We have a maintenance contract with an HVAC company to service our air conditioning unit and furnace twice a year – in the spring and fall. During each of those visits, the technician removes the old system filter and replaces it with a clean one. It plays the key role of grabbing and retaining dust and other air pollutants, instead of allowing them to be circulated through the entire house via the ductwork. As one who has suffered with airborne allergies for a long time, I am indebted to these fairly simple devices that make life more pleasant.
Filters of various types are present in many places – anywhere that impurities need to be separated from another agent that is carrying them. Just think about a car. It typically has four of them – an air filter, oil filter, fuel filter, and a cabin filter.
Arguably, though, the most important filter exists in our minds. It allows us to strain out and cleanse thoughts that we plan to verbalize before the words are actually spoken. We do not come into the world with such a capability. One of the reasons that “kids say the darndest things” is that they lack such an ability. As most of us grow and mature, this ability eventually develops, shaped by the norms of society and the influences around us.
Coming from a family where most anything might be said, I was a bit late to the verbalization maturity party. Ironically, it was my mom, with a weak filter herself, who set me straight. And the focus of this life lesson? Meatballs!
My dad was a first-generation Italian-American, born in Philly to parents who had immigrated from Sicily. My mom, on the other hand, was raised in a three-story North Philly row home that housed an extended German-American family, with ancestors having been in the United States for a few generations. Both influences were constantly present in my mom’s cooking. Every Sunday dinner consisted of salad, pasta and sauce (also called “gravy” by dad), meat (usually meatballs and sausage) and crusty bread (supplied by my grandfather, who would proclaim in his thick accent that it was the “best in the United States”). A few nights later, we might have pork and sauerkraut, that German staple, for dinner.
Mom was a good cook. She took pride in her ability to cook the Italian comfort food that my dad wanted/demanded even though she had not been raised in that culture. She also was an accomplished baker, with one of her specialties being a multi-layer Italian cream cake.
Once I left home for college and then met Barbara, I discovered all types of food that had never been part of mom’s repertoire – barbecue, Mexican food, Chinese food, corn bread, macaroni and cheese, etc. And then to my astonishment, I found that some of mom’s specialties could also be prepared by others and taste just as good.
A year after college, Barbara and I were married and were starting our lives together. She was a really good cook, too, but she had no experience with the preparation of Italian food. In her childhood home, if they had spaghetti and meatballs, it came from a can. So, I asked if she could broaden her cooking range and make some of those meals I grew up enjoying, especially meatballs and spaghetti sauce.
So, Barbara watched my mom making the sauce and meatballs, writing down the recipes. Then she started experimenting herself. As with any talented cook, she made a few adjustments to mom’s recipes here and there. After a number of pilot meals (for which I was eager to serve as the taste tester/guinea pig), Barbara hit her stride. I could not believe how good her sauce and meatballs tasted. It was similar to mom’s, but dare I say … better?
Not long after, we were visiting with mom and dad. The subject of Barbara’s indoctrination into the world of Italian cooking came up. I was very proud of my bride, and I dared to say it. Without forethought of consequences or how it might be received by my mother, I blurted, “I like Barbara’s meatballs better than your’s.”
Mom immediately turned icy cold, as if I had cursed at her. At first, she seemed shocked, then I noticed anger crossing her face. It then occurred to me that even though she had always encouraged us kids say what were thinking, this was one case where it would have been better to keep my mouth shut. We left my parent’s house in a hurry.
In the following days, my loving mom gave me the silent treatment. When I called on the phone, she would refuse to speak and would put my dad on the line. I learned from my brother that she was really angry at me. I had never seen her do this to anyone, let alone me! Barbara advised me to just go to her and apologize. So, that’s what I did.
I went to the house by myself, and tried to greet mom as usual with a kiss and hug, but she was having none of it. She also still was saying zilch to me.
“Mom, what’s wrong?” I pleaded.
She then said the first words she had spoken to me since the incident, “If you don’t know what’s wrong, I feel sorry for you!”
Of course, I knew what was wrong, and tried to talk my way out of it.
“I’m sorry, mom. I shouldn’t have said what I said. I love your meatballs!”
She then softened a bit, and I saw an opening. I wrapped my arms around here and hugged as hard as I could, while she said, “I forgive you.”
So, the great meatball conflict of 1978 came to an end peacefully. Thank goodness, she didn’t push me to actually say whose meatballs were better, which would have required some sidestepping and obfuscation.
The silver lining was that I became painfully aware of the need to internally review my thoughts before making rash proclamations or stating anything of a contentious nature. It took me until I was 23, but I finally turned on my filter.