snatches—“I got you, girl” or “You’re as cold as ice”—words that, in her Italian accent, sound like sentences from a phrase book. She is in constant, sharklike motion, chopping, stirring, rinsing vegetables in the sink. Shaping veal meatballs in her hands, holding her fingers away from the meat as if she doesn’t want to get them dirty, palms only. Wiping the counter once, twice, again. And with each turn she makes she is teaching. Here is how you cut a potato, slicing it just so and slipping it into a pot of cold water to stop it from turning brown. You carve a tomato perpendicular to the stem. Sprinkle sea salt over cut eggplant in a sieve to drain the bitterness out.
Chicken stock, marinara, the soffritto —these are the essential elements of Nonna’s cooking. Each requires long, slow preparation, but once done, the rest of the work is relatively easy. Flavor, she says, builds up from the bottom. Nonna is a good cookbecause she has patience and because she can sense proportion. She has an uncanny ability to pinpoint what is missing—a pinch of sugar in the marinara, another bay leaf in the stock.
When Sharon comes home from work, she peers at the dinner in the white casserole dish and frowns. “Too much olive oil, Annalisa. I thought I told you.”
“Not so much.” Nonna smiles and shrugs. “One tablespoon. Two at the most.”
“I got you cooking spray, remember? You said you’d try it.”
“I tried it. Terrible. Nothing but chemicals.” Nonna makes a face.
“You know, olive oil is actually good for you, Sharon,” I interject.
“Well, we don’t need the calories. Any of us,” she says, clearly irritated that I’m taking my grandmother’s side.
“Calories, pah,” Nonna says.
“I just want to live a long and healthy life. I want Louis to live a long time, too.”
“I lived a long and healthy life already, and I never ate cooking spray. You want skinny, not healthy,” Nonna says.
“I want both,” Sharon says.
Nonna turns back to the sink and starts noisily washing dishes. “Tell your father we’re having fave e cicoria .” Fava beans and chicory. “His favorite. Unless that woman has forced him to change his mind.”
Sharon snorts. “That woman, Annalisa, is still standing right here.”
“I know she is. Purtroppo ha uno cervello come uno cetriolo .”
Unfortunately, her brain is as fleshy and watery as a cucumber.
Sharon doesn’t speak Italian, but Nonna’s message isn’t hard to figure out.
Later that night, when Nonna and my father and stepmother have gone to bed, I wander into the kitchen and plug in my laptop. Dial up. It takes forever. But there, in my inbox, is exactly what I am hoping to find.
No message from you
What’s going on, I wonder?
Run off with a dwarf?
I click “Reply,” then think for a moment, staring at the empty screen. Then I write Lost my job. Weighing my options.
I log off and go to bed, the rest of my life hanging in the balance.
It’s Wednesday, midmorning. My cell phone is ringing somewhere in the house. I spring from the couch and scramble around trying to find it, like a dog on the scent, cocking my head and listening. The ring tone is the theme song from The Partridge Family, which I downloaded from the Internet as a cultural in-joke, and it’s really annoying. Now it’s repeating the entire song. “Hello, world, hear the song that we’re singin’ — C’mon, get happy! A whole lot of lovin’ is what we’ll be bringin’ — We’ll make you happy!”
Yes, it’s upstairs. I bound up two steps at a time, swinging on the railing around the corner, and skid into Sharon’s dressing room. There I fall on my knees, tossing clothes and shoes into the air before glimpsing the silver phone on the narrow arm of the sofa. The little window reveals a now-familiar 207 number.
“Hey,” Rich says when I pick up. “That sucks about your job. Are you okay?”
I appreciate that he asks how I am before going
Chicken stock, marinara, the soffritto —these are the essential elements of Nonna’s cooking. Each requires long, slow preparation, but once done, the rest of the work is relatively easy. Flavor, she says, builds up from the bottom. Nonna is a good cookbecause she has patience and because she can sense proportion. She has an uncanny ability to pinpoint what is missing—a pinch of sugar in the marinara, another bay leaf in the stock.
When Sharon comes home from work, she peers at the dinner in the white casserole dish and frowns. “Too much olive oil, Annalisa. I thought I told you.”
“Not so much.” Nonna smiles and shrugs. “One tablespoon. Two at the most.”
“I got you cooking spray, remember? You said you’d try it.”
“I tried it. Terrible. Nothing but chemicals.” Nonna makes a face.
“You know, olive oil is actually good for you, Sharon,” I interject.
“Well, we don’t need the calories. Any of us,” she says, clearly irritated that I’m taking my grandmother’s side.
“Calories, pah,” Nonna says.
“I just want to live a long and healthy life. I want Louis to live a long time, too.”
“I lived a long and healthy life already, and I never ate cooking spray. You want skinny, not healthy,” Nonna says.
“I want both,” Sharon says.
Nonna turns back to the sink and starts noisily washing dishes. “Tell your father we’re having fave e cicoria .” Fava beans and chicory. “His favorite. Unless that woman has forced him to change his mind.”
Sharon snorts. “That woman, Annalisa, is still standing right here.”
“I know she is. Purtroppo ha uno cervello come uno cetriolo .”
Unfortunately, her brain is as fleshy and watery as a cucumber.
Sharon doesn’t speak Italian, but Nonna’s message isn’t hard to figure out.
Later that night, when Nonna and my father and stepmother have gone to bed, I wander into the kitchen and plug in my laptop. Dial up. It takes forever. But there, in my inbox, is exactly what I am hoping to find.
No message from you
What’s going on, I wonder?
Run off with a dwarf?
I click “Reply,” then think for a moment, staring at the empty screen. Then I write Lost my job. Weighing my options.
I log off and go to bed, the rest of my life hanging in the balance.
It’s Wednesday, midmorning. My cell phone is ringing somewhere in the house. I spring from the couch and scramble around trying to find it, like a dog on the scent, cocking my head and listening. The ring tone is the theme song from The Partridge Family, which I downloaded from the Internet as a cultural in-joke, and it’s really annoying. Now it’s repeating the entire song. “Hello, world, hear the song that we’re singin’ — C’mon, get happy! A whole lot of lovin’ is what we’ll be bringin’ — We’ll make you happy!”
Yes, it’s upstairs. I bound up two steps at a time, swinging on the railing around the corner, and skid into Sharon’s dressing room. There I fall on my knees, tossing clothes and shoes into the air before glimpsing the silver phone on the narrow arm of the sofa. The little window reveals a now-familiar 207 number.
“Hey,” Rich says when I pick up. “That sucks about your job. Are you okay?”
I appreciate that he asks how I am before going
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