I heard my dad yell up the stairs, “Boys, we’re going to Aunt Sity’s after church.”
I put on my best blue sweater. My Aunt Sity was a real chef–I had seen a picture of her with a chef’s hat on. She would welcome us into her kitchen with kisses on our cheeks and big hugs. She would then start filling the kitchen table with foods like country ham and cheese spread, that would go on a Ritz cracker. It was so good, cheesy and salty.
Home made kinklings, square donuts designed to hold more powdered sugar. I ate one at the table and ate two later when I hid in the broom closet. I was sneaky like that, but Dad did ask why my sweater was covered with sugar.
She served a powerful eggnog. I drank a cup and threw up in her spotless bathroom.
Uncle Joe and Aunt Sity a been eating this good food all their lives, and they were both quite large. Uncle Joe’s back was three feet wide. He could really block your view of the TV. Aunt Sity had big ankles which carried her through a loving life of cooking and taking care of Joe, a railroad worker.
When mass ended and the priest said, “The mass has ended. Go in peace,” my brother and I would smile and reply loudly, “Thanks be to God!”
We knew we were going to Aunt Sity’s.