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A Mobster’s Menu for Mother’s Day Brunch
    By Beth Mathison
    “Welcome to the grown-up table, dear,” Aunt Shirley said, patting Annalisa’s hand. “I know you’re fourteen already, and I should have moved you up from the kids’ table long ago.”
    “It’s no problem,” Annalisa said. She was wearing a new spring dress, and had a single small daisy tucked behind her ear. “Now that Stephen’s twelve, he can police the kids’ table. I gave him a few pointers. I’m looking forward to more interesting conversations here at the adult table.”
    Aunt Shirley and Annalisa looked at the children’s table in the corner of the room. Stephen was trying to stop Katie from inserting a black olive into her brother’s nose. One of the other kids was tearing his SpongeBob paper napkin into strips and eating the pieces.
    Aunt Shirley sighed deeply. “Family,” she said. “You just have to love them even if they’re sticking olives up your nose.”
    Charlie and Harry sat next to Annalisa, listening to their conversation. Both Harry and Charlie wore colorful Hawaiian shirts to honor Mother’s Day through floral fashion.
    “Especially those giant olives with the garlic stuck inside,” Charlie said. “Those suckers really burn.”
    Harry nodded vigorously. “The ones with the jalapenos, too. Yikes. Talk about opening your sinuses. The kids’ table is murder.”
    The family was gathered at Pawelski’s Supper Club for Mother’s Day Brunch. Pawelski’s was a traditional surf and turf “supper club” located in the old section of the city, tucked between a sausage shop and a stationery store. Lights were dim, the front restaurant area was decorated in red imitation leather seats and white linen tablecloths, and the smell of kielbasa permeated the building.
    A banquet room was added to the back, adorned with mini red Christmas lights, carpet of undetermined color and age, and one giant chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
    The adults of the family were gathered around a large banquet table in the back room. The children’s smaller table was placed in a corner, kids swarming around it, uncontrolled. Two waiters, a man and a woman, wore black pants and crisp white shirts. They had small name tags on their shirts that read “Tony” and “Becky.” The pair hovered around the door to the kitchen, looking uneasy.
    One of the kids tossed an olive towards the kitchen, hitting the waitress on top of her head. Becky grimaced, looking around for help. Aunt Shirley pointed her finger at the kid, and he put a handful of olives back on his plate.
    “So, where’s your mom today?” Carla asked Annalisa. Carla was celebrating the Mother’s Day holiday with the family for the first time. Carla sat close to Jeremy, her hand on his sleeve.
    “She’s at the shore, with the other kids’ moms,” Annalisa answered. “The younger moms have a tradition to skip town on Mother’s Day. We think they go to the shore to enjoy the water views.”
    “You think they go to the shore?” Carla asked. “You’re not sure?”
    “It’s a secret,” Charlie said.
    Harry nodded in agreement.
    “The tradition is that they don’t tell us where they go,” Harry said. “It’s a freebie day for moms. It’s not like they’re doing any family business or anything. I’m sure they’re doing something entirely within a legal nature. They don’t have to be mob—”
    “They always come back,” Annalisa interrupted, explaining to Carla. “Us kids count it as a gift. They always come back very happy. And the kids get to hang out with the old geezers.”
    “Who are you calling an old geezer?” Betty asked loudly. Betty was eighty-five, dressed in old-country black, and had forgotten her hearing aids at home. Her black-framed spectacles slid down her nose with the weight of thick glass. “Just because I don’t go to the shore anymore doesn’t make me old. It’s just hard to walk in the sand with my orthopedic shoes. I’m definitely not