excerpt from Chapter 20: "The Italian Connection"

“You-no-look-a-good. You-look-a-thin-you-no-eat-enough.”

I looked down at my seventy-two year old Italian grandmother, staring back with concern at my thin, pale face. She wore her lime green house dress with the pink diamond pattern, and a small gold crucifix dangled around her neck. Before I could respond, she turned around and motioned with her wooden spoon to follow her to the kitchen. I was instantly overwhelmed by the aroma of eggplant parmesan, spinach, garlic, olive oil and homemade mushroom raviolis. But even more striking was what I didn’t smell. There were no meatballs, veal, or braciole. My mother had told Nanny that she would have to retool her recipes to accommodate my vegetarian diet, but I still found it hard to believe. I turned to close the door and that’s when I saw it: Jesus was watching me.

On the back of the apartment door was a portrait of Jesus Christ pulling open his chest to reveal a sacred heart. I had seen similar depictions often as a child, but what grabbed my attention this time was his gaze rather than the gore. Stepping from side to side, his holographic eyes appeared to blink as they followed my movement. I even squatted down and, sure enough, Jesus lowered his stare. When I stood back up and turned to go into the kitchen, Nanny was there watching.

“You believe-in-a-Christ?”

I smiled to myself and pulled my attention away from the portrait. “I’m sorry, Nanny. I missed that. What did you say?”

She repeated in her heavy accent, “You believe-in-a-Christ?”

I hadn't had dinner with my grandmother in years, and I didn’t want to stir up trouble before we even reached the table. “Yes, Nanny. Jesus was a special man.”

Obviously unsatisfied by my evasiveness, she tensed her short, barrel-shaped body and pointed her stubby index finger at my robe. “But you-a-wear-a-these-orange-clothes?”

“These are the clothes of a meditation monk, Nanny.” I was speaking to myself as much as I was to her. Even though two months had passed since taking my vows, the gown still seemed odd to me.

“These-a-no-made-good. I-gonna-sew-you-a-better-one.” Nanny was always quick to offer critical input, but thankfully her remark was only a sidebar. “What-is-a-this-medication-monk?”

“It’s meditation Nanny, not medication. It’s a person who dedicates their life to the service of God.” I saw the frustrated look in her tired, worn face and cut short my explanation. My grandmother was confused, hurt and disappointed – but she still loved me in her own way. Softening my approach I took her hands in mine. “Never mind, Nanny. Jesus was one of the greatest human beings ever.”

“So-you-believe-in-a-Christ?”

“Yes Nanny, I believe in the Christ.”

She let go of my hand, quickly traced the sign of the cross, and kissed her fingers. “Oh my God, you believe-in-a-Christ! You believe-in-a-Christ!” Repeating this strange mantra gave her an excitement I had never seen before, and taking my hands once more, she pulled them to her cheek in a rare display of loving emotion before leading me to the small dining room adjacent the kitchen.

Table lamps lit the sparse living quarters through plastic-covered shades, and the fabric strewn throughout the apartment told me that she still supplemented her social security income by working as a seamstress for her neighbors. The room pulsed with the sound of more than a dozen cuckoo clocks, and the next two hours were filled with eating and gossip. I listened to her from across the table, alternating my gaze between the plastic flower centerpiece made by Aunt Olga and the swinging tail of the cat above Nanny’s head. She had a whole litany of complaints about her children, grandchildren, and friends, but they all revolved around a single axis – she was lonely.

Before she met my grandfather, Nanny worked as a servant girl for her adoptive family in southern Italy. He brought her to America after the First World War, and they settled in New Jersey, having six children in rapid succession. My grandfather died in a motorcycle accident only a few years later, and my dad became the man of the house at ten years old. Keeping food on the table became Nanny’s primary focus, and the older children had to work to contribute to the family income. What emerged was an ever-shifting picture of feuds and reconciliations, fueled by gossip, anger, and failed expectations. Nanny continued to host family dinners after Sunday mass, but over the years the constant strain alienated most of the family. Now my parents were the only regular visitors in the small assisted living apartment my father helped subsidize.

I took a final bite of my eggplant. “Thank you, Nanny. That was delicious.”

“You-should-a-eat-more. You-look-a-too-thin.”

“No thanks, I'm stuffed.”

She looked at me for a moment. “You gotta-eat-my-wheat-pie.”

Nanny’s voice was halfway between plea and reproach, and I understood that she was showing me love in the only way she knew how. “Okay, Nanny.”

She jumped out of her seat and brought me a large piece on a clean plate. I ate silently while she sat beaming at me.

“You-want-another-piece?” she asked.

“I can't eat another bite. But it was delicious, thank you.”

She hopped up once more, pulled out a box of aluminum foil, and walked over to the remaining pie sitting on the table. “You-bring-a-home-to-your-mother. She-a-likes-this.”

I stood up. “Thanks, Nanny.”

She escorted me to the front door, gave me a stiff hug, and whispered before letting go, “I’m-so-glad-you-believe-in-the-Christ.” There was a gleam in her eye, and it felt good to be a source of joy to a woman who knew so little happiness. I headed for the stairwell, hoping the ten flights down to the street would offset the heavy meal.

Nanny is on the far left, taken at our wedding in 1977