Personal Narrative-When I Grow Up In My Home

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When you grow up in a household with two chefs, both well versed in the Mediterranean style-full of beautiful pastas and rich, decadent sauces- you expect for both parents to do an equal amount of cooking; to share the burden of feeding two growing girls only a year apart. Maybe they could work the kitchen together; a well-oiled team, or perhaps they could switch off nights preparing meals; at least that is what would make the most sense. So how was is that my mother each night, walking in the door, tiredness hanging over her like a cloud ended up at that stove mixing and chopping away as my father lounged on the couch perusing the news channels? Because in Italy there is a very specific hierarchy when it comes to home life. The woman is to …show more content…
We would be at the top of the stairs by the time we heard “can one of you come make salad while the other sets the table.” Because we knew that she would rather send her voice ringing across the house to reach us rather then attempt to ask my dad to help. For if she asked her answer would be met with a denial or a complaint followed by the words “tell the girls to do it.” And that we did each night, proud of what a great help we knew ourselves to be as we both accomplished our one set task. By then there wasn’t enough time to go back upstairs so in that limbo between our chore and the completion of our mother’s we would sit down on the couch and cuddle with dad or dance around the kitchen pretending to be useful while she worked magic. Suddenly the words “tutti a tavola a mangiare, per favore” could be heard (mother channeling her inner Lidia Bastianich) signifying that dinner was ready and headed for the table so we better be there to meet it. We would all take our places at the table either my sister or I had proudly set and listen to the baby in the family recite a Grace that she had learned in pre-school, “Thank you for the food we eat, thank you for the world so sweet, thank you for the birds that sing, thank you for everything. Amen,” before digging into a meal that, to my …show more content…
Like oil and water, two incompatible cultures, one from South Dakota, the other from Italy. Both worked all day, but only one was made to come home and keep going, only given a break when bedtime rolled around. They were both from different worlds and it showed at the dinner table when we all gathered round but there was nothing left to say, only to eat a meal cooked with love, exhaustion, and a little bit of

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