Memorable (and Hated) Sounds

Growing up, there were certain sounds and noises that I couldn't stand. Actually, some of these hatreds have stuck with me until this day, such as the sound of a vacuum cleaner. I absolutely cannot stand that noise and oddly enough, neither can my sister's dog, Stanley. Since as far as I can remember, whenever I was visiting her and she turned on the vacuum, Stanley and I (after barking at and attacking the vacuum cleaner) would escape to the basement or outside, depending on the season. Oddly, we share the same birthday. Anyone one else out there born on April 16 have a hatred of vacuum noise? OK, that's probably just a coincidence, I'll concede that.

Over the past few years, since I flew the coup known as Casa DiPonio for the first time, I've been cooking for myself. As a proud Canadian of Italian heritage, pasta is a staple in my diet. And any good Italian worth his/her salt will not eat store bought sauce, but craft their own unique sauce bred out of tradition (nonna's and mom's) and available ingredients (whatever I can find on my shelf of the cupboard). I can actually remember the first time I made my first batch of sauce.

I was in Amiens, France trying out for a volleyball team. I was staying with a member of the team at the time and thought it would be a good idea to make pasta. The problem was I didn't know how as I had not made fresh sauce ever before. Being a good Italian son, I ate what mamma (or nonna) put in front of me in a spoiled stupor. Yes, I was 26 and making sauce for the first time. I rang my mother to find out exactly how to replicate her fresh pasta sauce. No answer. My phone was running out of pay-as-you-go credit; I had maybe one call left. I chose to call nonna. She was shocked to hear from me and went on and on (in her broken Italian/English) about how nice it was of me to call and was asking question after question - as my credit slowly dwindled. I finally asked her how to make sauce and she explained. We said our goodbyes and I got to work. It was delicious.

Over the years my sauce has evolved. In that time I've used various ways to crush garlic. Lately, I've begun to employ a technique used by my mother that produces, to my ears, a horrifying noise. It is in fact the best way to crush garlic that I've ever used. Mom was right. After peeling the garlic, she'll place the clove between wax paper and crush it by hammering it with the handle of a large knife.

Thinking of the evolution of my garlic crushing technique brought me back to the noises, smells and sights of my childhood. It also showed me the circular patterns in life. We all develop and change and grow. There's a saying that we become our parents. And while that's not necesarily true, we can't help but to inherit certain personality traits from each of them and those that surrounded us as we grew up. I couldn't think of two better people to inherit these traits from.

Thanks mom and dad. And sorry for all that complaining I did growing up. Just the other day I was husking corn and was immediately transported back to summertime at the family cottage. Mom asked me to husk corn. I didn't want to stop whatever all important game or book I was absorbed in. So I complained and then relucantly went about completing the chore. Back then all I saw was me. The book I was reading. The game I was playing. Now I see my mom's point of view. And I wish I didn't complain. But that's what makes humans so unique; contemplation, the ability to think, evaluate and change. To become better. That's all we can do, try to become better in every way each and every day. We look back to go forward. For some reason I find myself looking back more and more lately. Maybe it's the distance from home. Maybe it's the missing of friends and family. Maybe it's the proximity of the number 30.

Or maybe I'm just trying to go forward.