When I think of the only grandmother I ever knew, I think of meatballs.
It was her specialty. When I was a kid, my siblings, my parents, and I
would visit her every Sunday.
We complained and whined because we were kids and the walk from the
north side of Brooklyn to Williamsburg felt long and exhausting. In
reality, it only took us about an hour. My dad never took us on the bus.
When we begged him, he always responded with, “You
kids are so f***ing lazy!” or “Oh my god!” with exasperation. Mom would side with him and say, “It’s too much money.” We’d always
sigh and roll our eyes, because, according to her, everything was too
much money. Even a bottle of water. We griped anyway because we were
kids.
When we arrived at Grandma’s house, we were crabby, tired and
thirsty. Grandma was always in the same spot in her big kitchen: in
front of the stove. The apartment already smelled like delicious Italian
food when we arrived, which around 11am or so. This was due to her Sunday ritual of waking up at 8am to start cooking.
She knew we’d arrived as soon as she heard my mom’s greeting.
“We’re
here, Margret.”
She rushed to us, hugged us and smothered us in kisses, all
while saying, “Bambini,” which is Italian for
“children.” She smiled at us with love while we flushed in embarrassment. I always
cringed a little because she was always sweaty from the heat of the
stove and smelled like the various ingredients scattered about the
table. Once she freed us from her embrace, we ran into the living room to watch
television and play. My older brother, Gary, always escaped to our
cousin, J.J.’s room as they were close in age. My younger siblings,
William and Debbie, busied themselves with tag and
other fun games that bored me too quickly.
I always found myself wandering into the kitchen. I’d sit down and watch
my grandma work, while my mom chatted with her. My dad always left to
go see his friends and go to the store. I found out years later that he
did this because no one liked him.
My grandma was an expert at multitasking. While she moved around the
kitchen like a chef in a restaurant, she told my mother and me stories of
her childhood. On one rare occasion where I actually listened to her,
she recounted a story about my uncle.
“One night I couldn’t sleep because John wasn’t home yet," she said. "I
was sitting on my bed. He strolled in drunk around midnight and passed
out on the floor! Right in front of my bed. I looked at him, shook my
head and you know what I said?”
My mom and I waited for the punchline-the best part-and shook our heads
to say we didn’t know.
"'Well,' I said," she continued. "'This is what I gave
birth to?’”
We burst out laughing.
While I listened occasionally, most
of the time I tuned her out so I could focus
on my daydreaming. I daydreamed a lot-maybe too much-when I was a child. As an adult, I
regret tuning her out, because my mom told me I was her favorite
grandchild. I couldn’t understand why. I barely spoke. I lived in my head so much
that I think I missed out on a lot that was going on around me. Still,
once my grandma placed the meatballs on the table, I snapped to
attention. They were huge, smelled amazing, and tasted even better. Over the years,
both my parents had tried to replicate the recipe. Both of them failed.
When I ate them and sat with my grandma, she smiled at me and told me
how much she loved me. She made me forget
how unhappy I was when I was home. Her kitchen was an escape from my reality.
To this day, I wish I’d
stopped my daydreaming long enough to really get to know her. But, from
the little I did know about her, she was a wonderful person. She wasn’t
our grandmother by blood, but that made no difference
to her. And she made sure to let us know this fact every Sunday.
Jessica S.
June 2019
