Now and then… We’ve stood side by side in so many kitchens. Me in leopard print, you in a house dress, always with something on the stove and something wise to say. All the years have gone by, and still I find myself peeling garlic the “wrong” way. Into my hand, the way you taught me. Not the way they teach you in culinary school, but the way that makes sense in a real kitchen. I peel broccoli rabe stalks too, because you never believed in wasting anything tender. The plastic tablecloth. The espresso cups. The too hard cookies that need to be dunked in caffe latte. The RAI shows blaring on tv. The scent of simmering sugo. They were never just background. They were the altar where I learned how to be a woman. Cooking with Nonna started as a dream, but it became a phenomenon because of your inherent amore. Because people didn’t just see a grandmother in you. They saw their grandmother. Someone they loved. Someone they lost. And me? I was just here to “write it all down.” But you, you were the story. Even now, as #dementia slowly steals the words from your lips, I still hear them. In my memory. In the garlic. In the steam. And I promise you, Nonna: I’m still writing. Still learning. Still evolving. It never ends.