Sunday Sauce & Grandma’s House

Now that the kids are grown and some have flown the nest, we rarely all get together for a family dinner. On Sundays, I usually make a big dinner in hopes that all will come and eat. On those rare occasions, we reminisce, we laugh, and occasionally deal with a little drama, but it makes my heart so happy to have everyone under one roof.

This morning while I was preparing my Sunday sauce, I had a sudden flashback to my grandmother. I could picture her standing at her green stove, stirring the sauce in her dented little stockpot. I always wondered how that dent got there. I started to have different flashes of memories of her and my weekend sleep-overs.

Back then, I loved being with her no matter what we were doing. Whenever our family visited, I’d pretend to be asleep on the couch, listening to the grown-ups talk. My grandparents would inevitably say, “Just let her spend the night, she’s fast asleep,” while I did my absolute best not to crack a smile. It worked almost every time. As soon as I heard my parents’ car drive off, I’d pop right up and ask, “Did my parents leave?” 

Friday nights were the absolute best! My grandmother would usually make breaded steak and “eggies”. I’m not sure if that is the official name, but that is what she called them. She explained to me that it was something easy and cheap to make during the Depression era. She would take the leftover eggs and pour them into the bowl with the bread crumbs. She would mix them together, make little patties and fry them in the grease from the meat. Served with a splash of  A.1. sauce, they were incredible.

I have to laugh because the first time I made “eggies” for my kids, they ate them right up! I told them this was a secret recipe from my grandmother. To this day they still do not realize it’s just eggs and breadcrumbs.

When grandma wanted to change things up, she would make steak, onions, and potatoes simmered in tomato sauce. My aunt and I would practically race to the table, to fight over the super crispy edge potatoes. Grandma would also cook extra ears of corn for me as a late-night treat after our Friday night Bingo. She knew how much I loved corn on the cob!

Before heading out, we would pack our bingo bags with daubers, pennies, bingo chips, and her vast array of talismans-trolls, elephant figurines, and trinkets. During the bingo games, especially the jackpots rounds, she would touch them for good luck and brush her trolls’ bright hair all over her cards. On rare occasions, when I was waiting for a number, she would pass one of her trolls for me to brush all over my cards. Sometimes it worked, but mostly it didn't. We would usually get a knish drenched with mustard from the concession stand and just enjoy the thrill of waiting for that one number. 

When we arrived back home, my cold corn on the cob was waiting for me on the green stove, with the light from the range hood shining on it. I’d grab it, douse butter all over it and eat it right then and there, nothing beats the taste of cold sweet corn covered in thick globs of butter and a generous sprinkle of salt. It was the perfect, simple end to our Friday nights. 

Saturday errands were usually quick trips to the grocery store, the pharmacy, and a shop to buy her cigarettes. On one of those cigarette runs, she parked right outside the smoke shop, handed me a few bills, and asked me to run inside for her pack of More, these long brown cigarettes. Looking back, buying cigarettes at ten or eleven felt a little weird, but she was my grandmother, if she asked me to do it, I did it. 

I popped the car door open, one foot on the asphalt and the other still on the floorboard, just as  a man was approaching her side of the car. He looked in the window and as my grandmother was about to roll the window down, she yanked that giant gear stick on the steering wheel right into drive and slammed on the gas pedal with my leg dangling out the door. I quickly got my leg back in the car and tried to shut the door, oblivious to what just happened.  She told me that the man was trying to open her door. She was shaken up, and looking back, I don’t think she ever actually got those cigarettes. On the bright side, we both made it home in one piece with all four tires and both of my legs safely inside the car.

Sunday mornings always officially started when my great-grandfather got ready for his weekly errand. My maternal great-grandfather lived with my grandparents toward the end of his life, I just absolutely adored him. He’d hand me a dollar bill and say, “This is for babysitting me.” I wasn’t really babysitting, of course, but it was his sweet way of giving me an allowance. Every single day, he wore a crisp, starched white collared shirt with slacks. As a child, I didn't understand why he dressed so formally just to stay around the house. As I grew older, I came to understand why. It was a matter of dignity and pride for his generation, a daily routine that kept him feeling grounded and sharp. 

He’d step into his “pink” Dodge Dart, which he had actually bought red before the sun faded it, wearing his usual “fancy” clothes, topped off with his fedora hat for the drive. He’d head down the road to pick up fresh bagels while my grandmother started breakfast. I’d help her in the kitchen, cooking some sort of eggs, usually runny, 3 minute eggs, that I didn’t really care for. As a young child, it wasn’t very appetizing. I was just waiting for my great-grandfather to come back with the large brown bag filled with bagels. We would all sit and eat and just talk about random things. When we were finished, I would help my grandmother with the dishes and she would set her little dented stockpot on the green stove to start her Sunday sauce. 

Looking back, those quiet Sunday afternoons and eventful weekend errands are memories that I cherish and hold dear to my heart. The “pink” Dodge Dart is long gone and the little dented stockpot is just a memory, but the comfort of those days, stays with me. Every time I set my Sunday sauce pot on the stove, I’m right back there in her kitchen, and all the precious time I got to spend at grandma’s house. If life brings me grandchildren one day, I hope to create those same unforgettable memories for my own grandchildren.

-Jackie