“Sett’ e mezz’!” roared my grandfather as he rose from his seat. He towered over my meek ten-year old body like a grizzly bear rearing above its prey.
I saw hunger in his ferocious eyes. But I wasn’t afraid. I knew the next lesson was about to begin.
“Sam!” yelled my grandmother, instinctively and in that terse disapproving way it seemed she could summon up from nowhere. Immediately the aggressiveness vanished from my grandfather’s countenance and he obediently shrank back into his chair.
“What do you want me to do, Flo? Those are the rules,” he said, timidly trying to justify his actions. Sensing his own reticence, he tried to counter it by continuing with a voice rising in intensity and ending with a tone of self-assured purpose. “He dealt me the King of Diamonds. The rule is you have to let the dealer know as soon as you get it. You’re supposed to shout ‘Sette e la mezza,’ too. Do you expect me to treat him any different than anyone else? Sooner or later he’s gonna go out in the real world. You think they’re gonna treat him nice? No. Look at him. If he doesn’t toughen up, they’re gonna eat him alive.”
The Secret Salve of Sunday Sauce
You might not realize it at first. After all, the pace you set as you collect the necessary essentials can be as leisurely as you desire.
But once you make the commitment to start, you’re on the clock. And it’s a fast clock. A very fast clock.
Chopping and dicing. Dicing and chopping. Opening cans. Pouring contents. Mixing water. Adding spices. (In precise amounts). And you have to do these before the concoction reaches its boiling point.
The succession of activities must be quick, lest you burn, overcook, or merely miss the Continue Reading “The Secret Salve of Sunday Sauce”