MY VIEW
The aroma of garlic is almost never sweet
The stylish heads of my dining companions disappeared behind their huge, open menus. Moments before, those heads were alive with chatter. We caught up on gossip and politics. Ice in our cocktail glasses melted away like our memory of warmer weather.
Selecting a dinner choice hushed us. Cell phones were stowed away so we could focus on our meals. And, for some of these gals, not having a cell phone near their mouth made them look unnatural. At least now they could insert a fork.
My next question made each head jerk up. “Is there an entree without garlic?” I asked out loud. A wide-eyed expression like deer in headlights settled on every face at the table. “What kind of an Italian are you?” Lena chided. I replied, “You certainly all know that less is more, well none is even better.” Another friend gulped a big slug of wine.
My descendants are from Italy. Still, as an Italian-American female of my European tribe, why can’t I protest that stinky bulb? I straightened up, preparing for the gathering debate.
Their strategy was simple. Garlic replaced mom’s apple pie as the comfort food for Americans. They urged me to visit any favorite local Italian, Chinese or Indian restaurant to sniff and taste. “Garlic has ruled the kingdom for too long,” I protested. “Let the other middle-class herbs get some of the praise. It’s our responsibility to take care of the less fortunate parsley and chives.”
They dug their heels in deeper. “What about the health benefits?”
“The main reason for not getting sick is no one can get close enough to spread their germs,” I said. Still, they wouldn’t stop. Everyone drooled at Stephanie’s suggestion to bake the cloves, then squeeze the soft gooey garlic onto crusty bread. Recipes for favorite garlic fare were scribbled on napkins to share later. Any eavesdropping editor at a nearby table could make a deal on a garlic cookbook.
My memories were not so nostalgic. I thought back to Thanksgiving as a child. Years ago, a full Italian dinner including soup, antipasto and pasta, was served before the lesser “bird.” Turkey was an afterthought in our clan. As a child at the holiday table, I passed all the garlic-laden dishes onto the next person. I prayed not to be caught. My plate lay empty.
Several times, my mother rescued me. She scooped a few strands of pasta (without red sauce) and ladled them onto my plate. Melted butter oozed over the pale noodles. I sniffed and brightened at the bland smell. Then, Grandma hauled a platter with the golden turkey and set it on the table. To my dismay, Grandma’s bustling kitchen must have lacked an assortment of spices.
Even the fowl was seasoned with garlic. Several cousins squabbled over the drum sticks and the wish bone. My only wish was that the spumoni ice cream for dessert didn’t have a garlic sauce.
Technology has advanced to the use of global positioning systems, but there’s no problem finding anyone who has eaten garlic. My friends can rave about the aroma of garlic as it sautes, but I’m waiting to hear someone praise the odor of anyone who has indulged.
As we hugged good night and made plans to meet again, I chuckled to myself. Many vampires would be repelled that night.
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