Nonna walks into the kitchen to observe my cooking. When I was very young, Nonna had dark hair like I do, only slightly peppered with gray, but she’s since turned completely gray, although her hair is still long and wound into a loose bun behind her head. She keeps a pair of glasses with lenses the size of my fist perched on her nose at all times—I wouldn’t recognize her without them. She’s nearly ninety now, but there’s nothing frail about my grandmother. She proudly walks two miles a day around the city when it isn’t too icy, and her powerful arms are as big as… well, not tree trunks, but certainly paper towel rolls.
“It smells so wonderful, patatina,” Nonna says, smiling at the aroma of tomatoes, sausage, basil, garlic, and oregano. Ever since I was a little girl, she has called me by the nickname patatina, which means “little potato.” No, it is not a flattering nickname. But in Italian, it doesn’t sound so bad. And these days, Nonna usually favors Italian all the time. She always spoke in English when I was young, but as she gets older, she has switched back to her native tongue. I am fluent, but I’ve been told I have an embarrassing American accent.
“Thanks,” I mumble. It does smell wonderful. Why didn’t Joel want to stay with me when I could create a sauce that smells so good? Doesn’t he miss it? If he doesn’t miss me, doesn’t he at least miss my food?
“Joel… he is a fool,” she declares, as if reading my mind. She always pronounces his name Jo-elle. He used to hate it. It sounds like she thinks I’m a woman. I smile at the memory. “You are the perfect woman. How could he get anyone better?”
I let out a sigh. “Yeah, well…”
She brightens. “I have a perfect man for you!”
Oh God. Nonna has an endless stream of horrible men she’d like to set me up with. Each one is worse than the last. “No, thanks.”
“He is the son of Estelle, from book club.” She picks up the lump of mozzarella cheese and gives it a sniff. “His name is Robert. She says he is free any night of the week because he does not work.”
Fantastic. “I think I’ll pass.”
She puts down the mozzarella, apparently finding it satisfactory. “Did you find a new apartment today?”
“Not yet.” I pick apart a lump of sausage with my spoon. “The options aren’t great. There’s nothing good in Manhattan, and the stuff outside of Manhattan is a little better, but I’ll have a horrible commute.”
Nonna watches me for a moment. “You could live here.”
I nearly drop the spoon into the pot. “Here?”
“Yes, why not?” She gestures around the apartment, which she owns outright. “There is space here. And it is not so far from your work.”
Nonna’s apartment is in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. It’s a straight shot into the city on the D train. It’s more travel time than my current place, but it’s a dream come true after the locations I saw in Queens. “But where will I sleep?”
“I have an extra bedroom!”
Nonna gestures at the small room where she keeps her sewing materials. I dubbed it “Nonna’s Sewing Room.” It is, in fact, large enough for a bed （barely）， but I wouldn’t want to take away her sewing room. Nonna makes all her own dresses by hand. Granted, they sort of look like an old woman made them by hand, but she loves doing it. I don’t want to take her room.
“You need that room,” I protest.
She waves her hand. “My arthritis is too bad to sew much anymore. What I need is you, patatina! If I fall and break my hip, who will rescue me?”
“Nonna, you walk farther than I do every day.”
“Well, maybe I need to be there when you fall and break your hip.”