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I hop out of the car, smell the freshness of the
morning dew on the grass, joyfully bounce up the stairs with
a light foot and greet my grandmother with a soft kiss on her
delicate, baby-like cheek. I can feel some of the wrinkles that
have formed over the years on her face, but they only add to
her tenderness. I squeeze her gently as if holding a porcelain
doll, and the faint scent of a not-so-designer fragrance fills my
nose. If I had to name it, it would be called “Grandma Edey.”
Nevertheless, a hug from her warms me like hot cocoa on a
chilly winter afternoon.
As I move inside, the particular smell of her house
invades my nose. The only word that comes to mind to
describe this smell and this place is “home.” This smell creates
a sense of comfort in me, and I always feel safe when that
smell is near. It is not in any piece of furniture, and it is not
caused by a pet, or by a bottle of Mr. Clean, or by a faulty
plumbing system. You can not call it a “bad” smell or a “good”
smell—it just lives in the air and creates a feeling of belonging
for anyone who enters.
As the sound of a distant police car for she did not live
in the safest neighborhood rolls by and eventually is drowned
out by the hoops and hollers of the children playing in the
street, there comes a faint odor that teases my seven-year-old
nose. It slowly travels from around the corner in the kitchen.
Gradually, it becomes stronger and stronger, and then there is
no mistaking it. I know that smell and know it well. It seems
like ages until lunchtime. I am so anxious that my body tenses
up, and all of my muscles, tendons and nerves feel like they
are going to push my bones and skin aside and leap out of
my body to grab the creamy, mouth-watering meal prepared
especially for me.
Finally, after what seems like ages, I hear
the tender voice of my grandmother say with a slight Italian
accent, “Melissa, go get cleaned up for lunch.” I can tell her
voice apart from anyone’s because of the Italian in it. She
sometimes adds extra vowels to her words, especially a’s and
o’s. Both sound totally natural and smooth. I can hear the
roundness of them in her words, and they make the words
become dynamic characters, each with a personality of its
own. It is beautiful. My legs hurt from sprinting up the stairs
so fast to reach the bathroom. When I come downstairs, the
meal pulls me to the porch where it awaits me. I sit my frail
body down, and my tiny butt is swallowed up by the oversized
chair. But that is the least of my concerns. The source of my
joy and my expectations is now within arm’s length of me.
I can feel the steam rising from the plate, circling my head,
tempting me to devour every bit of the meal. A rush of saliva
dampens my mouth as my moist, expectant tongue licks my
dry, anxious lips.
I anxiously pick up my fork and sink it deep into the
first piece. The hard metal fork slips easily into the soft shell
and creamy filling. I feel the weight of the first piece on my
fork, and it tries to slide back down to the plate, so I tilt the
fork quickly and move it closer to my mouth. Even before it
reaches my mouth, I can taste it. Closer and closer it creeps
until finally its slightly moist surface touches my tongue. I hear
nothing around me. Everything surrounding me is blocked out
except for the warmness of the steam touching my lips and the
thick odor coming from the homemade sauce. My teeth softly
push their way into the ravioli and squish the mozzarella out of its
shell and into my mouth. Its creamy, slightly salty taste blends
perfectly with the tomato chunks of the sauce that coat each morsel
of the shell. The ravioli travels easily down my throat, and I can feel
it fill a small corner of my stomach.
The rest of them follow, one by
one—poke, lift, squish, glide.
Sometimes, I get the extra bonus of a
tomato chunk in the sauce,
which adds texture and character to the
ravioli. Occasionally I wash out
the remnants of shells or mozzarella
in my mouth with a sour, tangy
glass of lemonade. Its acidity cleans
out my mouth and prepares it for
the richness of the next ravioli. With
each bite, my stomach becomes
fuller and fuller, but I cannot stop until each piece is eaten. That would
be against my religion. My belly eventually pushes against my skin, my
pants tighten, and I sense around me the sounds of the TV blaring, a
siren warning, and the children still screaming outside. I feel my
grandmother hunched over my back, the warmth of her face moving
towards mine, and her soft lips gently pressing against my grateful cheek.
Yes, I am full, yes, my stomach feels larger than normal, yes, I feel like
“The Blob,” and yes, I do not think I can eat for the next week, but it is all
worth it. So I run outside with the other screaming children, but after a
while that anxious feeling starts to develop in my stomach.
Is that ricotta pie I smell?
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