My grandfather was an Italian immigrant, so we were raised with an appreciation for his native culture and cuisine. My fondest memories of childhood are those long, lingering Sunday meals. Macaroni (as pasta was called in those days) with a thick sauce my mother began cooking the previous morning, meatballs, sausage, a chicken, roasted peppers, salad... you get the idea.
A few years ago, my wife and I made the decision to move closer to my parents here in Florida. We liked the idea of having them in our boy's lives. I was excited that my kids would grow up with the same traditions that I had.
But somewhere along the line, something went wrong. These days, rather than coffee, Sunday dinner at my mom's is topped off with a mad dash to my toilet and a dead-on impersonation of Jeff Daniels in Dumb and Dumber. I don't know how to describe it other than "cascading shit": Mom's food has become this retro-alien from Star Trek that turns everything to liquid shit on contact.
It's not just me, either. My brother and my wife have suffered, too. After much investigation, I've found the problem: my mom has developed this habit of cooking hours ahead and letting the food sit until we eat it. At home, I do the cooking, and of course I allow meats to rest for ten minutes to let the juices redistribute. But we're talking ten minutes -- not an hour-and-a-half, folks. You take a chicken out of the oven and you eat it. You don't let it sit while you watch a fucking TV mini-series.
The hardest part is explaining to your mom that her food is slowly killing you. I tried to be gentle, but that got me nowhere. An empty stare, a nod. She didn't get it. I have decided to keep the peace: as much as possible now, Sunday dinners are held at my place. When I break the news to my wife that "mom has invited us" she rolls her eyes and begs me to tell her it's not featuring a meat product or anything that will host an e-coli convention. I try my best to reassure her: "I hope not, honey... I hope not."