CLOSE TO HOME

No matter what source you cite, the definition of the phrase 'Close to Home' boils down to how you are affected physically, personally, or emotionally by something you can strongly relate to. At one time or another, certain sights, sounds, or smells have probably conjured up memories and mental images that have had a profound effect on your life, just as they have had on mine. 

For example, my family would look forward to my grandmother coming to spend the day with us every Friday. But, of course, as much as we loved Grandma and her visits...we knew that she would prepare a meal that makes my mouth water to this day, just thinking about it. A pot of spaghetti sauce (or 'gravy' as it was known in my family) simmering on the stove was a sight to behold. The steam rising...the sound of the gravy almost bubbling over the sides of the pot... a slight hiss when a droplet managed to escape and hit the burner on the stove... and, of course, that delicious aroma permeating the kitchen as it wafted its way through the rest of the house. These sights, sounds, and smells remind me of those Friday afternoons.

Grandma's gravy was a magnet for all the kids in my family. So, we waited patiently, lining up next to the stove, like crows on a power line...knowing that Grandma would pass out a small piece of Italian bread dipped in that heavenly sauce (excuse me...gravy) to each of us. 

When she wasn't looking, we would all try to sneak back in line to get another piece. But, of course, she would always catch us and pretend to be angry. "Get away from my gravy! I'm not gonna have enough for the macaroni." (Note... all pasta, excluding ravioli and lasagna, was called macaroni in my family). There was probably enough food to feed a platoon of soldiers, but Grandma loved it when we asked for seconds of that 'homemade gravy bread.' Let’s face it... sometimes we did succeed in snatching some of it on our own. 

On those same Fridays, the kitchen table would be covered in flour and dough, rolled out, and ready to be turned into ravioli... perfect little pillows of pasta dough and filling. Sometimes, to switch things up...gnocchi, cavatelli, or conchiglie would be the day's pasta...sometimes all three, if Grandma was feeling extra ambitious. Gnocchi is small dumplings made with potato and flour. Cavatelli is a short, handmade pasta that looks like gnocchi but is hollowed out and made with semolina or other flour and water. In Italian, the name cavatelli means "little indentations." Those "little indentations" or "hollows" made by curling the dough off the side of your thumb capture just the right amount of sauce for each delicious mouthful. Conchiglie is my favorite, however, and the most fun to make. Conchiglie is a type of pasta shaped like a conch shell and known for its ability to hold sauces, too. It is made by rolling the dough off your thumb against the tines of a fork to make the characteristic ridges in the shells. My mother was good, but grandma was a pro and could turn out the perfectly shaped ridged pasta shells like she was working on a conveyor belt.

My favorite memory is when I insisted on helping Grandma make the pasta noodles on one of those Friday visits. I was only three years old and somewhat coordinated (well, as coordinated as any other 3-year-old), but not enough to roll a piece of dough off the tines of a fork, let alone off my thumb, without it rolling onto the floor. But to keep me out of the way, Grandma gave me a small piece of dough to practice with, and a couple of hours later... I had made my first and only conchiglie noodle. It wasn’t perfect... it was misshapen, and it was all gray from dropping it on the floor several times (and stepping on it once or twice), but I made it... all by myself.
 
As Grandma prepared to boil all the various kinds of pasta she had made that day...I handed my little noodle over to her to throw in the pot with all the others. My grandmother didn't want to hurt my feelings. Still, there was no way that my filthy, little glob of dough... that would have given Silly Putty™ a bad name would make its way onto the plate of some unsuspecting family member during dinner. She told me she would put my one little noodle in its own 'special pot' so that she could keep an eye on it. I'm sure the minute I walked out of the kitchen, that poor, dirty lump of dough was tossed directly into that 'special pot' also known as the trashcan—so much for my career as grandma's sous chef. I still remember that day, so many years later, when my grandmother patiently taught me how to make pasta. 

Whenever I am in an Italian restaurant...an authentic Italian restaurant, that is... and smell those delicious aromas as they make their way across the dining room... or I see a beautifully plated dish of gnocchi (or any other 'macaroni' for that matter). I think of those Fridays from long ago...cherished memories that always bring me close to home.