Panzo Party

It’s traditional.

Second generation but I still gotta rep for the culture,

Sunday.

Freshly grated mozzarella,

That vibrant blood-hued sauce,

Every August.

It’s the heartbeat of the dish,

The nostalgia hits.

When first opening the jar,

Memories of years past,

Constant grating sound of the tomato pressing machine,

Pinching and forking the scalding hot Romano tomatoes,

Once they’re soft.

It’s only 7 AM,

Garage slightly opened,

Nonna arguing with Dad,

While flutes of Southern Comfort are brought out to ease irritability,

Basil accompanies the fresh sauce as it gets sealed and stored.

Months have past,

Brothers are home,

Mom kneads the dough,

While Alexa plays DJ.

We Dance,

We drink,

We sing,

We laugh.

Even the deep fryer gets excited for his bath.

Dough, cheese, sauce, fold, fry.

EAT.