Oh My Mama

                                        A RECIPE

 

Thick slices of lasagna, heated to a rich red gold with toasted crunch corners perfumed Sunday, spread into the living room, into my nostrils, my pores. The bubbly red meat sauce, ricotta and mozarella cheeses met with no resistance as they enticed me to the dinner table. The beauty of the dinner was before me.

 

There, sitting at the far end like the Queen she was, was Mama, my Mama, our Mama, so unlike the fat ladies with long hairs growing from their chins, aprons miraculously clean, who represent 'Old Italy'. Mama looked pretty. Her dark hair was short, perky and her deep chocolate eyes sparkled with pleasure. A trim figure, breasts firm and semi-coyly covered, announced this Grandma of the '90s. With a non-descript accent words flowed like topaz honey as she welcomed us to her home again.

 

Hell, she didn't have to labor over a hot stove as her maid followed all instructions with care while Mama watched her like a hawk. The ceiling fan whirred over the crispy salad.  Excellent Chianti stayed in the lovely wine glasses for only moments, disappeared and almost unbidden returned.

 

Mama laughed and her sweet, soft joy of living touched us all. We were smug, gloated in our good fortune having her, being with her as we felt the love she had instilled in us, the devotion of family deeply impressed. We rose, raised our ruby red wine and gave mama her favorite present–

 

Together we said ' Mama, you are beautiful. We love you...and she smiled.