I remember sitting on a stool in my family’s restaurant watching the chefs scurrying around an iron kitchen and cooking delectable plates of food for the hundreds of people who chose to spend their special evening with us. In order to not mess up the assembly line of pasta being scooped on plates, vegetables being steamed and sauce being stirred, my job was to sprinkle parsley on the outgoing plates. Seems easy, right? You betcha.
As I got older, I realized that these family genes – the ones that made my “Big Noni” (aka: great-grandma) a legend who is still talked about to this day, and the ones that have been passed down to EVERY. SINGLE. HUMAN in our family – must have decided to skip-a-doodle-do right on over me. Probably due to the fact that I will settle for Raisin Bran Crunch and not shed a single tear over soggy asparagus.
This is where I precisely gained a hatred for the TV Network because if people can watch “30 Minute Meals” with Rachael Ray and learn how to make pot roast, then why did I not absorb the hours and hours of free lessons while sitting on that green stool at the end of the kitchen. WHY, I MUST ASK WHY?
In case you are wondering where this panic is striking from, I’m starting to develop this irrational fear that I will soon be asked to a dinner party and will have nothing to show thanks with in return. Right now, the best I could do is arrange some bagel bites on a plate and call it a day. Oh, my Big Noni would be rolling over in her grave and calling me every name under the sun. Scustumad. Stunad. I can hear it now.
I have asked my Noni (aka: grandma) to write down her recipes, which are etched into her kitchen cabinets, and she has refused. Actually, it goes something like this:
Me: “Noni, I would really like to have the family meatball recipe. You think we can make this happen?”
Noni: * Laughs * “Babe, I don’t think there is hope for you.”
People, this is a problem. I don’t know if my family has put two and two together, but I am the only one. No more Sears children in this family line. Zero. Zip. Zilch. I feel as though it is my civic duty to pasta lovers across the world to learn how to make this sauce that has been passed down from Noni to Noni and son to son. Heck, even Stanley knows the recipe and he’s not even Italian!
So, with Thanksgiving upon us, you know what this means? I get to spend 5 – you read that correctly – days badgering my family until they have no other choice than to teach me their ways. Pictures will follow, assuming no one dies.