The women at the kitchen table

My Nanny is 100% Italian. She grew up in South Philadelphia, where her father, Francesco, settled almost right off the boat when he emigrated from Naples. When I was little my mom would take me and Nanny to South Philly often so Nan could visit with her sister, Gloria, and her mother, Nanny Massanova. (In my family, all the nanny's had a last named attached to avoid unnecessary nanny confusion.)

In those bygone days, South Philly was strictly Italian. If you are not familiar with the area, picture very narrow city streets filled with row homes. People have to jump the curb when they park on these streets in order for cars to be able to pass through. Every corner has a deli or a bakery. There are boys on these corners in jeans and wife beater t-shirts and they all smoke Marlboro Reds.

Nanny Massanova's house was three stories tall and about 20 feet wide. Seriously, it was the most narrow house ever. And it was filled with enough furniture to decorate the entire block. Think over crowded. The kitchen was so small that if we all sat around the table the room was unnavigable. I always had to sit in a folding chair in front of the fridge -- the lowliest spot on the totem pole. Whoever sat in front of the fridge had to get up and move their chair whenever something was needed from the "icebox" as it was referred to.

There was always a pot of gravy on the stove. Gravy with sausage and meatballs. Torpedo rolls from the corner store in a paper bag on the counter. A silver peculator on the stove that brewed the worst coffee imaginable. A plastic table cloth with granules of sugar spilled on it.

I can see it. I can smell it.

Those days are gone forever. Nanny Massanova died in 2001. Aunt Gloria died in 2003. And Nanny...my Nanny...Liz's Nanny...well, she will never be the same.

She called me this afternoon to chat for a few minutes. She said she needed to call Liz too. It scared me a little, as she doesn't regularly call.

After I hung up I went in the kitchen and began to cook. The smell of garlic permeated the room and I remembered Nanny Massanova's kitchen. Me, my mom, my Nanny, Nanny Massanova and Aunt Gloria all cramped in that tiny kitchen. I remembered it all. And I hurt. Deep inside, in the hollow place that begins to be carved out as you get older and loose people you love. We are not born with that place...only the passing of years can make it happen.

So I hurt. And I wanted to go back for an afternoon...an hour...a minute. I would even volunteer to sit in front of that stupid fridge again.