I watched Nonnas today. Netflix, a couch, a body that’s been under the weather, the kind of day that still feels padded around the edges. It was, well, I don’t say heartwarming lightly, but it was.

Word Raccoon was there too, wrapped in her hooded robe that feels like being inside a stuffed animal though she would never stoop to wearing anything actually animal themed, suspicious at first. 

She hasn’t been hungry in days. Not really. Not for food, not for much of anything. Though she did get into the leftover Christmas cookies today and did not even bother to hide the crumbs on my writing table.

But somewhere between the kitchens and the arguing and the shrugs of Nonnas in the film who have lived long enough to know better than to dramatize everything, something shifted onscreen in the restaurant where they fed everyone like family. 

Food appeared. Real food: the Holy Trinity in a Dutch oven, stirred with oil and love. Charred garlic (didn’t know that was a thing) with rosemary and steak in a grill pan. Lasagna. Basil so green I could almost smell it. Limoncello-in-shot-glasses served in a beauty parlor. The kind of food that says, this is what we do, this is how we love.

And Word Raccoon was transfixed. Especially seeing the Dutch oven. 

It wasn’t just hunger for what was on the screen, though that was part of it. It was hunger for translation she felt. For taking what had been seen and felt and turning it into something else. Words, yes. Poems. Little architectures made out of attention.

After the movie, I napped. Then we, that is, I, wrote. 

Five poems, quick and imperfect and alive. They’re circling some of the same questions the film raised for me: family, devotion, solitude, and what we inherit. A couple of them travel to Spain, and we’re not sure how that is related to Italian food but it happened.

Word Raccoon would like it noted that while she is now thinking fondly about limoncello and the fun she had drinking it in a pool in Tuscany once upon a starry evening, she is not, at this time or any other foreseeable time, eager to try the sheep’s head featured in the film.

She asked me yesterday to order the ingredients for a simple chicken noodle soup, and I did, but it’s New Year’s Eve which means appetizers and desserts only. She will just have to wait for its dubious medicinal powers until tomorrow. 

(BTW, Happy New Year’s Eve, loves!)

And no, she is not getting limoncello any time soon, because alcohol is still verboten. On the other hand, the supplements I take to be sure I don’t lose hair with this medicine means I am, gasp, developing a widow’s peak. 

I am grumbling that I do not need more hair. My curls are more than sufficient. However, WR says the more the better. 

Fine, but I’m assigning her hair wrangling duty. 

If only I could get her to rescue the dining room table. It is after-trip, after-Christmas cluttered, and I’m beginning to notice. 

Do watch Nonnas if it sounds like something you might enjoy. It’s based on a true story, and it’s so sweet. Actually, I never say this either, but it was a little short to me. I wanted to see more of the cooking. WR agrees. 

That says it all. 

P.S. WR says I ought to warn you that they alternate saying tomato sauce and tomato “gravy,” and the latter creeps us both out.