Saturday, January 27, 2018.
6:00 PM – After an eight-hour rehearsal, our bodies ache, our voices strain, and in our haze of exhaustion, the pang of hunger clenches our empty stomachs. As if she can hear the rampant grumbling in our bellies, my phone lights up with an ethereal ring. The dainty voice laced with Italian dialect on the other end of the line says, “Gabriella, the sauce is heating on the stove. I’ll make some pasta? Bring your friends.” Without a moment of hesitation, we run to the car and sing, "Grazie, Nonna" all the way down Route 9.
Before you enter dinner at Nonna’s, there is one custom you must remember – the word “no” does not exist. If Nonna asks you if you would like to taste this prosciutto, caponata, green tomato, mozzarella or frittata, the answer is yes.
Always yes.
Not only because she never has, and never will, let a guest go hungry in her home (to do so would be to deny her religion), but because she knows that your stomach, palate, and mind will thank you for that taste and keep you coming back for more. Prepare to be replete.
When we arrive, we are greeted lovingly with kisses, hugs, and the undeniable aroma of fresh tomato sauce boiling on the stove. Nonna’s smile beams as she offers us a seat at her impeccably set table, complete with a heaping pile of parmigiano-reggiano, a loaf of freshly cut pane, and that classically translucent bottle of Aqua Panna.
Almost immediately, we are handed a piping hot bowl of brodo with a poached egg. It sends a surge of warmth through the body as we settle into our gratitude.
At the start of the first course, Nonna apologizes for the lack of dinner and promises to make a “fuller” meal next time. Keep in mind that the tablecloth has virtually disappeared under the number of plates that are presently covering its surface. If the lack of vacant space in our bellies is any indication of the fullness of this dinner, a “fuller” meal would result in spontaneous combustion.
We ask her to sit, but at once she refuses. This is to be expected. To ask Nonna to sit while there is still cotoletta to be made, salata to be prepared, and vino to be poured would be a physical impossibility. Rest is only achievable after the meal is fully served and every plate is filled with her own.
Once the final pot has left the stove, Nonna pulls up her chair. We applaud when she finally decides to get off her feet. As she tells her story from her seat at the table, she continues to instinctively eye the back burner that is heating the espresso that will commence the meal with a cappuccino and biscotti.
When we finally decide to depart, our bellies full and our appetites exceptionally satisfied, there is a quiet moment of graciousness that radiates the room. It is the realization that a seat at Nonna’s table means that you have become her family. When she cooks, she embodies the conversation, kindness, and an unbreakable friendship that food welcomes us to share.
It is the remedy for aching bodies, the soothing relief for strained voices, and the home to those who are yearning for it. While we can feel the slight tinge of heartbreak that comes with the end of our night at Nonna’s, we may leave in the comfort of knowing that the door is always open.
