IN MY MIND I'M HOME AGAIN!

She used to start about 3:30 in the afternoon, a song emanating from her lips and the smell of garlic as it began to caramelize in the pan. Slowly cooking it set the stage for many a memory, ones that I miss so much. Being Italian/American, dinner was an important time of the day, because it brought us all together as a family. Mom would swing the wooden spoon like a culinary baton, in a pot, in a saucepan and even on my head. Her apron would be a colorful floral print, telling the world that she had the hands of a master.

Dad would arrive at about 5:30 from his job at the New York Laboratory and Supply Company as he rang the doorbell to unlock the entryway door to the staircase, slowly climbing the steps in his grey fedora, great coat, and brown wingtip shoes, a current copy of the New York Journal American folded under his arm.

As the afternoon progressed, I would watch Mom in fascination as she put together our meal. It could be Pasta e Faggioli, a slice of bread and maybe a vinegar pepper in the bowl, it could be chicken  beef soup, with tiny noodles crowding the bowl the chicken or beef fished out of the pot and set on a platter, on a cold winter's night, a gallon of home-made grandpa's wine standing guard at the table.

There was always macaroni night on Thursdays, packed with left-over meatballs, sausages and bracciola both pork and beef, steaming up the air and the sauce, so well done, so velvety in texture and red in color, you swear it was painted. Of course, or maybe a necessary course of a simple salad with vinegar and oil waiting to be consumed, defying the socially accepted routine of when we eat it. Dad would say, "Did you know, in a restaurant they serve the salad first?" I would reply: "But Dad, you ruin your appetite if you do that!" And he would reply: "Did you do your homework?"

There were always the pork chops breaded or the lamb chops with a tomato sauce layered on top of them with an oregano or thyme base or even veal cutlets, or chicken cutlets breaded and fried go better with a salad and Grandpa's wine.

But Mom made these things and ate like kings, nothing extravagant unless you mean extravagantly tasty and delicious.

However, there were times when we as her children rebelled against a meal or two. I hated stew, at least stew in a red sauce with green peas and potatoes. Stew meat was just that, tough and dry and the potatoes were boiled and hard. The color mixture of green peas and red sauce just didn't sit well with me visually, that must have been the artist in me.

Friday night was either hit or miss in culinary joy. If Mom made a white fish, we didn't get too excited except for when it was smothered in onions and olives and a great light tomato sauce, or when we would opt for Pizza, our sacred Friday night dish that could herald the weekend.

Lasagna, Ravioli, Manicotti, all celebratory dishes saved for Christmas Day, Easter Sunday and even guests, Mom was the master, along with her home-made pasta.

Mine was an awesome life, filled with good aromas, tastes and memories all brought together by one little woman, Mom! As I remember these wonderful foods, in my mind I am home again, Mom's home.

Now those days are gone by, the memories don't seem to fade and the joy rests in my heart and soul, but I know I will never live them again. Her singing to no one in particular, her magic of the pasta pot and the swirling steam that curled its way toward the ceiling told me life was good and I will never ever see it again.