When you hear the words, Italian grandmother, what image comes to mind?  A cute little old lady, wearing a crisp, white apron, hair tied back neatly in a bun?  Maybe she’s smiling beatifically as she carries a plate of pasta and meatballs.  She gently urges you to, “Eat, eat.”

Noona, my Italian grandmother, did not fit any of the stereotypes.  For example, she was a terrible cook and not just terrible, but also dangerous. When you sat at my grandmother’s kitchen table, you took your life in your hands.  Hepatitis didn’t concern  her.  She routinely prepared snails and mussels pulled out of an iffy part of Long Island Sound.           Trichinosis didn’t worry her either.  She handled pork in a cavalier manner even though our Aunt Chubby from Newark almost died from eating a bit of raw sausage.

But it was Noona’s chicken soup that scarred me for life.  She bought fresh chickens—very fresh—often I’d discover them tied up and still clucking in a burlap bag in her bathroom.  You can imagine how scary it was to see your dinner in the bathtub, tied up and screaming for mercy.

I don’t remember who killed and plucked the chicken but I do remember that Noona would throw the whole bird, bloody neck first, into a pot of boiling water on the gas stove in the kitchen.  Those little chicken feet sticking straight up over the edge of the pot is an image that haunts me to this day.

Even though she spent over fifty years in this country, Noona could barely speak English and could not read it.  Certainly, she was smart enough to do either.  She just didn’t think it was necessary.  She’d guess the meaning on various bottles and packages.  One morning I found her soaking her feet in a basin of Milk of Magnesia which, of course, is a laxative.  Another time, on a summer night, I noticed zillions of goopy bug bodies plastered on the walls of her apartment. Turns out, Noona had used a furniture polish as a bug spray.

Noona’s inability to read did not stop her from playing the stock market.  She worked with a Cuban broker.  He spoke to her in Spanish, which she didn’t speak.  She answered him in Italian, which he didn’t speak.  At least one morning a week, I’d hear Noona shouting to this guy on the telephone.  She yelled because she didn’t believe that a skinny wire alone could carry her voice across town.  As time went on, the two of them managed to make a killing on the stock market–which is more than I can say for my husband and me.

After many years in this country, Noona became a U.S. citizen.  She took full advantage of her right to freedom of speech, always expressing her political beliefs firmly and clearly.  Growing up, I thought Nixon’s last name was Bruta Bastia (phonetic spelling).  As you can imagine, those are naughty words in Italian.  On the other hand, Noona loved Hubert Humphrey whom she called Mr. Hongry.  One night, my parents and I were at our home in Connecticut, watching the national news on our living room television.  By this time, Noona had started spending her winters in Florida.  On the TV screen, we saw Noona standing on the Million Dollar Pier in St. Petersburg, Florida.  She trudged up to Hubert Humphrey, started pumping his hand and said, “You Mr. Hongry.  You good man.”

Growing up, I called my grandmother Noona, but everyone else called her Santa Mazzotta.  Santa, of course, means saint.  We think the name Mazzotta may come from the word matzada (phonetic spelling), which in Sicilian slang means to beat or kill.  In its own oxymoronic way, the name seemed quite appropriate for Noona.  Let me tell you a story to prove my point.

When I was in elementary school, my immediate family, an aunt and uncle, and a set of grandparents lived in a tenement building that we owned.  One day, I watched from the driveway as my distant cousin Tony (not his real name) climbed the steps to my grandmother’s second floor apartment.  The guy could have passed for Fonzie: slicked back black hair, sleeveless tee shirt, blue jeans, pointy shoes—the works.

Through the family grapevine, I knew Tony planned to ask Noona for a sizable loan so he could buy a car.  I also knew that there was no chance that my grandmother was about to fork over any money.

Standing in the driveway, I looked up at Noona’s porch, wondering if I should call the police. At the time, my corrupt uncle served on the force and could be over in a jiffy.  But then, I thought, no, I should call an ambulance, and the ambulance would be for Tony, my judgment-impaired cousin.

Sure enough, five minutes later I heard lots of shouting, Tony in English and Noona in Italian.  Next thing, I saw Tony scooting out of the apartment backwards and Noona waddling close behind. Tony stumbled.  Noona nabbed him.  I’m not sure what happened next except that Tony literally took flight down those stairs, never to return.

By the time I was twenty-eight years old, my grandmother had given up hope that I’d ever get married.  In her eyes, I was the oldest of old maids.  One afternoon, I made the mistake of dropping by her apartment with a friend named Bruce, a guy I was getting to know, but not actually dating yet.  Noona beamed.  She insisted on serving coffee.  By that time, her failing eyesight was more interpretive than perceptive.  So, she wound up handing Bruce a cup half-filled with grounds. Then, she snuggled up right next to him on the couch.  I held my breath.

Noona began, “Boots, you look like good American boy.”

Ever the gentleman, “Boots” nodded and smiled.

Then, Noona leaned toward him and whispered loudly enough for the neighbors to hear. “You marry my Debby and I give you twenty-thousand dollars.”

This proposal came as a shock to Bruce, but he recovered quickly and said, “That sounds like a great deal.”  We were married a year and a half later.  Unfortunately, Bruce never did get to see any of those twenty big ones, but he hasn’t complained yet.

My grandmother did not leave me fancy china or silver.  I didn’t inherit the tenement—urban renewal took care of that. And, most assuredly, I’m never tempted to use any recipes handed down from her. However, she did leave a unique legacy—a set of funny memories, one more improbable than the other.  And, like it or not, I’m likely on the way of doing the same for my grandchildren.