Gravy Every Sunday Chapter 1

Back when I was growing up on Sandy Street, one thing I could always count on was gravy every Sunday. Early in the morning the house would begin to fill with the delicious aroma of meat balls, sausage and beef cubes browning in oil on the stove. Grandmom ( Carmella) or my Mom, Mary, would start the gravy, (we never called it sauce) with tomato paste and water. Next she would add fresh basil from the garden, the sweet smell of which would cling to your hands after picking it. It was a treat to snag a meatball from the skillet before the meats all went in the pot, but you would get in trouble with Grandmom if you tried to dip a piece of Italian bread in the gravy. Nothing tasted better than gravy bread though, if you could get away with it.
     Once the initial work was done, the pot had to slowly simmer for hours so all the flavors would blend together and the meats cook to just the right texture. So whether you were lucky enough to sleep in, getting ready for Church or having breakfast after Mass, the background of the morning was that wonderful fragrance. The gravy and meats were served with spaghetti on most Sundays, either homemade or from the macaroni factory.
     Back when I was young, we had a houseful living there.  Grandmom's four bedroom row house was home to herself, my Mom, brother Bob, sister Mary and me (Jackie), as well as Aunt Marie, Uncle Mid, cousins Nina, Gina, Dino and Tommy. Uncle Joey was in the Army and when he was stationed at Fort Dix, across the river in New Jersey, he would often come home on the weekend and sometimes bring along a friend. There was always room for one more. In addition to those of us living at the house, we were joined every Sunday by Uncle Tony, Aunt Peggy and their, then, eight children who lived three blocks away, though Aunt Peggy often took the opportunity to stay home and clean.  When it was time to sit down and eat, if someone was missing they would get a phone call telling them they had better get there now. I was about to say or else, but there was no or else. Get there now was the message as everyone in the family remembers it.
     Sometimes, especially on holidays like Christmas or Easter, all of Grandmom's family - her nine children and their spouses and children would gather for dinner and this required an extra special meal. Homemade ravioli in place of the usual spaghetti. My brother Bob would be sent to the local cheese maker with two containers to get fresh ricotta. Grandmom or my Mom would start the dough by throwing half a bag of flour on the table and add in the eggs and water, then mix it by hand to the right texture and consistency.
     While the dough was made right on the table, the filling was mixed in a bowl using simple ingredients of ricotta, eggs, grated cheese, salt, pepper and parsley. The cheeses and the dough had their own aroma, distinct from the scent of the gravy and every bit as sweet to remember.

Carmella with a few of her grandkids

     When the entire family of about forty or so gathered for holiday dinners in our row house, logistics called for eating in shifts. I know the littler children ate at the kitchen table. My memory is vague on the sequence, but I kind of remember men, older children, and young married couples taking turns and finally the women got to sit and eat. Somehow there was always enough food to go around and always room at the table whenever someone brought a guest. My sister had been dating Bill, for a couple of weeks when she brought him to Christmas Eve dinner. He survived that first gathering and stayed. They married a while later and for their wedding Grandmom made a tray of her homemade cookies which are still a part of most any family gathering, but that is a story for another time.