The Smell of Garlic and Sound of Guitar

My home was most inviting when filled with the sound of acoustic guitar and the smell of garlic lofting through the air. Everyone tended to gravitate to the kitchen in the evening. My dear friend Rob would sit on a stool and teach my son Alex something new on the guitar, while my little girl Amybeth would dance around in one of her tutu’s, and I would stir the pot of gravy. I love calling spaghetti sauce gravy. My ex-husband's little Italian spitfire of a grandmother called it gravy so when she taught me to make it “gravy” was like a special code word passed on with a secret recipe. Her secret ingredient was a completely unexpected addition.. After all the meticulously prepared raw fresh ingredients she added a can of original Rotel.

The memory of Rob teaching my son to play slide on his guitar with a bottle of beer (or coke in my sons' case) is forever etched into my brain. I sat and chopped the raw ingredients of oregano, basil, roman tomatoes, mushrooms, and baby spinach while Rob moved to one of the dining chairs and place his guitar face up on his lap. Rob finished off his beer and Alex guzzled down his coke imitating him as precisely as he could. I heated the extra virgin olive oil in a shallow pan to medium and tossed in my fresh vegies then pealed and pressed a few pieces of a garlic bulb. The minute the garlic hit the pan its smell began to fill my home. I added a pinch of sea salt while making sure each ingredient was lightly sautéed then removed the pan from the heat. I then added the sautéed goodies to the stock pot along with two cans of tomato sauce and one can of Rotel. I turned the heat on medium low and used my shallow pan to brown the ground beef with another piece of pressed garlic. Once the beef was ready, I added it to the stock pot and turned up the heat just a tad so the flavors could stew while I boiled the noodles.

Little Amybeth loved to step up on her stool and stir the gravy once it was all together there. Rob was caught up in the music and played a little improvisational blues while Alex looked on in amazement. I remember the feeling of appreciation and pure happiness. I genuinely enjoyed the moment of live music in the kitchen and the smell of garlic lofting through the air. This was home for me, and not just a property I owned but home, and it felt so good. Dinner was about done, and it was Alexs’ time to give this new trick a shot. I prepped a loaf of sourdough bread for the oven by adding a generous amount of butter, sprinkle of shredded mozzarella cheese, and topped it all off with garlic-salt, then placed it in the oven at 350 degrease until the cheese was melted.

Alex worked and worked on getting the slide down, each try he got closer and closer. Once the noodles were cooked, I drained them and mixed them in the stock pot with the gravy. I went on to clean up my mess, and Amybeth danced around while setting the table. Like magic just after the table was set and the food was ready to serve Alex gets it; he had such a big smile on his face when he finally got it right, and Amybeth squealed as she jumped up and down. Rob proudly nodded his head in approval and joined in for an evening kitchen jam. They began to look as if they were struggling with the ultimate choice between the food and the fun. That smell of garlic eventually took over and hunger won. After dinner I had to nag a little to get them to do the rest of the dishes. That was a rule in our house. Whoever cooks cleans whatever pots and pans can be washed before eating, and the others handle putting away any leftovers and doing the after-dinner dishes.

Thinking about this beautiful memory now makes me feel the heavy burden of all that has been lost in a year's time. My dear friend Rob, that once meant home to me, passed away suddenly last year one month before my left leg was amputated, and I lost my house while I was in the hospital. I’ll have another house one day, and I'm learning to use a prosthetic leg now, but Rob is gone forever, may he rest in peace. I long for the day that the sound of music and the smell of garlic lofts through a home of my own while my adorable 3 year old grandson Jude dances around the kitchen to the sound of his daddy Alex playing guitar, or as Jude says “Tittar Daddy, more Tittar”. It is clear now that for me a house is not a home until it is blessed with the sound of music and smell of tasty food cooking in the kitchen.