It’s Friday night, and the Italian boy has invited the Irish girl he’s been dating to dinner at his parents’ house. This is a big deal. He’s serious about this girl, and he’s serious about his mother’s cooking, too.
“You’re going to love whatever she makes,” he promises.
He’s right about that. The girl has had clam chowder before, but never like this. Wow! Her boyfriend wasn’t kidding. His mother sure can cook.
“This is so delicious!” the girl says. “What’s that wonderful flavor?”
The mother smiles, decides to let the girl in on her secret. “That’s the bacon,” she says with a wink. “Gives it a nice taste.”
The girl turns pale and drops her spoon. She turns to the boy.
“Take me to church,” she says. “I have to see a priest.”
She isn’t kidding. As she pulls on her coat she explains to the boy’s parents and his four siblings that she’s a Catholic, and the nuns say it’s a sin to eat meat on Friday, and she’s got to get that sin off her immortal soul immediately.
“We’re Catholics too,” the mother says with a shrug, but by then her son and the girl are gone, out into the cold Brooklyn night in search of a priest.
The boy can’t believe this is happening, but he goes along with it. What else can he do? He keeps up with the girl on the way to the local church, which he attends casually, usually after somebody dies.
And that’s what the girl fears - if she’s struck dead before she confesses her sin, she’ll go straight to hell. The boy tries to calm her down.
“You didn’t eat the bacon on purpose,” he says.
“It doesn’t matter,” she says, quickening her stride.
He wonders what’s going on back at the house. His father will be stunned, his siblings will be having a chuckle over it and oh, boy, he knows exactly what his mother is thinking: That girlfriend of yours left half her clam chowder. What a waste! THAT’S a sin!
And here’s what the boy is thinking: right or wrong, this is one passionate girl!
They reach the church. The girl pounds on the side door, where the clergymen live. Minutes pass before the door opens and a white-haired priest, obviously roused from his sleep, regards them with a suspicious eye.
“What is it?” he asks.
The girl tells the priest what has happened, and asks that her sin be forgiven. He’s wide-eyed with disbelief, assures her she has not sinned, but hey, if it makes you feel better, young lady, you are forgiven, and here’s a blessing.
He makes the sign of the cross, turns and shuts the door. The girl sighs with relief. The boy takes her hand.
“So,” he says, “let’s go back for dessert.”.
Okay, I’m no mystery writer. Obviously these are my parents, Cissy and Tony, back in their courting days. This is one of my favorite family stories, for a couple of reasons:
One, my father respected my mother’s adherence to that old No-Meat-On-Friday rule, even though he didn’t buy it.
And two, my mother didn’t force her personal beliefs on my father or any of the other bacon-eaters at that long-ago dinner table in Brooklyn.
They both still laugh about that crazy night. My parents don’t always believe in the same things, but they believe in each other, as they have since the day they got married - January 30th, 1954. Sixty-six years ago today.
Happy anniversary, kids. Mom says she’s taking Dad to lunch to celebrate. Wherever they go, I’m hoping there’s clam chowder on the menu.
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