Sunday Supper

“Twooooo twenty five???” Mom questioned the temperature at which I was going to cook the spoon roast. “Yes, Mom, twooooo twenty five. I’m going for the low and slow method.” As I prepared to slice the new onion I had bought alongside the expensive roast, I predicted her comment as she watched on, practically twitching. “You know, there’s half an onion in the fridge.” she said, pronouncing half the same way a British person would. “Yes, I know but I want to use the new onion.” I explained with as much restraint on my exasperation as I could muster. “Who are you? Donald Trump? You rich?” she asked. “Yes I am. I’m gonna tear down this 1500 square foot place and put up a 90,000 square foot golden ballroom.” We laughed and then I went and got that half onion and sliced it up.

“Seeee? That onion is fine.” I got chastised while I sliced around all the brown parts to reveal the inner goodness. Then I sat down and Googled “Is 225 or 325 better to cook a spoon roast.” Of course, Google agreed with Mom. I told her. She gloated a bit and said “Well that’s the way Nana did it.” And who could argue with that? As I prepared to put the roast in, she commented that the rack needed to go up so that it would be in the middle. “Sorry.” she kept saying, knowing that she was being the reigning monarch she has always been, a new level of self-awareness that shows up on random occasions, letting me know that even an elder is capable of change. It has taken a lot of work to get there, I will admit, and far more deep breaths than I thought capable. The roast is in and I am writing while the 325 degree oven apparently works to melt the connective tissue and gelatin of that poor unsuspecting beast. I imagine that someday I’ll have complete autonomy over a kitchen but that day is not now. The woman is losing control over just about everything, I think the least I can do is let her continue on in her role as executive chef or, at the very least chef of counsel.

Last night, we stopped by at my eldest son’s girlfriend’s family fundraiser at a Knights of Columbus hall. Seeing the kids run around the black and white dance floor while a few danced the Electric Slide brought me right back to all those parties I went to when I was a kid. “Welcome to my childhood.” I told Thomas as we sat and enjoyed the night. The youngest of five, I was shuffled in and out of our family wagon all the time, rolling around the way way back to God knows whose home, loving every celebration, even the wakes because there’d always be brownies, soda, and somebody’s amazing crockpot of meatballs. Those were the “good old days” when my family was more together and things seemed right with the world. Then I grew up, stuff happened, and slowly but surely things have unraveled quite a bit over time. We are decidedly not the family we once were and certain forces have snipped away at our fabric, convincing me somehow that everything I had believed and loved simply wasn’t real, a child’s delusion. I have heard the direct and not so direct criticism over the years, how we’re not this or not that. Living in the eye of this hurricane of familial ties, I saw it all and began to believe that, perhaps, they were right and we were all kinds of wrong. Then I realized that’s all bullshit and decided this very morning to reclaim my tribe. Why? Because I love them, it’s that simple really. Though our imperfections could fill a novel, we’re also a lot of fun and and basically good people. We know how to hang and love doing just that. A bottle of wine is not safe if we are around.

Although I am not allowed to make many of the decisions in this home, I am allowed to play hostess and that is certainly encouraged by our reigning queen as she has never turned down an invitation to any party. Lately I have been waking with anxiety over every single thing I know I cannot control but want to, sometimes in the middle of the night. It doesn’t help that my insides are turning into molten lava as all my unused eggs shrivel up and die. Adult puberty means my hormones are all over the place and I regularly stand in front of any fan I can find in any room. “You havin’ a flash?” Mom always asks when I go running into the coolness of the night. But, I cannot blame all that worries me on my hormones—my eldest child is getting ready to apply to colleges, my siblings and I are all aging faster than I’d like (though we all look damn good), national chaos, economic worries, not being able to find a house to buy…I could keep going, I’m sure you could too—we’re all a little neurotic, aren’t we? It reminds me of a cartoon I saw of a dog pretending to be a human with the speech bubble saying “Look at me. I’m a human. I have anxiety and bills to pay.”

I felt all the anxiousness of life when I got up this morning. I looked at my grandmother’s picture, the one I never knew and who died when Mom was 13. The giant chasm left by her absence has been a cross we have all had to bear. If you’ve seen “Encanto”, we’re a bit like the Madrigal family handling everything in our own magical ways. “I’m amazed that none of your Mom or Dad’s siblings took you guys away from that house.” I said to Mom one day. They must have looked a fright in the wake of their mother’s death. “I don’t think anyone could. Everyone was just scraping by those days.” Her grandmother, her mother’s mother, had to be held back in Ireland—she wanted to swim over to Boston to look after them. Sometimes I wonder if that maternal angst still courses in my veins, I imagine it does. The family stayed connected, however, in many ways through Sunday dinners much like the one I make today. Looking at my grandmother’s picture through sleepy eyes this morning, “It’s Sunday, isn’t it?” I swear I could hear her Irish brogue whisper back “Make a roast why don’t you?” With that, I had a Sunday plan for now and into the foreseeable future. I texted my siblings and told them that starting next Sunday any and all are welcome for “Sunday Supper” at 4. In both good and difficult times, we need our tribes to remind us that there is more to life than suffering. “In a time when I feel as though the days of our lives are passing by like sands through the hourglass and the American dream has turned nightmarish, I figure the one thing I can do is make a damn roast and open the doors to our crumbling ancestral home.” I texted. The house isn’t really crumbling, we did finally finish our kitchen and now have a dishwasher after almost a year without…hallelujah. “Love it love it love it” Barb immediately responded adding three heart emojis for effect. Can’t solve all the world’s problems but we can love on the people we love and reclaim that unity because, at the end of the day, this is all we got.