No, No, Nonna, or Nonna the Red Menace

It’s been a long, eventful, and what has turned out to be a blessed nine months. Now the little guy is happily ensconced in a well-upholstered bassinet in a Brooklyn second-floor bedroom. The visitors come daily. Other not-so-new mothers—sisters, cousins, and friends—arrive on a rotating schedule to burp, diaper, and bathe the new arrival, and to give the new mom a chance to rest.

It is only a matter of time before the nonnas visit; for some, the baby is their first great-grand. As they enter the apartment, they deposit on the kitchen table’s grey enamel surface an abundance of fruit, primarily huge navel oranges (for the mom to eat to “get her strength back “). They also open a brown paper bag, and out spill boxes of spaghetti, linguini, and spaghettini, jars of oil-packed anchovies, jars of capers, bunches of parsley, heads of garlic, and bags of breadcrumbs from the local panettiere.

“A little something to keep in the house,” says one.

“In case you can’t get to the store,” says another, “you can make pasta alici, pasta with anchovies.”

And the third triumphantly places a box tied with red and white bakery string on the table. “Some regina,” she says of the contents. The regina? That omnipresent sesame-seeded cookie that must accompany a cup of coffee. The implication? Of course, the nonnas will stay for coffee.

And then they approach the bassinet. Each in turn makes a sign of the cross on the little one’s forehead, then kisses her fingers and points her eyes heavenward—all the while watching for the reaction of the others to make sure they realize that hers is the most elaborate blessing. Each in turn holds the guy, squeezing his tiny feet, clasping his baby fingers, and saying , “Such long fingers; he’s going to play the piano.”

There’s no rest for the new mom now; she bustles about, making coffee, setting out plates of cookies, and answering questions about the upcoming christening.

“When?” one asks.

“Where?” asks another.

“Who?” is the most important question; it refers to the prospective godparents. The parents must assign them in a specific fashion “to keep the peace.” The nonnas approve the mom’s decison and then approach a most delicate topic, the real reason for their visit.

They set their smiles and begin.

“The baby has a beautiful bassinet, such pretty colors—all blue, and white, and yellow.”

The second picks up; she knows the drill. “Maybe there should be a little something red, though, no?” she asks quietly.

“A little something red—even just a ribbon—you know, to ward off the mal’occhio, the evil eye,” says the third.

The new mom is noncommital, she says, “We’ll think about it.”

The nonnas prepare to say their good-byes; each stops at the bassinet to kiss the baby while she digs her hand into the pocket of her front apron and goes through a sort of gyration. The first bends as if to pick something up off the floor. The second seems to be realigning the top of the mattress, lifting it ever so slightly. The third adjusts the ruffled organdy that covers the hood of the bassinet.

They say their farewells to the new mom and leave.

Several hours later, the mom strips the bassinet to put the sheets and coverings in the wash. She finds three small gold-colored safety pins attached to three tiny red ribbons, one under the skirt, one on the sheet, and one beneath a ruffle on the hood cover.

Pasta with Anchovies

Serves four

1 pound pasta (spaghetti, thin linguine—any long, thin pasta works fine)
2 cloves garlic, quartered
1 1/2 jars anchovies packed in olive oil
1/4 cup olive oil
6 tablespoons fresh bread crumbs, toasted
Salt and freshly ground pepper
Dash red pepper flakes (optional)
1 tablespoon capers, drained and rinsed
3 tablespoons, flat-leaf Italian parsley, minced

Bring five quarts of lightly salted (anchovies are salty) water to a boil in a covered pot.
In a wide, shallow skillet, sauté the garlic until golden with a little bit of salt and pepper. Remove garlic and discard.
Add the anchovies with their oil to the garlic-infused oil; simmer slowly until the anchovies dissolve. Stir in the capers.
Toss the pasta into the rapidly boiling water and stir. Do not cover.
Test pasta for doneness (after 6 to 8 minutes). Drain and fold it into the sauce. Over medium heat, shake the pan until the pasta is coasted with sauce.
Sprinkle pasta with bread crumbs and parsley; serve