Hai fame? E la domenica. Andiamo a la casa de la Zia o Zio per la cena. (You hungry? It's Sunday. Let's go to our Aunts or Uncles house for dinner).

An Italian Sunday dinner "il pranzo della domenica" is the occasion for family bonding and celebration. There is no need for a special occasion, it happens only on Sunday.

Dinners would rotate households. One Sunday we'd be at Zio Tulio's in Yonkers, N.Y., a second floor apartment which overlooked the Hudson River. Another Sunday would find us in Astoria, Queens, at Zio Oliviero’s house. Here we’d eat outside, shaded from the sun under the trestles of grapes and enjoy his small though effective backyard. Most Sunday gatherings were at Zia Nerina's home in Rego Park, Queens. Why? Because she didn’t drive a car. Her house also happened to be the best to visit. It was located one block from overhead, noisy, rickety train tracks and backed into two vacant lots filled with vacant rusty cars. What more than that could a kid ask for?

Gatherings like this happened about once a month. A couple of weeks of pre-planning were needed in order to get the menu right for this old-world, endless feast of food and wine.

As our Zia’s were busy in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on dinner, us cousins did what cousins do when we got together … wreak havoc. 

“Smettere di saltare a dentro. Andare a giocare fuori, ¨ bello," Zia Nerina would yell. She was telling to us to stop jumping in the house and go play outside where the weather was beautiful.

At this point, we knew better. By staying inside, we’d feel the distasteful stinging affect of those wooden spoons, which never missed their intended target. Outside we went, but not before ripping a piece of Italian bread and dunking it in the sauce.

Later...

"Mangia, mangia! Bambini andare lavarsi le mani. La cena stato pronto," Zia Paulina yelled with her head out the window. (It's time to eat. Kids go wash your hands. Dinner's ready).

No matter the destination, Sunday dinners always began at 2PM, sharp. Why? Because it took over two hours to get through all the courses.

Once we were all seated, adults at their table and the kids at the second table, dinner began. First came the toast. Glasses of homemade wine (which my Dad made, red and white) were held as arms reached for the center of the table. “Cin, Cin," pronounced, 'Cheen, cheen”, a toast for good health. After that, the wine kept pouring as the food seemed endless.

First there was the antipasto which consisted of a variety of Italian cured (salted) meats and accompaniments ; prosciutto, soppresata, salami and capicola, imported provolone, eggplant caponata and hot stuffed peppers. And crusty Italian bread. This was followed with a dish of pasta, with beef braciole, hot sausage and meatballs. And Italian bread to sop up the sauce (not gravy). Hold on, we’re not done yet. Now comes the main entree; typically a roast with carrot, fennel and potatoes, and a side dish of broccoli rabe or cardoon. And of course, Italian bread.

After the women cleared the table (please don’t be mad at me, that’s just how it was), along came the espresso, sambuca, anisette, and an assortment of Italian desserts and cookies to make your mouth water. 

Unfortunately, as the movement of years turned to decades, our families grew older. Aunts and uncles required assistance from their children to help them maintain a suitable life. Those less fortunate, passed away. The cousins also grew older. No longer tagalong children we began to have a life of our own, high school, cars, dating and college. 

Those incredible Sunday dinners were lost. Only a distant memory. Get togethers only happened at weddings, funerals and milestone birthdays or anniversaries.

I often reminisce about those good family times and hearing the Italian language spoken, loudly. How I wish those traditions could have continued… 

Times certainly have changed.