker with the owner. When he took us there he said we could have anything we wanted and suggested the lobster tails. After dinner he would just sign the bill. I had one of my first jobs working that kitchen as a busboy and dish washer. I was 12.

My uncle Paul taught me how to de-seed a watermelon. One mouthful at a time. He boiled the sweet and the hot links before roasting them over a charcoal fire. My aunt Gin made crab cake from scratch and ruined, for me, ordering them out anywhere the rest of my life.

My mother made the best meat balls. She didn’t mess around. Her hands were wide and she rolled them big so one or two was more than enough. On Mondays we would have sandwiches of sliced meatballs on wonder bread or kaiser rolls from the bakery if any were leftover from Sunday. Today onions and peppers from my garden sweat in a big skillet she gave me because I was the only one left who could still lift it. As smoke rises from my gas grill outside,I send after it prayers for my mother and my grandmother and everybody up there. I hope they smell the goodness they cultivated with culinary precision by hand and by love.