The air smells like roasted peppers and balsamic vinegar. We are all sitting around the dinner table stuffing our faces with creamy pasta and guzzling sparkling water while the TV. plays something ancient in the background. Correction: we are all sitting around the table except for my grandmother. A five foot figure with a tuft of bleached hair and a stained, bejeweled top zips back and forth across the kitchen. The mosaic of china slowly expands to cover nearly every inch of the embroidered tablecloth. By the time my father says, “Ma, sit down” for the third time, the pots and pans are put away and dessert is already on the counter. Once she finally takes her seat, she pours herself a glass of Prosecco. The evening is filled with her thick accent (two parts Italy, one part Boston, one part all her own) and tales of her daily antics. Gripping a piece of bread and moving her arms about, she recounts her day selling jam at the farmer’s market and going to the salon with her best friend, Kan, who is 40 years her junior.

“I’m old, but not in here,” she once told me with a laugh, pointing to her chest with a purple acrylic nail. When dinner is over and the Galliano cake is nothing but crumbs, she somehow procures more food to send me home with. She hands me a heavy grocery bag and wraps me tightly in her arms before smearing her lipstick on my cheek. She stands in the front yard and waves with a smile as we pull out of the driveway. I’ll see her again next weekend for dinner.