Screaming, crying, laughing, and a whole lot of pasta. It’s just a normal evening at Nonnu’s.
I never got the choice to have a Sicilian family. I would say its like being taught how to swim by being launched out of a helicopter into the Mississippi river… if the Mississippi was made of pasta sauce. Okay, that is probably too dramatic. But I do wish I was given a manual.
My mother is the big sister of six brothers, and my brother and I are the oldest of Nonnu’s 13 (soon to be 14) grandchildren. Nearly every Sunday at 4:00, all 27 of us go to Nonnu’s house for dinner. And every weekend, my Nonnu and Grandma cook for all of us. There’s pasta, meatballs, Sicilian chicken, steaks. The food is, by far, the easiest and greatest part of being Sicilian. What I did not sign up for is the yelling. Oh, is there a lot of yelling. My Uncles yell at each other, my cousins yell at each other, my uncles yell at my cousins, sometimes my youngest cousins will just yell at nothing. Yelling is how Sicilians have a conversation. Sicilians only know one decibel. Another thing I did not know I was signing up for when I was born was that my family has to, at all times, know everything about my life. Do I have a boyfriend? I heard you went to the dentist last Wednesday, any cavities? I know you went to your friend Alyssa’s on Friday, why didn’t you tell me? They will know everything.
But nothing will ever compare to how much a Nonnu loves his grandchildren. My Nonnu will sit at the head of his table all night long, quietly smiling amongst all the yelling. His face will light up when he sees me, even if it has only been a week since you last saw him. He will constantly offer expresso, ice cream, cookies, eggplants from his garden. And all he asks for in return is a conversation and a game of Sicilian cards. And over time, I learned that to Sicilians, the louder you talk, the more you care.
I did not have a manual on how to a part of a Sicilian family. But I have not drowned (yet), and I realized that I actually love swimming in pasta sauce.
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