My father and his family were Italian immigrants. This poem describes on evening when I stayed with my grandmother, watching her magically create pasta and her kindness to a stranger.

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In the 50s I stayed days with my nonni*

at their home in east side Detroit.

I basked in stories steeped in family

and arms that swept me up

in merriment or just because.

Passion ran a river -- I took it for magic.

I recall Nonna Luisa’s long chats

at the tomato-vined fence

trading tales, sharing garden goods

with other immigrants, grateful

for abundant farina, tomatoes

for a family here she could feed.

Yet her eyes spilled tears,

remembering hunger in the old country –

days of toil to keep the village oven lit,

baking bread for neighbors

lost in debt -- men at war never returned.

The best times were watching Nonna

in pasta-making ritual: set out

(never-measured) farina, eggs,

warm water -- offering a prayer

for many guests to sit at that table

sharing food amid a background

of laughter and common language.

Magic in fingers filled a hollow of farina

with a dozen eggs, bit of water –

magic in hands kneading and rolling dough.

Nonna said I had the magia**.

All I had to do was watch and learn.

One Christmas Eve I awoke

to Nonna gathering ingredients

for Christmas ravioli. We kneaded and rolled,

cut large squares, filled each with ricotta,

pressed ruffled edges. Magic that day.

Later that day, a stranger knocked,

hunger in his eyes.

Nonna bade him sit

offered him bread and wine,

cooked newly-made ravioli, ladled red sauce,

added parmesan cheese -- served her guest.

He thanked her in halting English.

On his way out, Luisa handed him packages.

“For you and your family,” she told him.

* nonni (Italian: grandparents)

** magia (Italian: magic)

By Mary Anna Kruch

From: United States

Website: http://www.maryannakruch.com

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