It all started in the kitchen, where most of life’s important decisions are made. Not in any intellectual sense, but in the stomach and in the heart. Making a ham sandwich for his little brother, Giacomo took down the bread from the pantry, untwisted the opening of the bag and pulled two slices from the middle of the loaf. They were thick and soft, perfect bread for a sandwich. He went to the fridge and pulled out the mayonnaise and spread a little on each slice, just a tiny taste. He put the mayo back before pulling out the mustard. That was one of the little tricks that his grandmother had taught him when he was younger. Small things like cleaning up as you go saves a lot of time once the meal was done.

He remembered that day a couple of years ago, cooking a meal with his Grandma on a Sunday. Sunday’s were when the big meals took place, all of the family gathered together in the afternoon, celebrating a good week finished and a better week ahead, and blessed be the lord for all that he provided. He was younger then, eight going on nine, and the only one in the kitchen helping Grandma prepare the multi-course meal. He was barely helping at that, too young to do much more than pass spices and clear away dishes, but he tried, and he observed, and he listened as she told him exactly what she was doing each step of the way; committing as much as possible to memory.

He pulled out the ham, thin slices of it, and folded them onto the sandwich. Food was as much about textures and feelings as it was about taste. Layering the ham created a better presentation and a more interesting experience when biting into the sandwich, another tip he had picked up, as opposed to just laying the meat on flat. There should be care and passion in every meal that you make, no matter if you’re cooking for a hundred people, or just yourself. The details mattered.

He was clearing away some pots when his Uncle Leo wandered into  the periphery of the kitchen. “Hey Ma, is dinner ready yet or what?” he remembered Uncle Leo yelling into the kitchen that Sunday. He had already finished a bottle of wine to himself. “We’re getting hungry here.”

Grandma winced and Giacomo saw her face fall just for a second. She took a breath and then smiled at him as she struggled to lift a pan out of the oven. Uncle Leo scoffed and walked back to the dining room to take his seat. Giacomo had looked at his Grandma again and resolved to try and help more. He pulled over a stool so he could stand up to the counter and began cutting bread and placing it in the basket.

“Thank you,” she had said to him, then asked him to bring it out to the family along with the oil and vinegar. That should hold them off for a while. Then she promised to share more secrets with him once he got back.

He pulled out a head of lettuce for the ham sandwich. He broke away the outer layers that had begun to wilt. There wasn’t much to lettuce on a sandwich in terms of taste so you wanted to get one of the pieces closer to the centre. They were thicker, harder, and provided a better crunch for the sandwich. Putting the lettuce back he looked for some cheese but couldn’t find any. Unfortunate, but he was going to have to make do with what was available. He did find a tomato which he put on the counter. He found a large butcher knife to slice it up.

That was when he noticed something wrong during that Sunday dinner. His mother had come into the kitchen asking about the pasta sauce saying she hoped Grandma hadn’t put too much onion in it this time. She always put too much onion in it, every week, and every week she complained about it but nothing ever changed. Grandma has pulled out a large butcher knife and held it in the air a second longer than necessary before using it to cut an onion in half. “There,” she said to Giacomo’s mother. “I’ll half it today for you,” and proceeded to dice up one half of the onion. His mother smiled but there was a nervous twitter in her eye. He thought she had already put the onion in the sauce when she had started it, but he wasn’t about to question her practice. Once mother was gone Grandma began cutting up the other half of the onion. “Tell me how to cook,” she muttered.

He cut two slices off the tomato and laid them on the ham, then closed the sandwich. He used the same knife to cut it in half and handed it to his little brother. His eyes were half closed and tired because of the late hour, Giacomo knew that they couldn’t rest yet. They had to keep moving.

It was just the two of them in the kitchen that Sunday, it was always just the two of them. Out in the dining room they could hear the rest of the family sitting around the table waiting. Uncle Toby sitting at the head was banging on the table and started a chant. We-Want-Din-Ner We-Want-Din-Ner they all called out. He could see Grandma wince again with every successive chant.

Then she smiled at him. She took two small bowls of pasta and ladled out some sauce onto them. “This is for you and your brother, okay?” He nodded. Then he saw her pull a bottle out from under her apron and poured a few healthy glugs into the sauce. “A little surprise,” she stirred it around to mix it in. She bent down to his level and whispered in his ear. “This is adult sauce now okay? Only for the grown-ups. You and your brother have your own, so make sure you don’t have any of this.” He nodded his head and she kissed his forehead, “Good luck.”

They were almost finished their sandwiches when the hall light flicked on. Both boys looked up to see a man in a housecoat staring at them. “What’s going on here, what are you doing in my kitchen?” He rubbed his eyes as they adjusted to the light. “Wait, aren’t you those two missing boys?”

They knew the drill. Giacomo and his brother grabbed as much food as they could and ran for the door, pushing the man down as they passed. This is what they did to survive.