My Italian Nana

❤️ My Nana: Cherished Memories and Italian Comfort

I do a lot of remembering now that I’m older—and I’ve got plenty to remember. Some memories stick like glue, while others fade away. Oddly enough, the ones that linger are often the silliest. Why do I vividly recall Steve hitting a wiffle ball over the tall pine trees into the neighbor’s yard? No clue. Completely useless memory. But there it is, lodged in my brain like it’s the moon landing.

One memory I’ll never shake is of my Nana—the English translation of Nonna, the traditional Italian term. She’s the reason I feel such a strong bond with my Italian heritage. Watching her and her sisters play poker once a month was pure theater. They played high-stakes, cutthroat games… for pennies. The drama was real, even if the fortune wasn’t. No matter what I did, even when I was wrong, she never turned on me or turned me in. My biggest regret is not learning Italian or more about her childhood—a missed opportunity I’ll always carry.

I spent every weekend with Nana. She introduced me to my one true vice: coffee. I was probably four or five years old. Yes, that would probably be considered child endangerment today, but there we were at the kitchen table—hers, black with milk; mine, mostly milk and five sugars with a whisper of coffee. Basically, I was drinking warm coffee-flavored syrup.

We played 45s, our game. You only hear of it in New England. Maybe that’s why I don’t play cards anymore—it’s tucked away in my subconscious. It was our thing. In her eyes, I could do no wrong. I never saw her angry, and I never heard her speak ill of anyone—which is remarkable if you ever met my grandfather. She had her reasons!

Every Christmas and birthday, she gave me $50 in an envelope. But here’s the kicker: she always wanted the card back. It was recycled for the next holiday. That was serious money for a kid, even for a young adult, more than 50 years ago. She really couldn’t afford it, but it was one of countless sacrifices she made for me. She couldn’t spare the fifty, but she insisted on getting that card back so she didn’t waste the dollar. That’s Nana logic—generous to a fault, but frugal in the funniest ways.

Memories of Nana abound—summer evenings spent talking outside, and the massive, all-out Thanksgiving feasts. If you know Italians, you know this meant enough food to feed the 5th Fleet of the U.S. Navy. The meal always began with cavatelli, meatballs, and sausage—which, by any standard, was already a full meal. Then came the turkey, stuffing, and sides. She woke up at dawn to prepare it all. The only contribution she allowed from others was dessert. Which meant, of course, there were far too many desserts, and many went back home untouched. What I wouldn’t give for a cannoli now. Since she passed, we’ve gone through the motions, but it’s never been the same. She truly defined “one of a kind.”

There’s nothing like a cold New England winter—snow falling, freezing air. You could spend all day shoveling, building snow forts, or playing hockey, but the moment you stepped into Nana’s warm home, you were greeted by the aroma of sauce and meatballs bubbling on the stove, and the scent of Italian bread and butter warming. And then there was her scachatta, as she called it—a meat pie with ground beef baked inside dough. It was amazing. That, woven into my memory, is Nana. That was heaven.