Mama Mia. Here I go again! I couldn't help but have that ABBA song pop into my head as I was frying up some peppers, onion and mushrooms at the request of my dad to put on top of his steak when we have the fam over for dinner Saturday night. My mom wasn't even really an ABBA fan but she liked the song, so I remember her playing her 45 when she used to house clean. House cleaning was a ritual that started every Saturday morning and could last well into the evening. Mom would play all her vinyls and 45s as she worked and when I was really young I would sing along, but I would usually go into another room or hope that it was when my mom was too busy to notice or my dad was taking a nap and couldn't hear me. OK I was a little slow to catch on. I totally felt like the little Italian mama mia frying up my peppers and mushrooms. It was something that I knew once my husband walked in the door from his bowling banquet would complain about. The wafting stench of something Italian or vegetable. "What's that smell? That's disgusting!" Trust me I was waiting for it. My husband with the Irish-Viking and who knows what else roots has not come to appreciate the foods and scents that I grew up with. What's up with those Italian cookies that taste like chalk? Cannolis, which are PASTRIES, do not taste like chalk it's Rigo(au)t! (pronounced ricotta by the un-Sicilians and WASPs, aka Mayonnaise Faces). It's sweet cheese filling! Cheese? That's disgusting! I always like it too when the family gives me leftovers that I know he won't like, so I'll make him something else. What are you eating? And sometimes he makes it an even more attractive effort by taking my plate and sniffing it. Mmmm... makes me that much more hungry every time YUCK! And I'll say hun, it's....Would you like to try it? No, that looks and smells disgusting! And inside my head I imagine having a twisted smile on my face and I snidley comment to myself, "Good, I didn't want to share anyway." But I did have a moment of great pride earlier in the week. Eric and I went to a benefit for a neighbor over at Club Monarch. I was kind of dreading it because they've never had the greatest reputation for its food. But since I hadn't been there in years, I finally decided to have an open mind and give it a chance. The buffet was what my husband would call typical of Utica, NY. Being an Irish-Viking, my husband was born and bred to be a meat n' potatoes man. He still can't believe that I once used to eat pasta maybe 2-3 times a week. So we walk up to the buffet line and we notice the baked ziti and meatballs. There weren't many choices, so that's what we took on our plate. And my husband actually took salad too. Salad for him is usually outlawed unless we're out at a restaurant, otherwise it "doesn't taste the same" or "doesn't taste right." Whatever! Well we eat and we don't say much. We do what we need to do at the benefit and we leave. We're walking to the car and he's like "So did it meet your standards?" My husband is perplexed how I can place certain expectations on food when his philosophy is "It's just sauce" or "It's just pizza." I wasn't surprised at the question, but I was shocked at his reaction. "Honestly honey, the sauce sucked — too tomatoey (yes there's my EY) and flat (which translates into watery and a bit light on the seasoning). He goes, yeah hun it didn't meet my standards either. I didn't think it was that hot. And I glowed. It was a moment of glory in my almost two-year marriage. There were hopeless times when I thought I wouldn't be able to mold him or show him the light. That he would never give in to the sauce and be the pasta. I had reared him well. It had been a small triumph. If I could change a Viking and force him to follow my ways, like Madonna, I could rule the world. Then we were out for a couple drinks Wednesday night and we ordered an appetizer. It included mozzarella sticks and fried ravioli, so of course there was a little container of marinara sauce. My family could never figure out what that was. It was just sauce to us. That was the universal term and it was to be understood that that was the only known type of sauce in the universe. Not even "red" sauce. JUST SAUCE! So anyway, I've been telling my husband how I want to make my own huge pot of sauce and then freeze it so we'd have it for a long time. To appeal to his banker side, I explained what a fiscal endeavor it would be. It would cost a little for the ingredients, but we wouldn't have to worry about buying sauce for a very long time and we would be saving money. I've always felt like half a woman anyway because I use stuff from a jar, which with my family, at least in the "olden days," would be totally outlawed. You would become an instant black sheep if you even mentioned the word "Prego" or "Ragu." But at least I use Bertolli and that's pretty good I must say. But I always got that because my fussy husband would actually eat it. So finally my husband said, "You've been talking about it, why don't you do it?" But then a little streak of panic struck. What if I couldn't? What if I shamed my mother and my little 4-foot-8 Sicilian gnome great grandmother who would knee you in the balls if you didn't eat at her house or at least try a piece of her famous pound cake? So I text my mom and asked if she could tell me how. I used to watch my mom make sauce every Sunday growing up. Sunday was also the day grandpa came over to have morning coffee and a "cookie" or "pizza frit(a)." Mom would have a few groceries for us to pick up, so we'd go to the neighborhood grocery