A Taste of Home...Magpie 23

The picture below was the writing prompt for this week's Magpie entry.


She unloaded her paper sacks setting the tin of anchovies on the wooden butcher block island, next to the bowl of garden fresh tomatoes. She had carefully chosen each one at the local farmer’s market yesterday morning. The sun brought warmth into the kitchen, as it streaked its warm tangerine glow through the big picture window, above her sink, creating a picturesque backdrop for the potted basil that sat on her sill.

She was about to delve into a great challenge...creating her Mom-mom’s secret recipe for puttanesca sauce.

As she opened her creased and stained recipe card...she could almost hear the laughter and the din of her family gathering into her Mom-mom’s house filling its borders until it seemed ready to burst, just like the casings of her Pop-pop’s homemade sausages. Aunt Gina’s nasally laughter would fill the air, while Uncle Phil would lay back in the big recliner with the Sunday paper, shoes off and tie loosened ready for his nap. Pop-pop would sit in the wooden chair next to the table stealing a slippery anchovy from its tin bed...his knotted hands, with their big bulbish fingers, would fish around until he could get a good hold on one...he’d lift the thin fillet up out of its juices and holding it high, with an enormous toothless grin, he’d open his mouth wide and drop it in. She’d watch his adam’s apple glide up and down his throat, as he swallowed the fishy delicacy that he loved so much. He’d look over at Mom-mom to make sure she wasn’t watching...he’d give her a wink and attempt another steal...the shiny oil on his lips giving him away completely. Mom-mom would turn and catch him and slap his hand away while muttering something in her native tongue. Pop-pop would laugh mischievously as she chased him out of the kitchen with her wooden spoon.

The women would work in perfect harmony....one taking out the cast iron fry pan...and filling it with the deep gold, almost green olive oil...while another would separate the fresh garlic from their huddled papery clumps and peel them, revealing the shiny meat within, emitting its sharp scent as they chopped away. While yet another would drop the chopped anchovies into the hot oil...the oil would spit and snap as it browned the fishy meat.

They knew just the right time to add the garlic... “not too soon..” Mom-mom would tell me....when she decided it was my time to learn her skill of cooking and induct me into this elite group.

In her broken English she would explain, “We layer the flavors...” she would hold up her spoon as if keeping beat to a rhythm only she and the older women could hear.

“Once it is time, then it is time...not before...not too soon.” And with knowing looks they would scrape the chopped garlic into the oil, adding it to the deep earthy aroma of the browned anchovies.

The drone of the Sunday sports coming from the TV in the parlor, mingled with Uncle Phil’s snoring, along with the giggling of the older children spying on him and the shrieking laughter of the younger children, running and chasing each other through out the house...created the background music, to the choreography of the women in the kitchen, with their clanging pans, their bubbling pots and the percussion of their knives upon the butcher blocks where which, they cut and chopped, only the finest selections of produce and herbs for their recipes.

The smell of the anchovies burning in the dark smokey oil, snapped her out of her reminiscent nostalgia a little too late, a small flame had sparked into a big flaming pan on her stove top. Without hesitation she quickly grabbed the fire extinguisher by the pantry door and pulled the pin, aimed at the base of the flame and squeezed the lever...sweeping from side to side until the fire was completely out. She was getting to be a pro with the fire extinguisher...if only she had learned how to cook so easily.

Her dinner sat there dripping, foamy and smoldering. She leaned in, over the sink and opened the windows, fanning the stink of smoke out with her recipe card. The potted basil fell into the sink, spilling out most of the soil.

She missed her Mom-mom, she missed her whole family and the good old days. She bit her lower lip to suppress the tears...but it was too late, despite herself she began to cry and suddenly without warning the crying turned to laughter. She was laughing hard now...she laughed and laughed. She laughed until her cheeks and her stomach hurt. When she finally stopped laughing, she reached for the phone and hit the speed dial for Giorgio’s, her favorite italian restaurant.

© Copyright 2010 Christine Maxwell All rights reserved