Italian Women Cook

by Joan Mazza

The people who give you their food give you their heart.

—Cesar Chavez

We open our eyes before dawn, awake
to the necessity of food, its sustenance
and the sensual savoring of tomato sauce,
meatballs with fresh parsley, fried in olive oil,
the bite of pasta al dente, not overcooked
to mush. The dented colander, the scoop
or a large cup for grandmothers too poor

for a silver ladle. Greens picked fresh
from a backyard garden in the middle
of the city. Beans that stretch one chicken
served to twelve. No pets, no music except
Sinatra plays in the Levittown landscape—
homes built by uncles in construction, who
speak a fractured dialect of Sicilian-English

and send their kids to college. Long tables
spread with breads passed hand to hand
to daughters with long red nails, manicured
at home. I summon them to my oak table
with rapini and linguine, stuffed artichokes,
chicken with lemon slices, slivers of garlic.
A rotary grater with Pecorino Romano cheese.