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Rockwell's Folly; An essay I had to write for AP English, enjoy.
Topic Started: Jan 11 2010, 12:00 AM (69 Views)
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Though it’s not the first name to come to mind when thinking of food, Norman Rockwell has unintentionally set the bar for “normal” America for decades. His paintings of everyday social scenes have served as testaments to classic American culture and have become part of our history. However, his infamous paintings of the “normal” family dinner has wrongfully provoked the criticism of today’s society, from those who think it has gotten worse from the “good old days”, despite the fact that a situation such as the one portrayed in Rockwell’s painting is a complete and total anachronism. There is no family, at least none that I can recall, that has ever had a family dinner, be it a simple social gathering or holiday get-together, that was exactly the way Rockwell depicted it.
Being partial towards Christmas and Thanksgiving, my fondest memories are most often associated with either of the two holidays. All of them being cut and paste in a sense that very little has or will change until I have a family of my own. Nonetheless, the dinners I had were never “normal” when compared to the classic American image of dinner: A nuclear family, maybe grandma or grandpa, but that was it. There would be no aunts, or uncles, or cousins, or nephews, or nieces, and most definitely not friends of the family. That would be reserved for another time. Not the case with my family. “If you can eat, you can come” is the best way to describe such a system of qualification such as ours.
Being born half Irish and half Italian, my Christmas dinners were about as divided as the blood in my veins. Neither side of the family visits each other, preferring to keep it “in the family” so to speak. My mother’s side and my father’s side, both have their own way of doing things. To keep it simple, and not complicate things any further than they already are, I’ll stick to one side of the family, so help me God that I can describe it to the fullest.
Things had been chaotic last year, things went wrong. Amongst the several problems plaguing my mother’s side of the family, one of the biggest, per say, was the matter of Christmas dinner. Normally taken care of by my loving Aunt Linda, who could take cardboard and make a five course meal out of it, with great flavor too. It took several weeks of planning before receiving word that she would, instead of the usual turkey and ham dinner, be hosting an hors d’oeuvre party instead. Those who could cook would bring in appetizers to reinforce my Aunt’s usual gastronomic goodies. My mom usually supplied an egg salad or something in particular that I despised in a culinary sense. This time, however, we would be bringing crackers, deli meats and deviled eggs. Though I also despised the eggs I couldn’t help myself feel tempted by the meats, an array of Italian salumi, or cured meats. Once prepared, we drove to her house to deliver our savory payload, again the first to arrive…Hell we ALWAYS arrived first.
After about an hour or two and the guests started to arrive, the party finally started. Among these, my numerous aunts and uncles, who I knew very well and had constant contact all year long. Next were of course my grandparents, who had been at the center of one of the recent problems within the family’s inner circle, so I tried to avoid them like the plague, rather than being sucked into it all. They carried in tow my Uncle Phil, who, due to a recent injury (a.k.a. torn ACL), had been staying with them along with my Aunt Chrissie, with whom I shared many a stirring conversation with being a fellow “foodie” and avid watcher of both the Food Network and Travel Channel. Phil himself was a comedian, remarking on everything that caught his interest, most notably the two twin sons of a family friend, dubbed ever so lovingly as the “Children of the Corn”. As I spoke with them, my younger brother, Tyler, did battle with his arch-nemesis: Uncle Jimmy. A usually quiet man who would often poke and prod at my brother with friendly insults in the form of jokes ranging from his sexual orientation to his lack of intelligence, not that Tyler ever denied the lack of intelligence. This would often end in a quick, playful fight before returning to their respective activities. Along with Jimmy was my Aunt Monica, who everyone was both happy and regretful in seeing, due to her voice pumping out the same number of decibels as a space shuttle taking off. Every member of the family had some imperfection that I could point out, but it’s best to save that for another time.
As the food came out, I finally found myself in my comfort zone. Aside from what my immediate family had brought, there was bread squares, slathered with butter and decorated with cheese and shallots sautéed in white whine and then broiled to a nice golden brown. The acidity of the wine, the spice of the onion, the richness of the cheese and the crunch of the bread all mixed with one bite that tempted you to eat until you had no room left, robbing the remaining guests of their share of these wonderful creations, but you wouldn’t have cared. I would have to move on to the next item: mini meatballs cooked in tomato sauce. A simple creation, but delicious yet, placed on Italian bread with a slice of provolone cheese, all smooth and soft in texture that it melts in your mouth. Again, I couldn’t stay for long, moving on to an odd creation. It was pizza bread, topped with a cream cheese and ranch mixture, and several vegetables that I can’t even remember. The first bite was awash in the cool, crisp taste and texture of the veggies, accented by the heavy, creamy and herb laden ranch and cream cheese. The bread itself was soft, and in combination with the remaining parts, was utterly irresistible to “mortal men”. Those were my meal, the foods that I downed with a tall glass of coca-cola by my side. With dessert came an array of cheese cake and pies, which I devoured without a second thought as to the flavor or texture. And from there, it was drinks only.
Before the night was over, the whole family suddenly gathered in the main room. I had a feeling it was coming from the start, the big moment of my cousin Earl, son of Aunt Linda. There, in front of everyone, with his girlfriend close, he got down on one knee and said the magic words: “Will you marry me?”. The moment of silence in between was intense…but happy in a way. Through tears of joy, and with a crowd of rowdy, possibly drunken Italians around her, she replied “Yes”. After several more hours of conversation and sodas, my family and I left. Though it hadn’t been my favorite Christmas, it was still a good one, and that was all that mattered.
I guess, to summarize, I don’t want my family dinners to be like a Rockwell painting. Deep down inside, I believe that being “normal” isn’t fun, or is possible. After all, what is normal? Is it tangible? Is it a state of mind? Whatever it may be, I know for sure that it isn’t some painting from the 20th century, and it never will be.
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