An unholy communion

This was supposed to be a story about food. With a recipe. Maybe even two of them.

I swear.

It was all planned out. For the traditional hard rolls that you see in the foreground, I'd hit up Beth Queen of Bakers for a homemade version; for those white-topped crumb buns crammed in with the rest of the pastries, Cousin Josephine was to be my accomplice. They are the best bakers that I know and I've never known either to back away from a challenge. (Except for that time when nobody would agree to help me make mortadella, but that's another story, and I've gotten over it. Almost.)

I love hard rolls and crumb buns, have since I was a boy. But neither is available in the place where I now live. This makes me crazy. Seriously. What's so difficult? I shouldn't have to call in the New York cavalry to get a job like this one done.

However, and as often happens, the truth got in the way of a good plan. I never did shoot Beth that exploratory email asking if she'd consider whipping up a batch of hard rolls, nor did I harass Jo about the crumb buns when we saw each other at Cousin John's birthday party a couple weeks back.

You see, the truth about this "food" photograph doesn't reside on top of the table with the baked goods and the juice glasses and the coffee cups. It's buried underneath all of that. And it haunts me to this day.

I really do wish that I'd never laid eyes on this old photo.

As you might have guessed, the round-faced knucklehead on the left is me; the other is Cousin Vito. We're dressed like this because we've just sufferred through our First Holy Communion and are about to dig into the post-event celebratory breakfast. In the Catholic Church this sacrament occurs at around the second grade, which would put Vito and me at seven or eight years old. First Communion is The Big Show for Catholics, the rite of passage equivalent to the Jews' bar and bat mitzvah, only without the lox, bagels and mazel tovs. You can see that our parents had to spring for some fancy new duds on this occassion, as neither my cousin nor I were known to sport all-white suits and matching, well, everything else around the Brooklyn streets on which we were reared.

It's the suit that haunts me in this photograph, not the baked goods. More precisely, the part of the suit that is underneath the table and away from view. One of the pant legs is torn open at the knee, the other at the upper calf. The seat is ripped. And around half of all the fabric isn't white any longer; it's street-asphalt black. If memory serves one of the elbows on my suit jacket is also compromised, though not enough to ruin the visual in this photo commemorating the holy event.

All this damage was done in mere moments, once Vito and I and our fellow second gradesmen had emerged from the church after the ceremony was completed. Apparently, milling about the slate-lined entryway to St. Rita's and reflecting on my first taste of the son of God appealed less than finding a ball and running into the schoolyard. I don't recall how many times my nice white suit met with the hot black asphalt, but it should have been apparent to a newly sacramented Christian that even one time was far too many.

Especially after what had happened before the ceremony. That was even worse.

On my way walking to the church, you see, I broke a radio antenna off of a parked car—and got caught. I didn't meant to break it; it just happened. But Joe Stella's father was looking out of his third-floor window at the exact moment that his antenna toppled to the curb alongside his Buick. He screamed at me to stay right where I was and when he got down to his car he picked up the antenna and started whipping it around like he was going to hit me with it.

"You're not going anywhere until you pay for this antenna," Mr. Stella shouted. "I'm taking you to your father right now."

Our apartment was half a block away and so me, Joe's father and the recently unattached antenna were home in a flash. Mom and dad were on their way out the door, on their way to the church where I was supposed to already be.

"You owe me money," Mr Stella shouted. "This son of yours broke this antenna right off of my car for no good reason and I want to get paid for it right now."

My poor parents. I'd already ruined the entire day. And it hadn't even started yet.

Dad and Mr. Stella moved down the street to settle my debt. I had to stay with mom, who was crying the whole time. The three of us walked to the church together but nobody said a word. After the ceremony, when mom and dad got a load of what I'd done to my new suit in the schoolyard, I'm surprised they didn't ditch me and go home by themselves.

I would have if I were them. Why waste a perfectly good spread of fabulous baked goods on a no-account numbnut who clearly does not deserve them?

An argument I surely will not be making to Beth and Cousin Josephine next time I'm looking to score myself some nice hard rolls and crumb buns.