Back to Nonni.

 Italian I am not. However, living outside of New Haven, Connecticut, I grew up with one of the biggest Italian populations in our country. I'm familiar with a lot of Italian food, traditions and the beautiful customs that Italian-Americans enjoy. My childhood friend Rose would spend summers with her father who lived one street over and I would frequently observe her immigrant stepmother and father as they created a little Italy on West Street. I couldn't speak Italian and her stepmother didn't seem to know much English, but somehow during a hot summer day, I found myself semi-voluntarily peeling nearly scalding my palms, blackened peppers they roasted on an open fire in their backyard. I witnessed their canning process from start to finish. I remember watching the manure being offloaded by a old, dented truck that was backed into their long driveway, past the three story colonial in the very modest neighborhood in which I grew up. When it wasn't occupied, Rose and I would play in the furnished basement apartment. I couldn't believe how much room there was and we would find ourselves playing "pretend house" in that spacious area. I am not aware of what happened from manure to harvest, but I do remember the mounds of soil and plants growing. It wasn't until Rose's stepmom planted that hot, roasted pepper in my hands that day and motioned directions that I would find myself becoming part of their harvesting process. I marveled at their wall shelves deep enough to be jampacked with glass jars with the fruits of their garden. I'd never seen anything like it and I wondered when they would eat it all. There wasn't a single jar with a store-bought label on it. 
My friends and some family members are either from Italy, or 1st, or 2nd generation Italians. My own husband is an Italian citizen, but that's a "whole notha" story! To put it mildly, there are a lot experts floating around my world. If someone is Italian around here, you hear about it and you hear about it in abundance. Sometimes, all you hear is how great it is to be Italian even if it just means they are sitting around talking about being Italian–somehow there's a greatness in that. 

Recently at a baby shower, my cousin's brother-in-law told me about his mother's cooking schedule every week that he and his brother (my cousin's husband) experienced growing up with two Italian parents in New England. Nonni, who is beloved by all of us, is a master seamstress with lots of clients, but what I learned from her son, was that she was also a master breadmaker, a master lasagna and sauce maker and a master of a wife and mother. Tony had no idea, but I was completely enthralled in his description of his mother's weekly menu. I could not believe the fortune I happened upon as he began to list his mother's weekly schedule. She would begin with the numerous loaves of bread at the end of the week, as described by son Tony. He motioned with his hands demonstrating how she'd place the dough around the kitchen. I imagined dough rising on countertops and window sills with cloths over each ball. I then pictured her placing the floured and risen dough in to the tins for baking. The sauce would be cooked over the weekend. And, this would be the food they ate all week. And, by the following Thursday, that food that was started seven days prior would be done and Rosalba would begin the routine again. As he described his mother's food, you could almost savor it, his love for his mother's cooking was so apparent and heartwarming. I urged him to write this down as he shared her unique lasagna recipe which she had in years past promised to make with me one day. He spoke for over and hour about their upbringing and their cooking and I loved hearing every minute. I did not grow up with grandfathers and the grandmothers I had shared no ethnic recipes as they were too busy being single-mothers and offered no centuries old traditions that I know of. I envy people who grew up with family gatherings of traditional foods and as much as I've tried to make traditions of my own, I'm not sure my kids will ever get the same senses I heard from Tony that day.

Back to Nonni. Back to Tony. The last thing Tony described after uncovering her secret ingredient for lasagna was regarding his family's tomatoes. It was an annual tradition as is with every family that cans their own. Tony said they never had the same amount of jars filled. Some years, it would be 63, some years 45, he recalled as he pointed his fingers to motion how they counted after the end of each season. But, they'd be the only jars they'd open and use–never store bought–his main point being it was their labor that produced what they would consume. Hearing that I just thought, gosh I can't remember a single thing my family did together annually. What an incredible privilege to grow up in this kind of culture. Sadly, most families are not carrying this on. But, it's certainly incredible that he can share this tradition through story telling.

Most Italians are proud and their sauce is always the best. And it's true, on a certain day, with that certain pasta and the certain surroundings—without any measurements to Italy-boot—your sauce is the best. And, if it begins with the fruit of their labor, well, that's just the pearl in the oyster, isn't it?  I'll never mess with your Nona's directions nor criticize that she didn't use San Marzanos. I don't judge her if she doesn't fry her meatballs stove-top first or use Pecorino-Romano or fresh parsley as a staple garnish. And yes, I also chuckle when a recipe calls for two cloves of garlic as I learned is the correct response because who measures garlic? Italians don't. But, they do, "do it best." This, I know. And, if you don't know, give it a minute and an Italian will tell you.