Yesterday was a long day of cooking and eating, and talking and eating, and drinking and eating.
I make dinner every year for whomever decides to come. I, generally, am not the one doing the inviting. I just let people call me if they are interesting in attending. It works out. This year we were 16 people. I decided to mix it up and make nothing in the usual manner.
Cantaloupe Salsa (I just loved it so much before!)
(Aunt Marie’s) Ham cake
(Aunt Glor’s) Strawberry Spinach Salad with Poppyseed dressing
Roasted Potatos (we decided to throw them in the oven on a whim)
(Aunt Marie’s)Coconut Custard Cake
Rice Crispies Treats
( Aunt Glor’s) Ice Cream Fudge Brownie Pie
(Aunt Glor’s) Biscotti
It was a hell of a feast.
The lot of us sat outside on my dads million year old wooden lawn chairs. We watched the dogs pee on everything in the yard, one immediately after the other. We discussed a (potential) family trip to
Mecca Italy, wolfed down appies, and slugged back our drink of choice. All surrounding little CK, perched on her blanket strewn over the grass with her toys all about her. She had no idea this was the first of many Easter’s she would spend with those same faces. And little does she know that, while this year we were wondering what caused those awful hives on her face, every year after there would be something different about her to discuss, or criticize. It’s just the Saracino way. We all point out each other’s flaws in an effort to make ourselves feel like no one person is better than anyone else in the clan. (Even though secretly everyone feels like that he/she is the most successful, awesome, greatest of all.) It’s just how we Italians are, proud is the word, I guess…?
CK hung in there with the best of them, as did Ant. he’s such a good sport about not spending the holiday with his family. I do hope that one year they will take me up on our offer to join us. Although, I don’t blame them after reflecting on what I just expelled in the above paragraph…
One more tidbit on the day. You should know that my dad’s kitchen is, well, there are no words really. Imagine you rented a beach house and the kitchen was rarely used so that may or may not have even the most basic of supplies. Now scale that back a few degrees, and you have “Poppy’s” kitchen. When I tell you that I even brought my own salt and pepper, I am not even cracking a smile. When I tell you that he owns one cookie sheet, that hasn’t been used since 1990, I am not kidding. And, when I tell you that he saved LESS than an ounce of Gatorade in the fridge as to not waste it, there is no joke about it. Needless to say, my salt transportation was not futile. Uncle Bill tried to “shake” his 20 year old Morton container and he just about blew a muscle in the process. The FRESH container of salt came to the rescue! Dinner was saved, but my Dad is a different story.
When the night ended, and we arrived home I had one tall, refreshing, much needed drink of water.
All this for ONE decent photo: