For My Daughter’s Sixth Grade Heritage Project

So you’re squeezing out the Irish,
the Italian shouldering in
and carrying the day, as mostly,
it did mine,
though I am half and half and not
three quarters as you are.
It wasn’t
that the Irish side was less
a source of child’s pride –
the name, the ruddy skin,
the crooked grins, the blarney –
but they were insubstantial,
had no staying power – those
Eileens and Kathleens. They were
sepia toned, hazy,
even when they, and I, were young; I’d peer
into their gatherings as if from a harbor wharf
while they cast off, coasted, faded,
no berth on board for me.
Even my handsome Dad,
whose family this was,
seemed bleary-eyed and dated,
hopelessly at sea.

The Italians were weighted
with Grandma and Papa,
and long tables set end to end for miles
across the familiar cousin-rich country
of the North Bronx apartment living room,
a piece of bread dipped in the simmering sauce,
a glint of red wine in the small stemmed glass,
the women heading table-ward with white cloths,
white plates, to the tune of Grandma’s signal call:
“Pat – Pasquale –
should I throw the macs?
How much should I throw?”
All poised after that,
settling into our accustomed seats,
awaiting Grandma’s entrance
with the giant bowl of tortiglioni
which she’d ladle into bowls passed
uncle to cousin to aunt, then
hand to hand, the grated Parmigiano,
the hunks of bread,
the dishes of braciole, meatballs, salsiccia,
the gravy boats of extra sauce, melding
into the next course – some sort of roast
with vegetables – asparagus or beans –
tomatoes if in season, sliced,
in olive oil and basil,
a curly mess of tousled salad greens.
The artichokes, which Papa stuffed himself,
just like he did the mushrooms,
were carried in on platters like dessert,
snipped leaves crisped with garlic, salt, and oil,
trimmed stems steamed inside the chokes,
a surprise green olive inside a random few,
which I remember somehow always finding.
And through the ebbing afternoon,
the grownups’ voices dimming
as the streetlamps wavered on,
the white cloths strewn with walnut shells,
tangerine skins, spills of sauce and wine,
the taste for plenty fused
with being sated,
not with food alone
but food suffused with time.