The One Titled: What I Have In Common With An Old Classmate’s Mother

It may be all wrong, but this is how I remember it:

Joanna Pascucci lived in a big, brick Italian ranch house on a little hill across from middle school.  I felt lucky that day to be part of a group of kids who walked home with the “cool girl” Joanna while we all waited for something that must have been going on later back at school.

We walked up the long dirt driveway and in through the garage. I’d always wondered what it looked like in that house on the hill. Did it have marble? Was it gorgeous?

I’ll be honest. I don’t know. All I remember is the kitchen island.  I was expecting a Venetian mansion, not an Italian mother’s suburban Detroit kitchen. It was piled high with brown grocery bags of food. Not just a few bags. But to me, in my 7th grade memory, a dozen at least. Some of the items, bananas, cereal had already made it out of box. There was food on the counters. It was a free-for-all.

I know I marveled out loud at the cornucopia of plenty, because she reminded me of her older brothers and their appetites. I swear she told me her mother gave up on actually putting most of the food in a pantry. It was attacked so quickly by the boys it wasn’t worth the time and energy.

Coming from a family of four I don’t remember our groceries ever topping more than six. Most of the time my mom shopped on her way home after work. A few bags were typical. And they were always unloaded quickly.

For whatever reason that image has stuck in my mind for 30 years. It resurrects itself every time I haul in the bounty full from a trip to ShopRite. With six (and sometimes eight with my boyfriend’s kids) people in my house, I shop Mondays, pick up what I forgot later in the week and then hit Costco every month or so. With probably 15 or so bags coming in, the non-perishables often remain in bags or on the counter for a bit of time. Much of the boxes are immediately ripped open like hungry squirrels after a long winter. It can take days for a box of granola bars to hit a shelf.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining (much). Just find it ironic that my 12-year-old self had no idea that someday her countertop would look just like the Pascucci’s and I would have something in common with her Italian mother, trying without much success,to keep the pantry well-stocked.