Whenever my mother would announce that the “Quartet Group” was coming, I knew that it was going to be a difficult day for me. My parents had lots of musician friends. The group was fluid in membership and usually met monthly during the cold months and less frequently during the summer months. Hosting duties rotated among the members, but my parents were frequent hosts. Why not? We had a nice, comfortable large living room with a grand piano and could accommodate the entire group. There was the added attraction that my siblings could fill in for missing members, in that my brother and sister proficiently played violin and/or viola. They were readily pressed into service.
The musicians would arrive lugging instruments and stacks of music. Then, once the group determined the music to be played, the instrumentation etc., they would play for several hours. Sometimes the selection included trios or quintets, but mostly they played quartets. The group would often play, then stop or restart or just play the piece through. It was just like a choir or chorus practice. The musicians would work up an appetite playing. This was, of course, rewarded by a feast.
The Eats
Another advantage of having the group meet at our house was the food. Members of the group would usually bring some dish, but mostly these were paltry offerings compared to the veritable feast that my mother and her helpers (her children) would produce. We could expect that 20-30 or more people would be eating, including our family. The meal was almost always a buffet with multiple main dishes, vegetables, salad, bread, and dessert. A selection of beverages, wine and coffee was on offer. Sometimes if the group got off to an early start, we would plan for an antipasto course to be eaten in the living room during the pre-feast music making.
Getting ready for the Quartet Group feast required a lot of preparation. Just moving the dining room furniture to buffet-ready positioning, dragging out the right number of serving dishes, glassware, china (no paper plates for this crowd) and utensils took hours. I can remember ironing tablecloths and any number of cloth napkins the day before. Then, there was food still to be cooked.
The food itself was often highlighted by multiple pans of lasagna, a baked pasta, or some other filling large-crowd main dish. The vegetable of choice was usually broccoli or asparagus with a potent family specialty garlic and lemon sauce. There was nothing special about the salads. There had to be something for those who did not want to reek of garlic. The bread was usually homemade garlic bread or made-from-scratch rolls. Dessert was always spectacular – mother’s signature rum cake or a delicious ricotta pie. There was sometimes a selection of desserts since some members of the group would bring dessert, Italian cookies or cannoli.
FHB, Oh No!
No sooner would the music stop than the crowd would line up for the eats. I was always unhappy when my mother would order us to FHB. This was code for “family hold back.” This meant the children were to go to the end of the line and hope that there would still be plenty of food when their turn came. Sometimes the pickings would be slim on some delectable dishes, and the choices limited. This usually happened when some members of the group had brought extra guests along. My parents were very gracious hosts and fed whoever and however many came to play.
My Place Was in the Kitchen
Once the group was fed, the musicians and guests would once more retire to the living room to either play more quartets or enjoy each other’s company. Often, someone would ask my siblings what they were playing for their next recital or audition. My parents were eager for their cherished, discerning and appreciative friends to hear my brother and sisters play and would urge (force) them to perform. This created a moment of panic for me. I was the non-musician, the black sheep, the embarrassment to my heritage and had to hide quickly lest the guests know (as if they didn’t already). I got quite agile at burying myself in the kitchen doing the clean up from the feast so that I could avoid being dispatched to the kitchen by my father.
As a teen, if for a moment it looked like I would be still around when the call for sibling performances was made, my father would order me in Italian to go help my mother. My lack of musical ability was a profound embarrassment to my family. Then, when I got the dishwasher loaded, leftovers put up and any pots and pans cleaned, I would sneak up to my room and hide, usually to do my homework, until the company left. Once the last of the company finally departed, I would come back down and help put up the dishes and reset the furniture, grab a snack from the remains of the feast and be glad that another soiree was done.
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