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“Nope.” I put down my phone and go back to the stove. “Right here, manning the gravy,” I lie. Iwasin Hoboken, New Jersey, in my imagination, in a new high-rise, slowly stirring a martini for one. All I have to do is drop off the deposit to Mrs. Cartegna, and I’m out of here.

“Turn the gas down. You know what they say—if you burn thegravy, there’s no saving it. You have to throw it out and start over.” Mom smiles.

That may be the most profound wisdom my mom has ever shared with me. It’s true. When you burn it down, whether it’s marinara or your life, you must rebuild from scratch.

“If you don’t think we have enough ravs, I have an emergency stash. From Petrini’s,” she says.

I toss delicate garlic buds into a small skillet; they turn glassy in the butter.

“Watch it,” my mother says over my shoulder as she takes a crystal vase of sunflowers off the kitchen table and carries it into the dining room. “Nothing worse than burned garlic.”

“I can think of a few things,” I say under my breath. I turn off the burner and set the pan of garlic aside before making my way out to the garage. A white cloud of cold air blasts my face as I open the top of the industrial freezer. When the haze dissipates, the first thing I see is my married name,Bilancia, on the packages of frozen beef. I find it fascinating (weird?) that my family remains loyal customers of my ex-husband’s butcher shop since the divorce. It’s not like I expected my family to become vegetarians in my defense, but shouldn’t they get their meat at Costco?

I find the boxes of ravioli easily in the emergency freezer, where my mother keeps a medical gel strap from the Hospital for Special Surgery on top of a sleeve of twenty-four industrial count chicken breasts, so we might have enough protein to survive a Canadian invasion. Hopefully when it happens, they’ll pour in from Toronto and bring their own marinara. After all, Dad has cousins from Puglia up north.

“Need you to bartend,” Mom whispers as I pass through the dining room with the extra box of ravioli. “Daddy’s in the shower. Your aunt and uncle areearly.” She makes a face.

“Roll with it,” I whisper back.

One of the jobs in my family is to pull my mother back from the brink before she spirals out of control when things don’t go exactly according to her plan. Her anxiety percolates to panic level whenever she has to feed a large group of people, and yet, she invites them. This is one of the many mysteries that is my mother. Her dreams of what might be exceed her ability, which frustrates her. Instead of knowing her limitations, she pretends she has none. Our family has learned to work around her impossible expectations. You want to nip the crazy before she pulls her own pin and explodes like a grenade and we are forced to serve my mother’s rage on crackers during the appetizer course.

“Ma. Don’t get worked up. Go put on your lipstick. I will take care of it.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without my Giuseppina.” She slips up the stairs.

“Long time no see,” Uncle Louie jokes from the booth at the kitchen table.

“How’s the boss?” I ask.

Louie turns to his wife. “Howareyou, Lil? Please advise.”

Aunt Lil is tucked into the booth next to Louie. I kiss her on the cheek. She doesn’t have a line on her seventy-six-year-old face. (“Sign of a woman without children,” my mother says, “or a woman a few years older than her husband who doesn’t want to look it.”) I see my aunt differently. Aunt Lil is strong. She knows her own limitations and doesn’t drive herself nuts trying to please people. She’s an in-law with functioning self-esteem.

“You always smell good, Auntie.”

“It’s a cologne called Expensive,” Uncle Louie jokes.

“White Diamonds by Elizabeth Taylor,” Aunt Lil corrects him. Auntie’s short haircut has fresh blond highlights, even though shewears a casual navy velour jogging suit and platform sneakers (which raise her height to five feet). Like Beyoncé, her hands, neck, and ears are encrusted in diamonds. Real ones. And Auntie didn’t have to jump into a mosh pit while wearing a crystal-studded unitard and a cowboy hat to earn them; she didn’t even have to leave her house.

“How about a Baratta highball, kids?” I offer.

I mix gin, ginger ale, and a splash of Dubonnet in two tall glasses with lots of ice. I anchor each glass with a lemon peel.

“So glad you’re early,” my mother fibs as she greets her brother and sister-in-law. “I was hoping we could sit in the living room for cocktails. You know, civilized.”

“Another time, sis. The kitchen is where the action is.” Uncle Louie toasts her and sips.

Mom shrugs and serves the appetizers: hunks of Parmesan cheese, thin slices of salami, and crispy tarelles. She peels off a cocktail napkin from the stack, one for each of the guests, embossed with the messageOne sip away from being a chooch.

“Sit down, Phil. Make yourself at home. Who made these?” Uncle Louie holds up a tarelle.

“I did.” Mom hand-irons the red-checkered tablecloth. “How are they?”

Uncle Louie doesn’t answer; instead he greets my dad. “There he is!”

Dad enters the kitchen in a sweet cloud of Aqua Velva cologne, his hair combed back wet off his face like it’s the first day of school. “How are you, Lil?”

“I’m all right, Joe.”