But, when she was cooking it was another story - she seemed to have much more patience. Either that or she couldn't afford to go on a smacking spree when she had a pot of bubbling gravy on the stove. So if my cousins were visiting and we started getting loud, running, bumping into things and generally going crazy in the living room, there seemed to be a series of levels that my mother's temper had to ascend through, almost like in an elevator.
LEVEL 1: Distracted by her cooking she would yell half-heartedly,
"If you kids don't shut up, you're gonna make me get THE SPOON!"
LEVEL 2: We would stop for one minute, out of respect, much as you do if a priest walks by, but since she clearly wasn't very dangerous at that point we would immediately resume our festivities. which would then warrant a perfunctory:
"You think I'm kiddin'?
Keep it up, I'm gonna get THAT SPOON!"
LEVEL 3: We would stop a little longer at that one. Maybe give each other that big eye-ed "uh oh" look and put our finger to our mouth as if to say, "Shhhh." Within three minutes we were pushing and shoving each other and inevitably someone would scream out, "STOP. I'm TELLING" garnering us a semi-frightening,
"What did I tell you, you rotten kids!
You better stop whatever the hell you're doing right now cause you're gonna make me get THAT EFFING SPOON."
LEVEL 4: "SEE?" someone would whisper hoarsely, "I told you she's get mad! I don't want to play with you anymore. Leave - me - ALONE." Of course, no one gets left alone, and within a few minutes we're teasing the pouter who inevitably yells out, "STOP! STOP! STOP touching ME!" The next sound we hear is her eerily calm-before-the-storm voice:
"THAT's it.
I TOLD them to be quiet and play nice
but do they listen??
... followed by, what I call, "the existential prayer",
"Does anybody in this house listen to me?
Does anyone even know I EXIST?
Am I talking for my own health here?
Dear Lord in heaven, give me strength
not to kill those kids.
I am GETTING THE SPOON."
Followed by ... the RATTLING of the spoon drawer,
"You HEAR ME?"
Her voice cracking on the word "hear".
(Rattle, rattle.)
LEVEL 5: Now we're scared shit-less. We start shrieking, trying to hide, but keep bumping into each other like pin balls. Someone is crying one of those high-pitched slow siren whines. Somebody punches somebody. Somebody breaks something.
Silence.
Then, as if in a scene from Psycho (the original), my mother comes running out of the kitchen, bellowing as she holds the famous WOODEN SPOON high in the air, posed to strike and do damage.
"SEE? I WARNED YOU KIDS!
AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN
AND NOW LOOK
WHAT YOU MAKE ME DO!"
WHAT YOU MAKE ME DO!"
But, the funny part is we don't actually make her DO anything ... except run around like a roaring grizzly bear, waving the spoon, herding us all out of the living room as we scatter like vermin running to our hidey places. Oh, she might get close, you might feel the wind of the spoon as it almost gets you or you might even get winged but, strangely, the wooden spoon gets little actual workout.
It did it's job. There is quiet once again in the house. And the spoon is retired once again to it's drawer, dutifully resting there until it's called upon once more.
SO, that's my story.
If you're Italian like me,
I'm sure you've got a few of your own.
This is a storytelling site,
so PLEASE share one with us here -
it doesn't have to be fancy or anything
... just true!
