For me It was my Nana Russo… my Great Grandmother.

I can not recall the sound of her voice at all. But I recall she was very reserved and quiet. She had a heart attack when I was about 7 and not long after she was confined to a wheel chair, she passed away. Most of my memories however are of a “ fluffy” lady with waist length gray hair, which she wore in a braid or bun at the nape of her neck. She had cats-eye glasses and perpetually wore the old fashioned aprons that were more like a dress than anything. Mostly I recall that she always kept lemon drops in her pocket and used to sneak them to all her great grandchildren with a wink, a kind smile.

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While I only had her in my life briefly, I loved to sidle up beside her and watch her gently stirring the giant pots on her stove; tomato gravy, bone broth, and of course water for her handmade pasta. No matter the time of day, there was always a delicious aroma wafting throughout the house. In the morning, Fiore Di Sicilia with its hint of vanilla and citrus wafted from the oven, along with warm sticky pastries filled with fruit and pecans grown in the backyard, the scent of strong robust coffee, Italian sausage heady with the scent of fennel, and fresh laid eggs cooked over-easy in olive oil. (Her Italian version of an American breakfast!) The rest of the day was punctuated by the scent of garlic sautéing in olive oil, fresh meats like farm raised rabbit and chicken braising in huge pots of marinara “tomato gravy.” There was freshly baked crusty bread, and the scent of cheeses and herbs…

No one ever left hungry, and, while there was a, quaint, lovely living room, rarely did anyone sit there. The formal table inside was set with frilly, hand crocheted doilies and bowls of fake fruit (including the obligatory rubber grapes).  Long folding tables were placed outside to accommodate the large extended family.

As a small child, all iterations of these tables seemed enormous to me. Animated, boisterous conversations were punctuated by the clink of silverware on plates and, when the last bite was consumed, the ladies cleared plates and retreated to the kitchen. Meanwhile, the men gathered to continue conversations amidst a lingering haze of sweet red wine, earthy robust coffee and bourbon vanilla pipe tobacco. The only thing comparable would be the comforting scent of a crackling fire on a winter’s eve.

I am easily transported back to that moment… that feeling… that sense of identity and belonging. And, at heart of it all? My Nana Russo… my Nana… and my mom.

They are passed from hand to hand, not always recipes in the strictest sense, but techniques, methods, a few family secrets, and the idea that to care for those you love and keep them thriving they must be nourished. This “golden thread”, crosses all lines of culture… and in many cases similarities are astounding.

Perhaps it is possible to connect some dots. What kind of noodle, dumpling, sauce, cookie, warm beverage etc., is the one that nourishes your family — your story? What makes our stories similar or different? History ties the noodles from China to those of Italy. Many of these similarities exist in completely different cuisines.

There are so many ties that connect us all… in the end, they all provide sustenance, and bring us together. “You are what you eat” only scratches the surface of the idea that our nourishing experiences form our physical well being. Do the similarities in cuisine bring us together? Or polarize our cultures?

Where to start? The stack of ideas is daunting… this will likely be a meandering path along memory lane, with many stops and starts.

“Over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother’s house we go!”