The Kitchen's Pulse

Uno, Diet Coke, and the Sisters—more than just a card game, it was a place where joy unfolded.

Photo by lilartsy on Unsplash

I can still picture the three of us seated around my Aunt Phinnie's kitchen table. It was a small kitchen, but always welcoming. Home to many family gatherings, that kitchen was where we often held court—family stories, cooking, baking, or sitting around the table and laughing. There was never a lack of food, hospitality, or love.

I swear that kitchen had a heartbeat, and my big Italian family was its pulse.

I often think about the stories exchanged in that kitchen and the memories we made. Some days, it saddens me that many of my loved ones who sat around that table aren't with us anymore. Yet, other times, I'm grateful to have had the chance to be a part of it.

My aunt's kitchen became a cornerstone for me. And I loved when my mom and I would go visit. But I especially loved the days we sat at that kitchen table and engaged in some of the fiercest Uno games I've ever played. It's important to understand that I come from a competitive family, and when that deck of cards came out, it was like each of us transformed before we ever shuffled the deck.

I thought I was a card shark, my aunt thought my mom cheated, and my mom loved to win. My grandfather, who was legally blind and lived with my aunt, would sit in his chair closest to the kitchen and listen to us. I often wonder if he wished for earplugs because we got rowdy. But, somehow, he was amused at our comedic efforts to one-up each other.

"Now, Laura, deal the cards and make sure your mother doesn't see your hand," my aunt would say to me. Her black eyes would be fixated, and I knew she meant business.

"Oh, Phinnie, I don't cheat. You're just a sore loser," my mother would quip back.

And there I was, smack in the middle of the two sisters. Of course, there was always anticipation and laughter, but we'd yell at one another, too.

"Laura, why did you skip me?" my aunt would say. "That gives your mother more opportunity to win."

"I had to get rid of the card, Aunt Phinnie. I don't want to be stuck with that many points."

My mother would sit at the opposite end of the table and laugh. And my aunt would grumble. I could always tell when she had a "good card," as she liked to call it. She'd get a glint in her eye, and I knew she was secretly contemplating how to stick it to my mother.

It became more than a game for us. We thrived on making each other squirm. And we'd get loud.

"Laura Jo, how could you do that to me?" my mother would say sternly. I would shrug my shoulders and pray for redemption, while my grandfather would pipe up and tell my mom to stop giving me a hard time.

We could play for hours and never tire of each other or the game. But my aunt would get testy after Mom had one too many wins.

"Uno," my mother would say in a coyish tone indicative of "I got you." I'd look at my aunt and see her eyes begin to bulge. Her face would redden, and then there'd be a long, deep breath before she spoke.

"Goddamn it, Rosemary, I know you're cheating. How the hell are you about to win again? Laura, are you shuffling those cards enough?"

I would laugh, and my mom would give my aunt a disgusted look. And we'd sit there and figure out how to keep our opponent from winning.

"Now, Laura, she's down to one card. I hope you have something in your hand that will shift this game." I knew my aunt meant business, especially when she held her cards in one hand and pointed her finger at me with the other.

"I need some more Diet Coke," I'd say. It was more of a distraction tactic because the pressure was on, and I was trying to diffuse what would inevitably be my mother winning again.

"No, let's finish this game," my aunt said, and we can all wet our whistles.

Mom was to my right, so it was up to me. The face card was a blue two. All I had left was a blue six and a Wild card. Not even a Draw Four or Reverse or Skip. Shit. Well, there was only one other option. Pick up a card or play the Wild card, hoping that changing the color will force Mom to draw a card.

I felt the intensity of both my mother and my aunt. Mom waiting with bated breath to win again, Aunt Phinnie ready to strangle her, and me wanting that goddamn Diet Coke.

“Well, here goes nothing,” I thought.

I played the Wild card and changed the color to yellow. I watched my mother's face as I said it. She got that familiar smirk - the one my aunt and I had come to know well. And just like that, my mother laid a Wild card on top of mine in all her glory.

My aunt and I sat there and looked at one another, both perplexed and irritated. Then, finally, my grandfather laughed from the living room. "Do you still think she cheats?" he said to us.

"You're goddamn right I do," my aunt yelled through her laughter. I can still picture her animated face.

Soon, we were laughing in unison. So much so that we had tears in our eyes. I felt it in my stomach. It was the kind of joy that brought that kitchen alive. Then, my aunt went to the refrigerator, pulled out some Diet Coke, and we sat and laughed more. Mom’s shoulders would shake, Aunt Phinnie would shake her head, and I sat there in amazement at these women whom I was so damn lucky to love.

I loved playing Uno with them. Any game, because it was always an adventure and a lesson in never taking yourself too seriously.

At first, I knew they did it to humor me, but then it became our thing - a ceremonial gathering of two fierce women and the up-and-coming card shark. I learned about having fun, spending time with family, and feeling loved, even if things got heated. But, of course, I knew it was all in jest. And I never doubted how fiercely those sisters loved one another, even if they bantered back and forth like an old married couple.

My aunt's kitchen had a heartbeat and pulse because it breathed life into many of us over the years. I miss that kitchen, that house, those women, and my grandparents. I miss the way it smelled of my Aunt’s cigarette smoke ever so faintly, and the gardens that used to grow in the backyard when my grandfather was alive. I miss the smell of sauce cooking on the stove, and eating all the Pinwheel cookies I could stomach.

It was always a second home to me, and I never minded spending time there. But, then again, I've always been an old soul.