The Fallen Ziti, written in Summer 08

The air in the house was gloomy. The downstairs was full of family members who traveled in from New York, Connecticut, Maryland, California, Philadelphia, and all around northern New Jersey, all because the upstairs was now empty. I had had my moment, my time to reflect on the loss, the absence upstairs, as everyone who came into the house that day had. But we needed a way to get our minds off the subject, at least for the time being.

Aunt Eileen and Uncle Armand's house is small, since they shared it with my grandparents, who lived upstairs. When they have the family over, the rooms come alive with conversation, mostly involving laughter, but sometimes involving tears. Beer and wine flow through the house, but combined with the company surrounding us, this small house turns into the best bar or party you've ever been to. But those who are grieving are not typically in party mode. And we weren't. But laughter, in this case, proved to be the best and only medicine.

Hanging out in the kitchen with my cousins, we yelled at Aunt Eileen--who was sweating already--for putting more food in the oven. We had been full of appetizers and delicious catered food that generous friends had dropped off when they heard the news. But, ziti tray in hand, making a bee-line for the hot oven, Aunt Eileen insisted. She pulled the oven open, the hot air steaming out, smacking against all of our faces and BAM! all of a sudden, the tray was overturned and ziti was everywhere, sizzling on the door and floor of the hot stove.

Aunt Eileen let out a shrill wolf-like howl that sounded like a cross between a dying cat or a horse in labor. I pushed the sweating cat-horse hybrid out of the way and immediately went to work, as if I held a doctorate in the art of oven-cleaning. My cousins were now my assistants, I their leader, shouting out orders of "Spatula! Paper Towel! Water! Oven Cleaning Spray!!"

I attacked the oven with such force because I knew that this was the last thing Aunt Eileen--and all of my family--needed, and hell, oven-cleaning could be fun--Why not! I'd never done it before.

My head immersed in the steaming hot bowels of this ancient anti-diluvian oven whose self-cleaner just so happened to be broken, I scraped the ziti, took out the racks, and gave the oven the best scrubbing it had ever had. Aunt Eileen, as well as her sisters and my cousins, were now laughing at my beet red, sweating, ziti-scented face.

My ziti-covered oven-cleaning grief-relieving mission had been successful, and for that reason I am completely grateful that the ziti fell the night after the sorrowful day I will never forget.