food my great grandma used to cook

It's funny. I barely remember my Nonni, but the memories I do have are all wrapped around food, like prosciutto around a melon.
She was Italian, and spoke no english, after 75 years here. Our shared language was food. Cheerios with banana sliced painstakingly into the bowl by her wizened old hands. A soup of beef broth with pastina, egg and parmesan. Homemade marinara gravy with roasted sausages simmered in it all day long.
This woman never left the kitchen. God forbid she should set foot in the pristine parlor, or rest her haunches for a minute on the living room couch in front of the t.v. No, her t.v. was a smaller one she watched in the kitchen while cooking. I think that Italian females of this and successive generations felt like less of a woman if they were not constantly and steadily supplying nutrition in the form of bread with plenty of butter, tiny handmade pastas, endless vinegary anti-pastas with peppers and onions, canoli, wine(yes, even as children, we would get wine with ice cubes), and cake from the excellent bakery down the street. I can't help but to love this form of attention. It is pure heaven to sit at a formica table and watch your flesh and blood bustle about as they prepare a meal for you. Even better to sit in a noisy swirl of family at the table; women constantly flowing back and forth from kitchen to table, menfolk drinking liquor between courses, grandma hiding the bottles, eating, talking, and being together. I should have been born an Italian man.