“What’s for dinner?” my brother, Jessie, asked with a huge smile spread across his face as soon as he stepped through the door.
“Spaghetti,” Mom shouted back from her stance at the oven, stirring the noodles.

Generations upon generations have created rituals that my family continues to walk behind every single day. One of the most important rituals in my family would have to be our excessive family dinners two to three nights each week. I swear our table isn’t nearly as large as it needs to be once everyone in the family pulls up a chair.

My heritage is something that I take notice to every single day, mainly with the things I eat. My family is built on togetherness and bonds- formed through the food. Food brings us closer because for that hour or two surrounding the dinner table, we are real. We open up to each other and talk with everyone there, making sure not to leave anyone out or anything left unsaid. Each plate of food is another weave formed by our family loom.
It was a huge surprise to me when my friend’s families didn’t hold the same qualities that my family has. For example, the first time I stayed the night at a friends house and they didn’t eat a home cooked meal at the dining table like I had done my entire life. Also, the first time I called my sister “sorella” (sister) in front of my friends and they thought that was her given name. These few things as well as many others were a small barrier between the life that I had growing up and the lives my friends had, although I wouldn’t trade my upbringing for anything.

My mom sat the stirring spoon down just long enough to engulf my nieces in hugs and smother them with grandma kisses before stepping back to the large pot and stirring slowly again. I helped her as I do most nights, learning tricks over the years, and we got the food to the dining table in half the time. 

We sat around the table, practically elbow to elbow. The table surrounded by my grandfather, uncles and aunts, parents, five siblings and their individual families. I somehow managed to slide my chair up next to my mom, both of us trying our best to hide the fact that we had used canned sauce rather than homemade to speed up the process. I twirled noodles around my fork, hoping they wouldn’t notice. I waited as we all took bites, knowing that someone would have to notice it after so many years of homemade everything.

“What did you do to the sauce?” my brother, Zachary, asked as he swallowed loud enough to hear.
“What do you mean?” Mom asked back, still trying to cover it up.
“It tastes different,” another chimed in, immediately noticing the change in ingredients.
“We had to use canned sauce instead so that we could feed ya’ll faster,” I answered, I knew there was no more playing it off if so many of them noticed that quickly.
“It’s still good, but I would have been willing to wait,” Zach chuckled before he took another bite.
Dad chirped in to try to make Mom feel better, “We still love you, Momma.”

Being the child of traditional parents has helped shape me into the person I am today. One of the most important things I have learned in my 17 years is that family is the only thing that you will have throughout your whole life. At the end of the day, you could be in a terrible situation, but you still have your family by your side. The only people that will be there to pick you back up are the people that truly love you and the people that you love with all your heart. I can’t even think of the type of person I would have become without the influence of my family.
As the dinner died down, we all said our goodbyes and small groups started leaving until only my mom and I stood alone in the kitchen.

“If it makes you feel any better, your sauce is so much better,” I said and hugged her tight.