The Chef and I are lucky to have some of his extended family living near the city. We've got dozens of grandparents, aunts, cousins and longtime family friends all cloistered together near the Jersey Shore.
We squeeze onto a bus at Port Authority and head for the Jersey compound about once a month--or whenever I feel the need for a series of big bear hugs and/or a large meal of spaghetti and meatballs, macaroni with garlic and oil, and pot roast (yes, I mean all three arranged on a plate at the same time.)
There's not a quiet person in the bunch, except for the Chef, and everyone shouts over everyone else, no matter their moods.
Happy? HEY DAWLIN! IT'S SO GOOD TO SEE YA!
Angry? WHAT THE HELL ARE YA DOIN HERE? WHADDYA THINKIN?!
Pensive? I WAS JUST TALKING ABOUT YOU GUYS! WANT SOME FOOD?
We're heading out there tonight to hug John's Grandma's neck and sneak a beer with Grandpa Fred. I wore my bright blue Converse low-tops because he always tells me that he loves them. I'm sure I'll be full of meatballs and macaroni by the time I blog again.