store. As I got into my teen-age years I'd have to give my grandpa a glaring stare when he tried to fib about how many cookies or doughnuts he had in the bag or if I thought he was being a little too flirty with the cute blonde check-out girl. I'm watching for grandma, I'd say. My grandpa was the classic Italian stallion and he always ate it up. By the time we got home with groceries and doughnuts, the sauce would still be simmering away. It wouldn't be until way after grandpa left that mom would cut the fresh loaf of Italian bread we just bought that morning. When I was a little girl I would beg my mom to let me have a piece early before dinner. Maybe an hour or two before supper time she would give me a little green Correl bowl of sauce and a slice of bread, and I would dip the bread in the sauce. That was heaven man! That moment was what made life worth living on a Sunday. It was a miniature version of the excitement and anticipation that took over your soul every Christmas Eve night and why you just couldn't fall asleep. So what if my sauce couldn't meet those standards? And what if I forgot how to make it even though I can't tell you how many years I spent watching my mom do it? So Eric said why don't you go over there or have your mom come to our house and show you again? Wow, he was actually encouraging the production of the Italian food. I was so excited. But at the same time I was like, "Would mom be able to show me? She's done it for so many years it probably just comes totally automatic to her." While waiting for my text reply, I tried to explain to Eric what I remembered. During certain times of the year mom would use the tomatoes and/or cherry tomatoes that we grew in our garden. Other times she would go get cans of sauce and tomato paste, add cheese and seasonings and water, and then let it boil down for hours and hours. To my surprise I was actually right. I remembered! Mom even said of course you should have, you've seen me do it. Yes, but sometimes it can be hard imagining yourself put those big girl panties on. Now I look forward to making my famous lasagna, baked ziti or chicken riggies with my own sauce. But Saturday, we're having steak and chicken. My husband will be happy with his meat, which means I'll be forced to promise pasta for my dad on another occasion. But dad looks forward to his steak on the grill too. When I was cooking up those peppers and mushrooms I thought back to when we just moved into the house, which will be four years ago next week. Eric had lost a good deal of weight and I was still on Weight Watchers, so I was still being good about losing weight. But he used to say 2-3 years ago that he started getting fat again since moving into the house. So I used to tell him good, that means you think I'm a good cook and I'm taking good care of you. Then I thought about my general appreciation for fattening people up. It's actually a compliment. Well, at least it used to be. Now there's too many negative stereotypes surrounding the round belly and no one appreciates it. Actually I'm surprised it's not totally illegal yet. That some cop on the corner doesn't stop you, give you the once over and slaps you with a ticket that says you've gotta shed five pounds in a week or it's off to jail. Maybe that's a little dramatic, but sometimes I wonder as a society if we'll ever get to that point. But I love cooking and baking for people now that I have my own house. My mother never let me because she didn't want me "messing up HER kitchen." That's a bad thing when you don't want to have it all go to your gut and ass. Like I need anymore help. That's why sometimes, especially when I've made big dishes for company coming over (cuz I'm the hostess with the mostessssst) I've tried to pawn it off on my friends. If they don't know me well enough they don't get it. They're like why are you trying to feed me? Listen I have a fussy husband who doesn't like most Italian foods and I don't need my ass to grow any larger so just take it PLEEEEEEEEEASE! When I offer you food, just assume that's the reason and that's what I'm thinking. The last time I made chicken riggies I should of put a sign on the front lawn that said Free Riggies, C'Mon In! Unfortunately I didn't think of it at the time. But I'm proud of the little bump I've given my husband, even though Labatt, Molson and Sam Adams have been large contributors to our forever 8-month gestation as well. I'm proud of my friend Grace and she always makes me laugh. She always makes me stare at her fiance Curt's ass and she'll scream, "See what I did? I made that!" Yes, Curt is a hockey player and skinny does run in his genes besides, although he is built pretty solid. I would hope so for a hockey player. But she's right we always joke that before Grace, Curt had no ass and now look at him. I'm always impressed by a woman who encourages other women to look at their man's ass. I'm not allowed to touch though. It's her personal museum...her masterpiece! And yes, Curt does actually have an ass now. What's wrong with that? All it means is that we're taking care of our men — our family and our friends. So if you or my husband asks again, "Why do you feel as though you have to feed every body? or "Why are you always afraid enough for an army is never enough?," then I'm going to tell you it's because Nik enjoys taking care of people. Nik wants to feed you and make you fat. Let me make you fat! And the next time I offer you food whether you like it or not just freakin' take it dammit! Mama MIA!
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