Dinner @ Nonna's

photo by Davey Gravey on Unsplash

Confession: I did NOT have a “Nonna.” My grandmas were reluctant cooks at best (Grandma Berrigan) and actively horrible cooks (Nana Cunningham) at worst. And my kids’ Nana (my mom Joanie) was worse still. So if I was ever inspired to, say, dedicate a restaurant to the cuisine of these lovely ladies, I’d immediately reconsider. It's hard to imagine a hangry crowd paying top dollar for Hostess Twinkies, Swanson’s Salisbury Steak, and incinerated green bean casserole.  

But I know many of you (especially those of Italian descent) did have both beloved and culinarily gifted grandmothers. And so, Nonnas, the movie I watched last weekend with Steve, might resonate. You could picture your own dear Nonna, slaving away in a commercial kitchen to prepare and serve her specialties from the Old Country. 

 

Not to give away the restaurant (for those of you with it in your Netflix queue): Nonnas is based on a true story, about an average Joe who wanted to honor his deceased Mama by opening a dining spot in Staten Island, using her cherished recipes. Complications aplenty ensue, all rapidly ironed out, but bottom line, he (Vince Vaughn, who appears uncomfortable with the proceedings) enlists a quartet of oldsters to be the eatery's chefs. There is great need for the willing suspension of disbelief immediately, because one of these gals is Susan Sarandon. I mean, come on! The rest of the posse consists of Talia Shire, Brenda Vaccaro and Lorraine Bracco, all capital M Movie Stars who have consented to being glammed down a bit. None of them can believably make world-class gravy (tomato sauce). I’d buy them joining forces to open a spa instead, or launch People magazine.

 

Seen through the smudged lens of my own experience, this is Theatre of the Absurd, because none of my feminine forebears would EVER vote to prep meals under pressure and for scant recompense; the ladies in the film are sweetly surprised when they get their little paychecks. Where, I ask, are the burnt offerings which were so central to my family’s kitchen lore? In this version of things: pastas galore, delectable desserts, lots of vino, and blissfully happy patrons at meal’s end. In mine? A couple of hours after our “repast,” we’d be hunting and pecking for something (anything) to quell our gnawing hunger. And we’d be refunding disgruntled patrons’ moolah to beat the band.

 

I’m delighted Nonnas is out in the world, and it really was a very nice diversion from the horrifying daily menu of political news. I do propose a Nonnas Two, however, for those of us with “different” grandmas. In my sequel, the Nons are quite annoyed that CUSTOMERS are arriving, because Oprah is still on! They will jolly well have to wait! And eat what they are served! And be darned grateful there’s food on the table at all! 

 

Anyhoo, enjoy Nonnas, a heaping helping of cinematic tiramisu. And if you recognize your own Nonna there—don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.

What's in a Name?

Ark full of boringly named critters

We have SO many chances in life to name things. Towards the beginning, God tasked Adam with naming the animals. I maintain that the Lord goofed mightily by not tasking Eve instead. Women just do this kind of thing better. Wouldn’t “fluffball” have been superior to “kitten”? Or “black tie guy” for penguin? But no, we got: “dog.” Thanks, Adam!

Think about it, though. We have a sacred responsibility to name our children, for example. Do we really comprehend the lifelong effects on the monickers we bestow? Talkin’ to YOU, mom of Lady Gaga Smith! Several of my personal offspring changed their names (granted, they decided to use their first/middle names instead--which I took as a rebuke of my name-ordering skills). As for me, I could have changed my middle name MANY TIMES over the decades. In my youth, I yearned to be glamorous Elise Veronica, instead of the plebian Elise Ann, but as of today I still sign “Elise Ann” on all manner of legal docs. A sad surrender.

 

Beyond scarring our kids for life, we also get to name our pets. We name our new businesses. We name our music compositions and essays and inventions. The upper crusty among us name our homes--and our summer homes too, which for many of us are the exact same edifices as our winter homes! The quirkier of us even name their cars (one of my high school friends dubbed her Mustang “Sally,” and I confess that my bright orange Gremlin was widely known as “The Great Pumpkin.”)

