Grandma Cassanese

She made pasta,

From scratch.

Cut noodles,

By hand.

Hung them

On the back

Of ancient wooden dining-room chairs.

She killed chickens,

By hand.

Wringing their necks,

While holding their heads

Under water—

In an old zinc bucket.

She baked bread,

So big that one slice

(Cut in half)

Made a sandwich large enough for two.

And, oh, the aroma.

“Hmmmmmmm …”

She kept a loaded gun,

In the kitchen,

“Just in case.”

Stole it once.

She wasn’t happy.

Threatened to wring my neck.

Never stole it again.

Her parents came from Italy.

She spoke five languages

Well-enough

To run a store.

Smart, tough, feisty.

(Yet under 5-foot-tall.)

“Grandma Cassanese”

Says it all.