Four Generations of Pasta Makers

(This post first appeared here three years ago today on my daughter's 22nd birthday. You do the math. (I have a baby who is a quarter century old! Okay, I did it for you. I was a Math major for a while, after all!))

There are a few threads of tradition that weave through four generations of women in my family. A few skipped a generation, like baking for instance, but my Grandma Theresa and my daughter held tightly to each of them.

My great grandmother taught my grandma to make pasta, which everyone in the Italian neighborhood did on Sundays. While my grandma didn’t carry on the tradition in exactly the same way, she shared her talent for pasta making with my mom and me.

As I crawled the floors of a Cicero three flat, Grandma Theresa and her daughter made ravioli for Easter or Christmas and sometimes just because “we had a taste for them”. When I was old enough, my job was the “forker” or sealing those pillow y bundles of delicate deliciousness. Mom was always surprised because grandma never let her in the kitchen to help.

My grandma had the world’s best Italian arms seemingly made for kneading dough. You know the kind... the big, jiggly ones. It wasn’t until I was in high school that grandma determined I had the stamina to partake in the kneading. It seemed like it took hours but in reality was probably only 30 minutes. It was extremely tiring.

As a young adult working and always trying to make ends meet, grandma would call and ask me to take her to the market. I knew what that meant. She was inviting me over to make a pasta feast for two. We always made cavatelli, meatballs, and a big salad. Dessert was inevitably orange or raspberry Jello and I wouldn't have wanted it any other way. I took leftovers in Tupperware home to my apartment which would last me days.

Twenty-two years ago today, another woman came into our world and it wasn’t too long before my daughter crawled on the floor of her great grandma’s apartment as three older generations kneaded, filled and forked ravioli. Homemade pasta was among the first solid foods my daughter ate.

Grandma Theresa passed away when Amanda was 3 1/2 years old but says she remembers her.

Today, three generations of women continue to make ravioli together several times a year. Not only because “we have a taste for it” but it’s a way to keep the spirit of a mother, grandmother, and great grandmother alive. 

So when my daughter invited her college friends to spend the night at our home yesterday to celebrate her 21^st +1 birthday (a day early), she asked if they could make ravioli. She thought it would be fun and said she had a taste for it.

I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that someday I’ll be making pasta with my granddaughter (not too soon though, Amanda). And I hope for at least a few years, she’ll crawl on the floor while a great grandmother, grandmother and mother knead, fill and fork ravioli.

Happy birthday darling daughter.

You have grown into an exceptionally beautiful, intelligent, passionate, fun and kind woman of whom I am exceedingly proud.

(Who'd have known she'd be attending this university many years later and making awesome friends)

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It’s open grid week over at Yeah Write. Please come over and join us for Thanksgiving week! You won’t be disappointed with anything you read over there, I promise!

Stream of Consciousness: What We Traditionally Do On NYE

A quick Sunday Stream of Consciousness linked up at janasthinkingplace.com, on Monday. Oh well. Five minutes of what our traditional night (the prompt was "traditions") has been in the past and what it is tonight. It's a bit scattered but that's what I/you get for whipping something out quickly without editing.

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We had a tradition when the kids were small, then middle sized, to ring in the New Year. We’d chose a time (selfishly), let’s say 10:00pm, to pretend it was midnight. Was this mean?

It was a simple trick to pull off.

During the course of the evening, Daddy would change the clocks ahead and we would ring in the year when WE wanted. The four of us would head out to the front porch with pots, big spoon and bang the beJesus out of them for 5 minutes. Yelling and singing and banging. Then it was a treat and off to bed.

We were never alone. Most of our immediate neighbors had young children just like us. And putting the kids down early left just enough time for us young dads and moms to share some alone time without our wee ones (wink, wink).

It worked…for a while.

When the kids got a little older we modified the tradition and included two other families, all in the same position. The 14 of us would go for an early dinner at the Sushi House then for Cosmic bowling in the dark with black lights. EVERYONE wore flannel pajamas! We ate French fries and drank Root Beer. Okay, we snuck a pitcher or two of the real stuff, too.

The bowling alley kindly upheld our tradition by counting down the impending year at the 11:00 hour while all the flare of midnight. It was packed with like-minded families and thankful parents. We were home in time to get them to bed then have a few hours to ourselves (wink, wink).

Most years, our New Year’s celebrations have included our kids. And they've always included games and close friends.

This year…

One is in Colorado, boarding with a freshly broken wrist. And the other is headed into the city with her boyfriend.

Dad and Mom are left to make our own fun with good friends eating pizza, playing games and singing karaoke.

In some ways I’m happy they’ve grown up and are doing their own things tonight but, mostly and honestly, I’m melancholy that those shared moments feel like a faint whisper in my ear.

Happy New Year Everyone! Be safe.