My Nonna’s Kitchen

My Nonna's kitchen was a symphony of aromas. For my Italian grandmother, cooking was her love language. The air was always thick with the scent of olive oil, garlic, and her signature homemade tomato sauce (sugo). Her dishes nourished us and always left us wanting more. The lingering taste of only the freshest homemade ingredients was part of her signature style in the kitchen.

As I close my eyes, I can still see her, the Italian radio hour playing on Sunday morning as she begins. Pots clanging on stove tops, cutting boards covering the counters, and amidst this orchestrated chaos, I, a young and eager participant, would often stumble into the kitchen a couple of hours into her prep.

I was less of her sous chef and more of a constant presence in the kitchen, tasting the delicacies piled high on the stove. Despite the big meal ahead, I couldn’t resist snacking on the small bites readily available around me. Her fresh green beans were my favourite; I would often slide them off the plate before I had set the table. They were always perfectly blanched, generously coated with olive oil, topped with thinly sliced garlic, carefully arranged, and garnished with fresh parsley. I simply couldn’t get enough of them.

When she caught me grabbing one, she’d swat my hand away playfully — aspettare — (wait) — she’d scold with a grin before allowing me to grab another as I ran off. The job she often assigned me was to tell everyone it was time to eat. It was something I took pride in, calling out to my Italian grandfather, my Nonno, in his shop, rich with a different kind of aroma — namely motor oil and machinery — while my Nonna ladled the sugo into the pasta. Even the farm cats perked up, knowing that my Nonna would always graciously share the leftovers with them.

My Nonno, the last of eight children who grew up in Italy without always having enough to eat, was fairly strict with my brother and me when it came to meals. We were taught at a very young age that we had to finish everything on our plates, including the sauce, which we would scoop up with crusty pieces of warm bread. When it was just my brother and me eating with them, my Nonno would race us to see who could finish our meals first. He’d count down, and we’d start eating. Humourously, he took this competition relatively seriously. He always won and would lean back with a smirk, with his plate so clean he joked that ‘it could go right back in the cupboard.’

When the rest of the family gathered for larger meals around the table, especially during holidays like Christmas and Easter, the conversation inevitably shifted to talks of business, with my brother and me content with the plates of food in front of us. After the first course of pasta, plates with vegetables, including my favourite green beans, as well as rapini—an Italian-inspired leafy green —with a delicious crunch and bitterness. There would be several proteins —chicken, sometimes lamb, and fish.

I loved that my seat was next to my Nonna, who would notice as soon as my plate started to appear scarce and then call for certain dishes to be passed over so she could add more. “Eat, eat, Maghen,” she would say. I’m not sure if she ever heard me when I told her I was full, or if she just pretended not to. These meals were not just about the food but about the warmth and comfort of being together.

One time, when she came to visit me while I was studying at Carleton University in Ottawa, she looked around my student kitchen, horrified to find no suitable pots and pans. My assurances that I didn’t need one because of my reliable diet of microwave pizza and bagels did little to appease her. That day, she walked to the nearest Walmart and bought me a giant pot to make tomato sauce.

I hold these memories close, especially now that she’s gone.

In my Nonna’s last year of life, she lost her mobility. A stroke in the middle of the night left her confused, sitting on the floor of her bedroom the next morning. The dementia she was living with at the time only added to her immense struggle. My Nonno was in the hospital recovering from health issues of his own. With her mind and body both working against her, what happened next was all a blur: a phone call, a diagnosis, and paralysis. The emotional impact of her decline was profound, and it was a struggle to come to terms with the reality of her situation.

By then, I was living 15,000 kilometres away in northern Thailand. Updates on her health reached me via WhatsApp text messages, recorded videos, and calls. Seeing her decline pierced me to my core. It not only made me realize the fragility of life but also how I had naively viewed the one thing in life that is not guaranteed —time. There was never a moment I’d imagined that I wouldn’t have my Nonna in my life. Keeping my eyes on the screen and trying hard not to blink or risk unleashing the tears pooling in my eyelids, I’d tell her she looked wonderful and that I missed her cooking, especially her green beans.

On my last visit home before she had her stroke, she went out to the farm to forage for fresh eggs and asparagus. Eggs still warm to the touch and vegetables cool with mist over the summer night, with dirt still wrapped around the stems, freshly plucked from the garden. Within minutes, she whipped up another childhood favourite—frittata—which I had grown up thinking of as the omelette everyone ate, until I went to a diner as a teenager, ordered an omelette, and was confused by the uninspired, pale-yellow folded burrito on my plate.

I remember being completely mesmerized watching her flip the egg-covered pan without the vegetables, cooking oil, or excess egg slipping out from underneath. Her frittata was always perfectly crisp, evenly cooked, and circular. I used to practise in my family’s kitchen and once ran through a dozen eggs, plates dripping with the residue from my attempts. When I’d finally mastered it, I would evade chores by volunteering to cook lunch, preparing individual frittatas for everyone.

Living so far from home in Southeast Asia for the last decade, I made subconscious food swaps—rice for pasta, chilis for garlic, and fresh mint and basil for parsley and oregano. I ordered the occasional noodle dish, but wrapped in soy sauce and garnished with peanuts, not sugo or parmesan cheese. A part of me never even bothered to seek out Italian cuisine in Thailand, despite the many options, because I knew it would never measure up to how my Nonna cooked.

When her health began to decline, I leaned into my Italian heritage for the first time in my adult life. I started to regret not asking more questions about how she grew up or what it was like to immigrate to Canada from Italy when she was hardly 19. I knew so little of her struggle, only that she had ultimately overcome adversity through immense sacrifice and a willful, unwavering determination that became the defining charm of her presence. This regret underscored the importance of family history and connection, and it was a lesson I would carry with me.

I began to search for her in every possible way, despite the vast distance between us. The most logical place to start was the kitchen. I started by making my own pizza dough, followed by eggplant parmesan, frittata, and sautéed green beans. The familiar scents of olive oil and garlic brought back memories of my childhood. It was in these moments, when I’d feel overwhelmed by the recipes I was following, that I wished I’d paid more attention when I was in the kitchen with her. My seasoning was always off, and the ingredients weren't up to her high standards. But, still, I cooked, looking for her in every movement and adjustment I made.

Since she’s passed, I’ve found myself talking to her out loud, asking for direction as I fumble with the same clumsiness I had as a child in the kitchen. An arena that was never quite my forte, I imagine her teasing me and guiding me along. I stumbled upon a recipe for Olive Oil cake recently, and after mixing the ingredients, realized this was a cake my Nonna had made for me a dozen times. I stopped following the recipe and let my intuition and her voice guide me.

There continue to be moments of immense sadness and heaviness. It’s been almost a year since she passed away, and not a day goes by that I don’t talk to her or ask her a thousand questions. The reality of never having her home-cooked food again, or watching her effortlessly command a kitchen with such finesse and humour, has been challenging to come to terms with. The best I can do these days is try my best with the food I inherited, with the same love and humour that she brought to every plate.