Sunday Sausages by Chris
I’m afraid I don’t have too many memories (good ones at least) of my dad in the kitchen, but my grandfather…..ah, now that is another story.
Grandpa served as a cook in the army so he definitely knew about food. When I was very young, before we made the big move to Albany, we would spend a lot of time at my grandparents’ apartment. Food was a big part of any trip to Duffy Court and there was always lots of it. He would make all the wonderful roasts and potatoes and vegetables and Gramma would bake the delicious, delectable desserts.
But my favorite memory involved the Sunday breakfasts. Having adhered to the fasting requirements of the Catholic Church of the 50’s, we would suffer through Mass, hungry and fidgety,thinking about the wonderful aromas that would greet us as we filed out of the car and headed up the stairs to their second floor apartment. Sunday was pancake and sausage day! Grandpa would be standing at the griddle, churning out dozens of the golden hotcakes, filling our plates with as many as we wanted. But I was especially fond of the little breakfast sausages and I have a memory of being ruthlessly teased about only wanting one pancake while downing as many of the glistening sausages as I could get. This was a happy, carefree time for us children.
(As we got older, my brother Tom took over the role of pancake maker. Only he had it much harder. Where Grandpa had 4 hungry mouths to feed, Tom had almost twice that many. But he was up to the task, even if he did have to indulge his younger brother Terry in his quest to set a record for pancakes eaten with each meal.)
As has been mentioned in other entries, cooking for our grandfather was synonymous with loving us. He could be a gruff, grumpy man, but when he was making us a meal, he was a teddy bear. How lucky we were!