Love Them Loudly

I’ve really been struggling to write lately. It’s not from a lack of things to say — actually, quite the opposite. I have approximately 47 things I want to write about and absolutely no clue where to start.
 
My brain feels like one giant running to-do list of blog posts, stories, thoughts, half-finished drafts, and random observations. I’m so overwhelmed by the list in my head that I can’t even organize my thoughts enough to find the beginning.
 
With all of my newfound free time post-layoff, I’m slowly starting to get back into the groove of things and make a little heads from tails of it all. I’m not ready with anything spectacular yet, so I thought I’d just share a little family story this week.
 
So, a little over 30 years ago, my uncle signed up for what was basically a church spaghetti supper competition. Anyone could enter, and honestly, I’m not even sure there was an entry fee back then. The cooks and taste testers gathered in the church gym for fellowship, food, and a little friendly competition.
 
Fast forward 30-plus years, and that little church supper has grown from the church gym into a much larger event held at a local park. It’s now a full-fledged Italian cooking competition with categories for Best Gravy, Anything Italian, Drinks, and more. You can play bocce, stomp grapes, eat your weight in pasta, and take a picture with Luigi himself.
 
Anywho, somewhere along the way my uncle’s one-man show turned into a full-blown family affair made up of several families and friends who still gather every June to sweat our butts off in the Memphis heat, cook gravy, tell stories, solve none of the world’s problems, and occasionally win an award.
 
Last weekend we were out there again, and this year it was my turn to cook the gravy.
Each year we take turns putting our own spin on the family recipe. We usually land somewhere in the middle of the pack and did the same this year. Our biggest claim to fame is that one year we got third place, and we have absolutely no intention of letting anyone forget it.
 
Every year we set up a giant tent, a makeshift camping kitchen, and a sweet little table where we present our gravy to each judge along with our version of the family recipe story.
 
I wrote mine down in preparation and thought I’d share it here today. It’s a fun little nod to my heritage and buys me at least one more week to figure out my next post. HA!
 
So, here is my version of the story behind my family’s gravy recipe (stripped of all trade secrets, of course!).

My family started this cooking team for this cooking competition decades ago. As in pop-up tents, sleeping bags, and no admission fee decades ago.
 
Famiglia e Amici, which means Family & Friends, was chosen as the team name because, for us, food has never been just about feeding people.
 
It’s about gathering with them.
 
Visiting with them.
 
Loving them LOUDLY.
 
For most of our time here, my grandmother, Noni Annie, and her sister, Noni Margaret, served as our team matriarchs. Those two women always made sure the gravy simmered low and slow, everyone had enough to eat, and everyone left feeling loved.
 
Today, my mom, Noni Rita, is the Team Noni, and she’s joining us here today.
 
I tell you all of this because while I may be the hands making this batch of gravy, I didn’t really make it alone.
 
To me, gravy isn’t just sauce.
 
It’s all of the women who came before me.
It’s the Nonis who stood over their stoves for hours.
It’s my mom hollering from the back of the house for somebody to stir the pot.
It’s the stained and tattered recipe cards dated 1932 and passed down from generation to generation.
It’s taste-testing from giant wooden spoons and smells that smack you in the face before you even walk through the front door.
 
And if you’re blessed enough to have a giant, loud family like mine, there will most definitely always be somebody nearby to let you know you need to adjust the seasoning or add more wine.
 
This gravy started long before my time, long before this cooking competition was even a thought.
 
It started in Valdottavo, Italy, and traveled all the way to Memphis, Tennessee, with my immigrant great-Noni Mary, who learned it from her mother.
 
She measured everything with her heart and somehow made the best batch ever — every. single. time.
 
I recently pulled together a collection of family recipes, including this one.
 
No precision required.
 
Just instinct, patience, and somebody standing nearby willing to taste test from that giant wooden stirring spoon.
 
That feels like home.
That feels like Italy.
 
To me, THAT is what this competition is about.
 
It’s family.
It’s tradition.
It’s taking your turn.
It’s accepting the responsibility of helping keep something alive long enough to hand it to the next generation.
It’s gathering people around a kitchen table (or under a tent) and loving them loudly with food.
 
That brings me to this table right here today.
 
I wanted this space to feel as much like Noni’s kitchen table as possible.
 
A place where there is always room for one more.
Where conversations get loud.
Where bread is passed.
And where nobody ever leaves hungry.
 
Because that’s what Famiglia e Amici has always meant to us.
 
Family.
Friends.
Food.
Stories.
Tradition.
 
So admittedly, I’m probably not the best salesman in this room – honestly, that’s my husband.
 
But I can promise you this gravy was cooked slowly, argued over properly, stirred constantly, and made with generations of family history in that pot.
 
And I think you can taste that kind of thing.
 
So from our family kitchen to this table…
 
Buon appetito.

Nickel from the Jar: Someday, if we’re lucky, we realize the traditions we grew up with aren’t ours to keep — they’re ours to carry forward.

Susan