Everything and a Kite - Hardcover

Romano, Ray

 
9780553108743: Everything and a Kite
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 0553108743 ISBN 13: 9780553108743
Verlag: Bantam Dell Pub Group, 1998

Inhaltsangabe

The star of the hit CBS sitcom Everybody Loves Raymond presents a book of wry, telling observations on suburban family life as seen by a slightly neurotic Italian-American father of four. 325,000 first printing.

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Aus dem Klappentext

hat is at once laugh-out-loud funny and all-too-true to life, comedy-talent-turned-television-star Ray Romano goes home again, revealing that the source of his inspiration is heritage, hearth and family. As did his stand-up comedy and his present, top-rated CBS-TV program, Romano draws on his real-life experience as a husband, a father, a father of twins, a son with parents living very very close, and a brother, to make readers laugh and laugh harder.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Folks, I want to congratulate you for getting through Chapter One. Let's be honest. We probably lost a few. Couple of deserters, couple of snoozers, and my father put out his cigar on page four.  We're on our way.  I guess you might be aksing* now, "What will this book actually be about?" In a nutshell: cooking and time travel.

*I pronounce the word "ask" like "axed." That's how everybody in Queens pronounces it, and I'm no different. I know it's wrong, but if you want a piece of me, I'm right here. Bring it on, seriously. OK, we lost a few more. This book is by no means an autobiography. It's just observations on my life. I've tried to put them in some kind of chronological order. With that in mind, I thought I should start with the first woman I ever loved.

                                                                                     Mommy!

My mother was and still is a kindly, overprotective Italian mom. Not to mention religious. Very big with the saints. She has a saint for everything.

"Mom, I'm returning these pants, they're too small."

"I'll say a prayer to Saint Bartholomew."

"There's a saint that covers pants?"

"If you read the Bible you'd know."

She isn't a biblical scholar, but she has her beliefs and she lives by them.

She was driving my brother Robert and me to a Little League game once, and without realizing it, accidentally cut into a funeral procession. She got nervous. She panicked. She wanted to get out of it, but she didn't want to interrupt the sanctity of the event. Plus she thought the people behind her would follow her and get lost.

So she just kept going, trying to find the proper moment to pull out of it, until there we were, actually driving into the cemetery.

"Come on, Mom . . . I'm pitching today."

"We'll say a quick prayer and go."

My mother did her best to raise me to be the church-once-a-week, regular confession-going Catholic that she was.

But as I grew older, I found my outlook on life changing. I've since converted to a different sect of Catholicism: part-time Catholicism. Or, as we're called by the other parishioners, the "Easter-Christmas Catholics."

I'm sure you know who we are. There are many of us. And you can always spot us when we do show up in church because we're the ones who don't quite remember the moves.

When to kneel, when to stand, shake a hand, sing a song . . . we're lost. We're all just following that one old lady in the front pew. "Kneel. She's kneeling!  All right, up, get up, she's up! Follow her, whatever she does. Wait a minute, she's giving money, don't listen to her."

I actually grew up in a very Jewish neighborhood, Forest Hills, Queens, New York.

I loved Forest Hills. It was a great neighborhood. All my friends were Jewish, and they were great kids.

But I couldn't compete with them. And I don't mean sports.

And please . . . I don't want to sound stereotypical. I want to be politically correct. But when I say I couldn't compete, I mean that, as a kid, whenever I attempted a little kiddie business venture, I was always outdone by my Jewish friends.

We had lemonade stands every summer. There I was, all set up. I had lemonade, a box, the sign that said "5 cents" with a backwards "5." I was ready for business.

Nothing. Nothing ever sold.

Not counting the two glasses my mother would buy, I never made a dime. Meanwhile, right across the street, there's my best friend, Murray Goldberg, open twenty-four hours a day and selling Lotto tickets. He was amazing. Genius!

He wasn't even there, he had a little Korean kid working for him. How did he do that?

What did I know? I was a little Italian boy. I had one angle. I offered him protection.

"That's a nice box, Murray. It'd be a shame if a Big Wheel ran it over." Again, I hope you're taking this as just an innocent little funny story. I'm not trying to insult anyone. Yeah, sure, I stereotyped a little. But at the end I brought the jab right back around to myself, the Italian kid.

To be honest, Italian and Jewish families in my neighborhood were very similar. Especially the mothers.

The mother whose world revolved around food. Who believed any problem could be solved with food. The mother who could never accept that you were actually full.

Even now, when I visit, it's the same story. I get up from the table, put on my jacket, and start heading out, and she still won't stop. She'll wrap the food up to go.

And they're quick, these mothers. They'll beat you to the front door. They're wrap-up ninjas.

"Take it with you!"

"Mom, please . . . I'm just putting out your garbage."

"Take it anyway! Look how far away the cans are. You'll get hungry."

As far back as I can remember, she was like this. The only way I could have friends eat at my house was to brief them before they came over.

"Look. This is going to be like nothing you've ever experienced."

"Ray, don't worry, I'm really hungry. It's gonna be fine."

"Shut up, you fool! Listen to me and listen good. When you're done with the meal, if you want a little more, it's going to get very tricky.

Don't tell my mother you want a little more, because then she'll serve you a whole new meal. If you want a little more, tell her you don't want any more. Come right out and say, 'Boy, I'm full, I couldn't eat anything else. Please, no more for me.'"

That was what you had to do. Stay one step ahead of her.

You want a little? Tell her you want no more.

You want a lot more? Tell her you want a little.

You don't want any more? You have to shoot her.

That's right, I said it! You have to shoot the woman. Or at least threaten.

Whatever you do, do it quick. Don't hesitate. As soon as you feel you've had enough to eat, just stand up and announce, "I'm done." Then pull a gun out of your vest pocket.

"Put it back in the bowl, Mrs. Romano . . . nice and easy. Now hand the spoon to Ray. That's it, thaaaaaat's it . . . Keep your hands where I can see them . . ."

"SHE'S GOT A CANNOLI IN HER APRON!"

Shoot her! You have to shoot her. And land one. Don't graze her, that'll just piss her off.

She'll take a bullet and keep coming. There's no quit in her. She won't just go down, she'll pass the food off to my aunt. There's always a fat aunt backing her up.

"Take this, Maria--he's a runner! Feed him without me!"

Of course, the upside to Mom's obsession was the amount of food I would get to take to school in my lunch bag. I brought a lot to the table when it came to the old grammar school lunch trading market. I had quantity, I had quality, and to top it off, I had Murray Goldberg as my broker. "Ray, for half that chicken parmesan, I can get you a tuna salad, a Yoohoo, and an ice cream to be named later. But we gotta go now.*"

*Italian women have mustaches. OK, we're even.

I used to love the bag lunch. And Mom knew she did a good job. She was proud of her work, and it never wavered. It was always the same size brown bag, top folded down three times, and it wasn't complete until she...

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Verlag
Bantam Dell Pub Group
Erscheinungsdatum
1998
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0553108743
ISBN 13 
9780553108743
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
209
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
Nicht verfügbar

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