 

But let’s not stop there. There’s a whole world of ho-hummery out there, just waiting for zippy new names.

 

My inspiration for this post is Janet Trefethen of Trefethen Winery in Napa (and you gotta love a winery producing an excellent red blend called ”Dragon’s Tooth”). Anyhoo, Janet is getting on there (she’s vintage! Vintage!) and she suggested naming a retirement community on her property...Noble Rot ("botrytis vinifera," look it up). Think she's joking, but love that! 

 

Who needs another Green Farms Valley Seaside Mountain Estates or The Rich Retirees Residence at Springfield? A little originality, please! Were I to randomly be tasked by the Lord, or a real estate developer, with naming the multitude of 55+ residences popping up all over as we Boomers get old simultaneously, I'd accept! 

 

Here are a few thoughts:

 

Epilogue (for writers)

Curtain Call (for actors)

Coda (for musicians)

Final Buzzer (for sports folk)

The Last Hurrah (for fans of the Spencer Tracy movie about an old Boston pol)

Cocoon (for fans of the Ron Howard movie about seniors who stumble upon a fountain of youth)

Forever 91 (for those nostalgic about fast fashion in shopping malls)

Bestselling author Bill (Wm) Shakespeare once penned, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.” I beg to differ. Can you imagine gifting your sweetheart with two dozen red…stinkblossoms? She wouldn’t be your sweetheart for long!

 

Name on, my friends!

Stinkblossoms? Aww, you shouldn't have!

High (Flying) Anxiety

Photo from CDC on Unsplash

Didja hear that shoe removal is no longer required when going through airport security? Now, mind you, it has been, shall we say, a teensy overreaction to the one and only incident involving a would-be shoe bomber 20 years ago, but we all bought into the fear that someone’s beat-up Keds might harbor an explosive device, so off came our shoes! In recent years, those with TSA clearance did NOT need to free their tootsies (which to me rendered the whole exercise useless—what, a possible shoe bomber COULDN'T have TSA clearance?) But I do look forward to one less step (get it?) in the air travel process.

It did get me thinking of regulations and rituals around the flight experience. We’re still stuck on the 3.4 oz of liquid in carry-ons (though that too might change soon). I remember returning home from our mission trip to New Orleans, and one of the youth had purchased a can of alligator meat as a souvenir. Guess what? Canned gator counts as a liquid (I guess because of the way it’s preserved?) Josh was so sad as the agent rather gleefully threw the can away.

 

We still have to sit through the presentation about the lights in the aisles and the slide and the inflatable seat cushions, even though we’d all instantly perish in the event of a crash into the sea anyway. And I am positive I’d put the oxygen mask on my kid before my own, ensuring we’d both pass out. Just not well-equipped for emergency decisions, that’s me.

 

I have been grateful for improved airline safety over the years, though now we are backpedaling on that by firing 99% of the air traffic controllers. Soon the flight attendant will start assigning the window seat people the task of watching out for other planes about to hit us. 

 

And, not to sound all Andy Rooney, but whatever happened to our FOOD on the plane? I have never flown anything but economy, yet vividly recall actual hot meals served, even on flights between New York and Atlanta. True, they weren’t the tastiest, but they were at least a small perk. Recently, I flew nonstop from Philly to Seattle. WE GOT NOTHING. Not even those horrendous Biscoff cookies! And the beverage cart made one, breathtakingly brief, appearance. But that was OK, I was too distracted by the pain in my legs from being doubled up in my seat, to worry about nourishment! Extra leg room now costs…extra! It won’t be long before they start charging to sit down (we’ll all be standing like on the subway, holding onto overhead straps during turbulence.)

 

Believe me, I am grateful that the Wright Brothers figured all this out. We’re headed to Southeast Asia in the fall, and I have no idea how else we’d get there (swimming not an option; I can’t swim). And I do appreciate that one item, a prior staple, has largely disappeared.

 

Anyone miss barf bags? I didn’t think so.