I remember one Christmas in southern Italy at my grandparents’ home, when I was little, and my father was still alive. My nonna was cooking. I can still see her smiling face, and hear the songs she hummed to herself while she cooked.
Nonna was making a special Christmas treat: deep-fried walnut and honey pastries. As she made them, she piled them up on a plate next to the stove. Me and my cousins kept sneaking into the kitchen and stealing them from the plate. She’d pretend to be cross with us, and make us giggle with her sternness.