Nona’s Kitchen
Growing up primarily Jewish
we called my grandmother Bubby
When I moved down south,
my black grandmothers and I
were Memaw.
My Italian friends would bring me home
to meet their Nona.
I remember the first time I referred to my friends Nona
as her grandmother.
She stared at me and said no this is my Nona.
Nona is more then a name,
or a role,
it's a position of honor.
It's about how she gave birth to this family
and has been pivotal in the unfolding of its life.
There is something about the Nonas I have met.
They are loving,
giving,
supportive,
and firm all at the same time.
They are the only ones who when I was a size 16
told me I was too skinny
and needed some meat on my bones – mangia.
Every Sunday is a family gathering
and the women all gather in the kitchen.
This is where all the magic happens
Nona and the women are always cooking
and Nona always wants you to eat.
What we made varied from week to week
but there was also an extra bowl
of Sunday gravy.
Sauce was made during the week,
gravy was reserved for Sunday
and taught me the importance
and transformative power of a good gravy.
You don’t just throw a gravy together,
you take the tough cuts and they cook all day
and then they fall apart
and they melt in your mouth.
Gravy, she would tell me,
is like life.
It takes the toughest part of you
and makes you tender.
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