Every year, just about the time when the steam rises in anxious exhaustion from the wet pavement, my family and I pile into my mother's mini-van, blast the air-conditioning, and take the short drive to my grandparents' house, that I liked to call, “Mema's house.” Their home harbors so many memories from my childhood that it is sometimes hard to speak of them. 

            My grandparents had the most enormous backyard, with a red barn, grey furry kittens, baby chicks, red-eyed rabbits, and every type of flower imaginable lining the house. When I was a child, I thought that Mema should have held an annual carnival in her backyard, complete with her heart-shaped raspberry macaroons, white-coated crumb cake, and her overly-frosted butter cookies that tasted of sweet apricots. We'd make a fortune.

            I imagined Mema standing behind the food booth, waiting by the oven, with one hand on her hip and a fork in the other, watching the pizza frita sizzle on the burner. I can think of no other woman who makes better pizza frita than Mema Sillo, simply because it tastes of her. She always served it on paper plates with a coat of spicy red sauce and grated parmesan cheese sprinkled on top. Having this carnival, I presumed, could raise enough money for a swimming pool that I begged my grandparents to put in their backyard. Of course, the pool was never put in, but I still hoped for it.

            However, the thought was put to rest as I peered into the empty backyard. The double-door garage was open and I saw Mema stirring the tomatoes with one of the largest wooden spoons I have ever seen. As I stepped out of the car, I wished for a cool breeze, but Mother Nature did not send me one ounce of relief from this horrible storm of heat.

            I greeted Poppi with a smile and kissed him on his rosy cheek. His hair was plastered to his tan forehead and he wore an old white undershirt speckled with dirt and tomato juice.  Poppi was the type of man who always had tears in his almond-shape eyes and I always wondered why; just as I wondered why he chose to wear long pants within the sticky months of the summer. He looked as though he wanted to sit down for lunch when it was only ten-thirty in the morning.

            When I approached Mema she was surrounded by a cloud of steam and it was so hot that I wanted to run away. But, when she put her hand on my shoulder, I felt at ease. I smiled as I peeked into the bubbling pot of tomatoes that simmered on a tiny burner. Even amidst the humidity, Mema always wore that same contagious smile. If I forget all things in life, I know I will never forget the way her lips curled into a smile that made her eyes dance.

            At the far end of the garage, I saw what looked like a small field of tomatoes scattered on top of old blankets and jackets. Now, I thought, my mother will never have an excuse for not making dinner. I waved to Aunt Johanna and Uncle Ricky, who stood next to mountains of Tupperware exploding with chopped tomatoes.

            I watched as Uncle Ricky and Poppi carried the tomatoes into the backyard and rinsed them twice with the garden hose. After they were washed and dried, Uncle Ricky dumped them into the round plastic salad bowls that surrounded us. While we were slicing the plump tomatoes, my cousins and I talked, laughed and ate soggy bread with watery tomato juice slathered on top. I can't remember tasting anything so good.

            We spent all day in Mema's garage, chopping and slicing tomatoes, being sure to remove any dirt or mushy parts that looked strange. Mema also told us to be sure to smell each one because if we allowed a rotten one to slip in, the entire sauce would be spoiled. Knowing this, I inspected each one with great deliberation. If I was ambivalent with the status of a particular tomato, I pulled on my mother's sleeve and asked her to check it for me.

            Once the bowls began to overflow with tomatoes, Uncle Ricky walked over to Mema and poured them into the crackling pot to boil. Mema took a few steps back, yet I smiled because she was still squirted by the hot juice that sputtered in all directions. I watched as she reentered the tantalizing circle of steam, poured salt from the container and added fresh parsley, shiny green peppers, basil leaves, and minced celery cubes.

            While we were chopping, my brother and Aunt Johanna gradually scooped up the cut-up tomatoes and tossed them into Mema's tomato grinder. The machine was as old as my grandmother so it stopped working every so often, and they had to wait for it to cool down, but I figured this was all part of the process. As a child, I was amazed by how it worked. My Aunt Joanna referred to it as the “ultimate plunger,” and I agreed. Mema's tomato grinder shook the entire table and it used to make me tremble in fear. I used to believe that there were shark teeth crunching inside the funnel-like-piece where the tomatoes were smashed. However, Aunt Johanna assured me that sharks existed in the depths of the ocean and that it was just a machine. Only years later did I believe her. 

            Once the tomatoes were sent through and grinded, there were two different spouts that emerged on either side of the machine. One spout released the skin and seeds and the other spout released the hot tomato juice that splattered out and trickled into a large pot. Just before the juice reached the top of the pot, Uncle Ricky grabbed it and placed it back on the burner to boil.

            After, we poured the steaming juice into sterile tomato jars, we capped them with special tops that had been boiling in water and sealed them with lids. Then, we quickly wrapped the jars with old sheets of newspaper and placed them upside-down in a wooden bushel. Once the process was completed, I didn't care that I had dirt in my hair and tomato juice painted all over my shirt, I just needed to lounge on the couch and take a nap.

            But, as I stood amidst the stacks of old newspaper and empty wine boxes, holding Mema's long wooden spoon in my hand, I felt as though I was standing outside of my grandparents' little stone home in Italy again, surrounded by infinite fields of cherry trees.

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