Page 36

AFTER OUR DINNER of beef casserole and fresh green beans, which we all ate while perched around the bedroom, we settled in to watch TV with Mary Catherine. Somehow, even with all the kids and my grandfather stuffed into the bedroom, it didn’t feel crowded. It felt comfortable. I loved it. I could tell by my grandfather’s face that he loved it too.

The boys were serious about making him relaxed. Ricky, Trent, and Eddie somehow managed to muscle one of the recliners from the living room to the doorway of the bedroom. Even though he was half in and half out of the bedroom, Seamus looked completely at ease, stretched out in the leather recliner.

Everyone was excited to watch another episode of Rising Chefs, the show Ricky had applied to be on. Ricky sat right in the middle of the crowd of kids at the foot of our bed. He was enjoying being the center of attention at home, for however long it lasted.

Ricky got up and began to mimic the host, Gino Carmelli. He did a pretty good imitation of the man’s gesticulating arms and heavy Brooklyn Italian accent. “Yo, if you wanna make the perfect lasagna, you havta soak the noodles beforehand. My dear nonna, God rest her soul, taught me this when I was only eight months old. But the lesson, it stuck with me.”

I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen Ricky quite so animated in front of everyone. I got an even bigger surprise when my oldest son, Brian, stood up.

He went right into the accent as well. “Then, when I was two years old, my mamma taught me the secrets of a great gravy. You need fresh tomatoes. If someone tries to tell you to use canned, stewed tomatoes you just tell them fuggetabouit.”

He had all the syllables just right. Mary Catherine started to laugh so hard as she drank, some water came out of her nose. Even then she was laughing too hard to completely hide it.

Then we actually watched the show for a while. The chef had six young teens and tweens who looked to be middle schoolers or maybe freshmen in high school, and all of the contestants were from the New York City area. Each had a cutaway in which they talked about their lives and their interest in cooking. I found those stories much more compelling than the main part of the show.

A teenage girl from Yonkers said she just liked being in the kitchen. She couldn’t explain it. But a kid from the Bronx said that he saw cooking as his chance to get out of the cycle of crime and drugs many of the people in his neighborhood suffered from. I took this to heart. I’d heard many athletes say the same thing about football or boxing being their ticket out. I liked hearing kids talk about other avenues to pursue.

One thing I didn’t like was the way the chef talked to the kids. He made jokes at their expense, he raised his voice, and in one case he threw a young man’s garlic bread onto the floor because the boy hadn’t followed directions.

I sat up in bed and looked over to the crowd sitting on the floor. “Ricky, are you sure you want to put up with this kind of abuse? I think I like the English guy better.”

Ricky didn’t hesitate. “I think Mr. Carmelli can make me a better chef. If it’s what I really want to do in life, I need to see what it’s like in a big kitchen.”

Unfortunately, Ricky made perfect sense. Even I knew that professional kitchens weren’t the most calm and easygoing of places. The problem was, I had a feeling this TV chef was more interested in ratings than in actually helping any of the kids. But I wasn’t going to say anything. I didn’t want to dampen Ricky’s enthusiasm in any way.

I tried to lie back and enjoy having the family around me. Then I noticed my grandfather had dozed off in the recliner, blocking the doorway. That was going to be an issue when everyone had to go to bed.