with three generations of Russo women, I need that reminder of why I’m doing this.
“For the love of Susan Lucci, I’m telling you for your own good . . . Sofia, you put too much salt in with the tomatoes!” Nana says in an argument with her sister that can be traced all the way back to . . . well, before I was born, that’s for sure.
“Don’t you dare invoke the great Susan Lucci on me! Bah! You know nothing about how to make the sauce,” my great aunt, Sofia, shoots back as she points a red-tipped, arthritic hand toward Nana. She glares as she tosses another sprinkle of salt into the bubbling pot of tomato sauce on the stove. “It’s why your marinara is as bland as boiled potatoes!”
Oh, hell, it’s on now. You can call Nana a lot of things, but if you criticize her housekeeping or her cooking, you’re in for it.
“Did she invoke Susan Lucci?” Mom whispers, her brows clenched together. “Never thought about it, but I think I prefer Sophia Loren.” She smiles like I’m in on a secret joke between the two of us and bumps my shoulder. “I think we should just hang back and roll out the pasta,” Mom says under her breath as her mother and aunt go at it, forgetting their English to start with spicy, liquid Italian. I’m quite certain that it’s one advantage of the Latin languages over English. You can argue and curse at someone a whole lot faster and with a lot more imagination.
“Mom, about tonight’s dinner.” I try to sidestep my way in to telling her about Colin and Ross as we start rolling out the dough and slicing the fresh pasta sheets into the right shape for Nana’s big cast iron pan, but before I can, Mom looks up and sighs dramatically.
“Mama! Sofia! Come on, now, this is supposed to be a night of amore, not war! Violet’s bringing her man for dinner, not WrestleMania!”
Sofia, who lived in New York’s Little Italy until her husband Giuseppe died a decade ago, turns to us with a dreamy sparkle in her eyes. “WrestleMania? Child, you know nothing of wrestling. Giuseppe used to take me on dates to the Garden where we’d watch a real wrestler, Bruno Sammartino! Now if Bruno had asked me out . . . well, you’d have had a different uncle, that’s for sure.” She winks, or at least I think that’s what she’s trying to do, but both eyes close at the same time, so it’s more of a saucy blink. “God bless my Giuseppe’s soul,” she finishes as if she didn’t just say she would’ve picked another man over her beloved husband of forty years.
“About that—” I start, but Nana and Sofia are back at each other in Italian, half arguing, half reminiscing. I catch some of it, honestly. While I’ve tried to keep up with my Italian, I’m nowhere near fluent.
I sigh, glancing at Mom, who’s got stars dancing in her eyes. “The dress. Did you find the dress?”
My face falls. “Mom . . .”
She bumps my shoulder again, smiling broadly. “Oh, don’t you worry, baby girl. You’ll find it. And no more apologies about going with your friends. I completely understand that if you invited me, those two would want to tag along.” She tilts her head toward Nana and Aunt Sofia. “And then Colin’s mom would want to go. It’s a domino effect and we’re a lot to handle. It’s right that you go with your friends, and I know you’ll look beautiful in whatever you choose. I got my dress! Did I tell you?”
She rambles on about the mauve pleated gown she chose, not letting me get a word in edgewise, though I try several times.
Somewhere after the third time I try to interject, Mom tsks. “But Violet, we must send the invitations out immediately. At this point, they’re nothing more than a formality since everyone already knows the day and time, but it is still the proper thing to do.”
“Mom, about that . . .”
“Violet, finish browning the sausage, will you?” Nana says to me, pointing to a skillet on the stove. “And Maria, lay out the first layer of pasta and cheese while we get this sauce right. I need to fix what this nincompoop has done.”
“Nincompoop? I’ll show you a nincompoop!” Aunt Sofia shoots back, which is almost funny coming from a gray-haired woman who goes to Mass three times a week. Especially