September 2009

Ten plus years ago when I moved to New York my good friend told me a story. Many years ago, when he was in junior high school in Brooklyn he had an Italian-American friend…let’s call him Joey. From his recollection, Joey was the sort of kid who had strong opinions and an even stronger voice when articulating his opinions. He both admired and loathed this particular trait in Joey. Joey’s loud voice was especially loathsome when he learned that my friend’s mother, a West Indian transplant, cooked him spaghetti and meat sauce by using a jar of tomato sauce. Joey protested loudly, shook his head and said, “Your mother doesn’t love you if she gives you sauce out of a jar.”