Going Home

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

The aroma of food cooking or the lingering odor of particular notes from garlic, olive oil, meat - braised or grilled - or maybe tomato sauce, greeted you as you entered the foyer of my  parents’ home.

Step into the hallway and as you glance into the living room, you see the familiar pieces of worn furniture: a comfy old sofa, two wooden side tables topped with marble and upon each a brass lamp, a beige wool area rug highly praised by my Mom, and a Queen Anne style chair upholstered in red faux leather with brass studs outlining the edge...the star of the room.  Flower pots sit on the window ledge unobstructed by the drapes and sheers to the sides.

Go along the hall to the kitchen with its scrubbed and shiny waxed linoleum floor. There is a sturdy wooden table and chairs that fill most of the room leaving little space around the sink, stove and refrigerator. Counter-top area is also scarce, but here is where, in confined quarters, wondrous food of gourmet quality is prepared by my father and mother and served with love and pride - the heritage of their native Italy.

The kitchen is where the family broke bread, shared stories, drank wine and welcomed any and all. Relatives, friends, neighbors and strangers; acceptance of everyone was paramount and the 

generosity of meager means always forthcoming.  My mother would say, ”Antonio, we always have bread and cheese to feed people. Don’t get so upset about a few more at the table.” The love shown here was related and retold by all, with remarks of “Remember when...”, “That meal was so delicious”, “Your parents are very warm and welcoming as is your home”.  

Our house is gone now, my parents deceased; yet going home, even in memory, brings a wonderful feeling of love and warmth to my soul.