Butchblog

Frankie’s House

Every chance I got, I would invite myself over to my high-school friend Frankie Calabretti’s house. I didn’t really need to ask. Frankie’s house was always open to his friends. Even more importantly, Frankie’s mom would always feed us. She was a hefty, dark-haired woman with a big voice and bigger smile – and, she was a great cook. Seemed like there was always food coming out of her kitchen, pasta and sausages, and big slabs of tomatoey pizza. All of us couldn’t get enough of Mama’s food, perched around a big dining room table, alongside Frankie’s dad who never said much, but looked pleased, and the rest of the Calabretti clan. I enjoyed all those happy people laughing and eating, drinking wine (not the kids), even more than the food itself.
That’s not the way meals were served in my family. Mom was not a great cook; I think she thought cooking was beneath her. She had more important things to do. So meals were plain, unseasoned, meant to fill your belly and nothing else. Liver-and-onions was my least favorite dish, followed by boiled chicken and string beans from a can. Oh yeah, and talking during dinner was frowned upon. Some days, after I gobbled my tasteless dinner and asked to be excused, I’d run straight to Frankie’s house.