kathynorthup

My Nonna's Kitchen
by Kathy Northup

My mother’s father had twelve brothers and sisters, all of Italian-American descent. We called his mother, Nannonna, (nonna, grandma). My nonna was always in the kitchen, a loving and imaginative cook. With Nannonna and my Tatooch, (nonno, grandpa), our extended Italian-American family life centered around her kitchen table.

My nonna's kitchen was always kept gleaming and spotless, the place where the aroma of sweet smelling tomatoes simmered on the stove and homemade italian delicacies were placed on the table. Where a unison of “mangia, mangia” echoed throughout her loving table from my nonna, my gramma, my six loving aunts, and my mother.

My nonna's patio was just outside of her kitchen and was the entry way of my Tatooch's beautiful garden that consisted of robust tomatoes, multi-colored italian peppers, fresh basil, tall vine beans, and more. This garden created a prideful Tatooch to retrieve freshly grown tomatoes, basil, peppers, and beans for nonna to serve the endless amount of company that entered their home. You knew he had retrieved bountiful vegetables when he walked in with a smile with hands full of the most succulent vegetables that one had ever seen.

From these vegetables, my nonna would create a majestic table of dishes, all on a single gas stove. She made tomatoes with bruschetta and olive oil with garlic before it became the popular delicacy that it is today. From her hard-working hands, she would pound polenta and serve it with love. She fried up an assortment of fresh italian peppers and created a variety of bean salads from her freshly-picked assortment of vegetables. Homemade soups, pasta, antipasti, fresh cheeses, Italian bread, and homemade desserts would embody her round kitchen table that squeezed in aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends alike.

For holidays, my nonna, my grandma, my mother, and my aunts prepared elaborate multicourse dishes that included freshly made pasta, homemade soup, antipasti, fresh cheese, Italian bread, homemade dessert, and more. A remarkable accomplishment for a family the size that we had.

And then, there was the wine. My Tatooch was a connoisseur in the making of homemade wine. One taste of this hardy, bold red wine and you would quickly return for the next. He would put the homemade jug of wine in the middle of the table and encircle wine glasses for all to share. Nannonna would then follow in his footsteps as she served an array of peppers, melon, prosciutto and salami with chunks of provolone cheese. She would serve soup and lovingly instruct us to add a little wine to the soup to make it taste good.

But most inviting were the personalities and conversations of nonna, gramma, the aunts, my mother and dozens of relatives that frequented my nonna’s small kitchen. My little girl eyes watched as all the women sweltered over a hot stove, creating new and improved exotic dishes for their men and children to feast on. These are women who have built entire cuisines on leftover bread, who can demonstrate how to get 48 pieces out of a chicken or make a single egg feed four. In these days when many women scramble egg substitutes and swear by their microwaves, my nonna, my gramma, my aunts, and my mother tossed fistfuls of pasta into the pot and drizzled olive oil and garlic with cheese for a family snack.

Through the years many of the adult children of these matriarchs have tried to pin them down for written recipes. They continue to throw their hands up in frustration because they work without measurements or predetermined ingredients. Even when I have stood with my gramma while helping her cook, she instructs me like this, “you feel them", or “taste it and see” or "you'll know when it's right, just look".

These women, my nonna, my gramma, my aunts, my mother . . . the ones that rolled the dough, gently, molding it and me . . . between their fingers, warming me in their hands and developing in me the strength and love of generations of Italian-American women.

From the plates of these women, and my nonna's kitchen, I learned much more than the appreciation of fine italian delicacies, in her kitchen, I learned love.