I love Nonna don't get me wrong, but we come from different worlds.  I was born in to the America culture, Nonna has spent a lifetime trying to embrace it.  She loves America don't get me wrong, but somewhere deep down she misses Italy, a country she does not even remember because she was such a little girl when she came to America. 

Nonna is a wonderful cook, but it seems all she ever cooks is Italian dishes, good thing I love Italian dishes, but sometimes I ask her why she always has a warm bowl of Pasta Fagioli waiting on a cold day, or a piece of pizza fresh from the over.  Nonna says, that having Pizza from a box is not having Pizza at all. 

Nonna taught me to cook when I was six years old, Pizza, Pasta, soups, cookies, you named it, she taught me.  I loved making the dough for the Pizza and twirling it around like you see the chefs on tv do, they make it look so easy, but let me tell you it's not.

I love spending time with Nonna and all of my friends seem to love her too, but I hate that far away sad look she gets in her eyes, and the way she slips into Italian when she is mad.  If you hear her talking in Italian fluently she is either very mad or nostalgic I learned that long ago, and either case it is best to leave her be.

I am sixteen now, and still Nonna tries to feed me like she did when I was six.  Makes sure I come home from school with a warm plate of cookies waiting, fresh biscotti's to dip into hot chocolate or a cup of Mocha, though I prefer plain old hot cocoa, smothered in cool whip of course, but I tell Nonna now I am trying to stay fit. 

"Bella do not be silly, you are nothing more than skin and bones."

I look down at myself and realize how skinny I must look to her, but I do not dare pick up the warm biscotti's sitting on the counter, waiting for me to eat them.  Food is the enemy now.

To Be Continued