Breaking Bread, And Tradition

You see this pasta bowl? It’s a symbol of my family’s durability and commitment to celebrating each day as if it’s our last.

This thought dawned on me last night as I was preparing dinner. It was pasta night at our house—at my daughter’s request. I know, right, pasta on Taco Tuesday?! But she’d been asking me to make what she oh so lovingly dubbed “Mom’s Famous Meatballs & Sauce” since last week and I finally obliged. How could I not after her ringing endorsement?! When it was time to plate the rigatoni, I walked into my dining room and pulled this colorful serving dish out of my china cabinet, where it has taken up residence since I bought it several years ago, ashamedly underutilized.

Until quarantine, that is.

It was a few weeks into lockdown when my family quietly and slowly began establishing special rituals—a traditional Italian Sunday dinner around the kitchen table, family movie night every Sunday evening, long drives on weekend mornings, prayer sessions every night before bed—which I see now were our unconscious ways of controlling some aspects of our life during a tumultuous, uncertain time.

On one of these Sundays, I found myself staring at the china cabinet and wondering why we let these beautiful pieces—some from my mother-in-law, some from our wedding registry, some from my childhood—go to waste. What the heck were we saving them for, the proverbial “special occasion?” We humans are notorious for this, putting things off for when times are good, happy, celebratory, sensational! And for what? What about today? Isn’t it extraordinarily enough that we are alive, healthy, and tucked away safe and sound with our families? If this pandemic and the racial and political unrest in this country have taught us anything, it’s that tomorrow is NOT guaranteed. It never was and it never will be. I don’t know about you, but that sure makes me want to commemorate every moment—big or small, trivial or meaningful, joyous or sorrowful.

From that day forward, we’ve broken bread (literally and figuratively since my husband has become a bread baker extraordinaire) over this lovely pasta bowl many a Sunday afternoon, and a few weeknights, too (if you look closely, you’ll see it even has a pretty decent crack on the left-hand side, indicative of its use). And every time my heart fills with comfort, peace, and gratitude. This is one of those mementos I envision passing down to my daughter when she grows up and starts making Sunday dinners for her own family—a tradition I hope both of my children carry on one day.

It’s not just this particular dish, either. A few times over these long months I’ve also pulled out some of our fine crystal for a lovely glass of red. In fact, that’s what my husband and I used during our “intimate evening” with Josh G., when he hosted his first-ever live-stream concert. We sat there watching and listening (and, in my case, crying) over a bottle of Cabernet, sharp provolone, and kalamata olives and let me tell you, it doesn’t get any more special than that.

I don’t know when or how the world will resolve these debilitating, depressing crises. I pray with all my heart and soul that it happens soon, but until then, my family is going to live and love and stop putting off all the important—and the not-so-important—things we can and should do today. And that means serving up the simplest of meals in the grandest of china.