I have to smile inside every time I think about Family Week. It makes me smile to think of how I would explain this to my grandmother. She would look surprised and, in all honesty, probably confused too. I chuckle because my grandmother would not understand why there is a family week. Both of my grandparents on my dad’s side emigrated from Italy with their families. Each of my grandparents had nine brothers and sisters; their life was family.
Every Saturday, my grandmother and her sisters would get together in her basement and cook for the upcoming week. (Yep, she had two kitchens. The one she really cooked in and the one upstairs that she simply reheated and served from.) They met on Saturdays because they were all working girls; my grandmother was a seamstress. But that didn’t stop them from the serious Italian business of serving fresh pasta, sauce, bread, pizzelles, cannolis, and every Italian delicacy you can think of each night of the week. They would cook all day Saturday and on Sunday they would start the week with a big, extended family dinner. Adults and kids alike were comforted and filled with deliciousness, and we talked and we laughed and we teased (always lots of Italian teasing.)
Family week was every week.
