The eternal warmth of Nana’s kitchen

A Reflection for the Memorial of the Passion of St. John the Baptist

Find today’s readings here.

It would be impossible for me to write this reflection about anything, or anyone, other than my Nana.

She died almost three weeks ago. The boundaries of this reflection could never explain the relationship we had or the place she occupied in my life. I’m sure if you’ve lost a close loved one, you have an idea of what I mean.

My Nana became our next-door neighbor when I was in elementary school. I ate dinner at her table every night until I went to college, and then on many happy visits home after. She was the person who taught me to appreciate food, wine, reading, travel, language and so many other things that make life interesting. She was also the person who taught me, by example, that family is everything and that each person is worthy not only of our love, but of our delight.

At her funeral Mass, my uncle’s words of remembrance situated us listeners in perhaps the most important place in our family’s world: Nana’s kitchen. Many people sitting in the pews, family and friends and family’s friends and friends’ families, knew from experience how lively and fun and warm that space could be. Nana was an excellent cook—and one who was as known for her signature Thanksgiving stuffing as she was for experimenting with new recipes and cuisines. She brought people together over good food and even better conversation.

It’s how Nana assembled the cast of characters around the kitchen table that reminds me of today’s first reading from Corinthians. It didn’t matter what you did, where you came from or how the world saw you. If you were loved by her or by someone in her family, and if you were willing to engage in a good conversation over a meal, you were welcome at her table. As my uncle described, you sat shoulder to shoulder with very old and very young people there. You conversed with friends you’d known for years and stragglers you didn’t know existed until just minutes before.

It’s true that everyone was welcome, but a sign, still hanging on the wall today, summed it up best: “Nana’s kitchen: where the best seats are reserved for grandchildren.” Around the table, the ten of us grandkids were treated as honored guests. It was as true for those who lived far away as those of us who lived next door. It was as true when we were babies as it was when we pushed 30.

A few months ago, we were discussing a shared memory from my preteen years over the phone; it wasn’t one that was especially flattering to me. I cringed, embarrassed by my immature behavior. On the other end of the phone, my Nana softly laughed. “You know, I could never have told you this back then. But I always liked you so much when you were being a little bit of a brat.” (I’ll hear her saying this, Boston accent and all, forever.)

To borrow language from Corinthians, I was not then, and still am not, wise by human standards, powerful or of noble birth. Nor was I even particularly well-behaved. My Nana delighted in me, in all of us, not despite our shortcomings, but right there when we were in the thick of them. It is the closest thing I’ve ever experienced to the way I hope and believe God loves.

Losing someone so vivacious, so brilliant, so essential feels impossible. But when I got on the train and came back to New York City, a piece of the kitchen came with me. May it live in my kitchen, in my home, in my heart—in the way I care for others and the way her all-encompassing love still animates me. 

Nana, “thank you” is not enough. I’m so proud I grew up sitting at your table. The stories will never stop being told.

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