Sundays with Sinatra

I see Dad in front of our kitchen stove, the one he took from Gaetano’s after it closed. He’s got those damn jeans on again, the ones he thinks go so perfectly with everything, though the fraying hole near the back left pocket suggests otherwise. This Sunday, he’s completed his ensemble with Mom’s red and white-checkered apron, that manly one with the ruffles near the top.

He’s dancing, doing his signature “white man shuffle” complete with wooden spoon as his microphone. Sinatra’s croon makes the windows rattle with each note, which means it’s at the perfect volume. He twirls toward me and grabs my hand, channeling Frank’s finesse. I spin into his chest as his arm wraps around me. I catch the lingering scent of Polo at his neck, but the hint of sauce on his breath tells me he’s been sneaking, a sin in Mom’s kitchen.

I wondered if he had dipped a piece of Nonna’s freshly baked Italian bread into the bubbling pot. That was one of the most unforgivable sins in the kitchen. If you got caught dipping bread into the sauce, madonne, you were in big trouble. Nonna would chase after you, with whatever cooking utensil was closest to her, yelling “ Don’ta you hever put bread ina MY sauce! MaWhatsamadda with you?!”

Dad, however, was one of the lucky ones who was able to sneak without a scolding. Coming back up from a dip on our makeshift dance floor, I squinted my eyes and shook my head disapprovingly at him. “ You think you’re so slick sneaking sauce don’t you?” I whispered. He shot me his usual retort, when he knows he’s done something wrong, and says “ Hey, you wanna piece of cheese, Rat?”

We continue to move together gracefully on the creaking hardwood floor, just like Annette Benning and Michael Douglas in “The American President”, our favorite movie. Even in my dance team sweats, he treats me like my every sway is followed by the elegant swish of an evening gown. I hated having a three hour dance practice on Sundays during competition season, it really cut into my ballroom dancing time with Dad.

I wished it was that Sunday where I could trade in my dance team uniform for my old prom dresses. Dad once waited for me, Elisa, and Gianna to rummage through our old homecoming and prom dresses to find the perfect one for twirling. Even though it was only my younger sisters and Dad on that particular Sunday, he gave us our “ Cinderella” moment, that feeling that you get when you walk into a room and all eyes are on you.

Dad had a way of making our forgotten little girl fantasies come to life on those Sundays, while the Rat Pack serenaded us on surround sound, and the comforting scent of Nonna’s sauce trailed throughout the house.

I’m not sure when our Sunday sessions started; they’ve always just been there. When I was younger, he’d lift me up to his chest to dance with me so that I could wrap my arm around his shoulder. I remember watching him glide over to my mom after he put me down at the island in the kitchen. He’d take her by the hand, lay her arm over his shoulder, and press his cheek to her temple as he turned her initial resisting into romance. I remember being impatient to grow up so that I could dance with someone like that, and find somebody who’d love me as much as Dad loves Mom.