The Indomitable Spirit of My Immigrant Family
- Elizabeth Ricketson
- Jun 17
- 7 min read
By Elizabeth Ricketson:
The film Nonnas (streaming now on Netflix) is based on the true story of Enoteca Maria, a restaurant on Staten Island that employed nonnas (Italian for grandmother) as chefs. Starring Susan Sarandon and Vince Vaughn, who plays the lead character of restaurateur Joe. I was anxious to view this new Netflix offering because I knew the film would resonate with me. My paternal Italian ancestry would be represented on screen. I couldn’t wait to watch. My husband, Jon, and I watched it last night without disappointment. I was all in as soon as the first scene was in play.
My ancestry is from northern Italy, the Alps in particular. I grew up in a large Italian family. My grandparents immigrated from Italy passing through Ellis Island what feels like a zillion years ago, culturally. A very different time and attitude toward the contributions of immigrants. Their struggles were real and not to be diminished, but their contributions were once respected and not demonized. My father, the youngest and the “baby,” had my grandparents’ names engraved on the wall at Ellis Island, marking their immigration into this country. Proud he was, and so was I.
The cooking scenes in the movie intertwined with my own memories as I watched. I remember the cooking aromas that I could never recreate in my own kitchen, but the sense memories of my grandmother’s kitchen on Whales Street in Taunton, MA and my Aunt Ennis’s on County Street remain with me forever.
When I was little, after kindergarten I would be at our family grocery business with my dad, and we would go to my grandmother’s house for lunch. We would walk in via the back door and into the kitchen, where immediately the warmth and aroma of Noni’s cooking would greet us. My dad would sit down at the head of the table, located closest to the door. There was always a place setting ready for him so that not a moment of his busy day would be wasted. My dad would often tell me that while it was he and his brother who built the business, it was my grandmother who was the real businessperson. She was strong, smart, and capable with a true acumen for business.
Dad would scarf down his homemade pasta lunch that had been kept warm for him, my grandmother knowing he would be in a hurry to return to the store and the business they were building. I would run to the front room and “play” the piano she had purchased one payment at a time. I still have the written record and the piano. I would bang away loudly on the ivory keys, and she would encourage from the kitchen in broken English, calling to me “beautiful dolly.” My poor father endured the childlike concert and original compositions without complaint. Italian.
My grandmother would worry about whether my dad would take time out of his workday to eat, and on many occasions, probably most, she would deliver his lunch wrapped in a kitchen towel knotted on the top. Everything was prepared for him, and he just had to enjoy it. Be nourished by it. The fragrance would saturate the cloth covering and fill his small office that overlooked the store as he unwrapped the day’s offering. From here, he had a bird’s eye view and took every possible moment to scan the store with a hyper vigilance to ensure the smooth running of every aspect of the business. Perfection required nothing short of it. Everyone who worked for my dad understood this without question. No one wanted to be on the other side of a disapproving glance via his standard-issue black-rimmed glasses. He asked of all to give 100%. And 200% was required of his children.
Dad always said that he knew when my grandmother’s time was coming to an end. She ran everywhere with vigor and vitality, as there was much to do for her family on any given day. When she stopped running and slowed to a walk, he just knew.
Aunt Ennis’s kitchen was like my grandmother’s, immaculate and dusted with flour and love. Thanksgiving Day, primarily, but really any day of the week. Flour from one end of her kitchen to the other. Pots bubbling and boiling on the stove top. Fresh gnocchi in process on her kitchen counters. She taught me how to “flick” the pasta to create gnocchi. Mine dragged across the parchment while her small, skilled fingers moved quickly and effortlessly. Art.
Both Noni and Aunt Ennis were petite. Small. Four-feet something, but never topping 5. One never underestimated these women based on size. True for them and me. Agile, quick moving, and easy to laugh. Aunt Ennis’s deep brown eyes sparkled. Each of us, which included my numerous cousins, felt special in her eyes. Her home with my Uncle Joe was a sweet, small white bungalow that sat on a hill on a busy street. A family oasis. Cozier than any home I would ever know. I can still remember the creak of the wooden floors. Dolls placed on her perfectly made bed. Rich woodwork warmed each doorway and room. Aromas wafting, Hoodsie’s in the freezer and coffee always hot.
On Thanksgiving, a long card table and chairs would stretch across her modest dining room to accommodate the many family members who would celebrate together. Minestrone soup chock full of vegetables with the lightest broth would be the starter. Homemade raviolis next. Turkey almost seemed out of place. It certainly was overshadowed by Italian family recipes. Coffee and dessert would be in the living room for the adults. The color Zenith television would supply football games after the parades for those interested. Naps fueled by food comas were on the menu too.
Like all family members, Aunt Ennis worked at the store. Primarily behind the courtesy booth at “the new store.” The supermarket. Cashing checks and issuing money orders. Selling cigarettes too. But like all family members, responsibility never rested on one assigned task. My first memories of Aunt Ennis at work were at the original “old store” as a cashier. I remember her giving me rides on the register counter belt. She always found time for mischief and play.
As illustrated in the movie Nonnas, the restaurant, like our grocery store business, was about family. Ultimately, this was both good and bad for my family, but my overriding thoughts are cherished memories of a large Italian family. An immigrant family who built an extraordinary life and business. My father was a first-generation American who fought in WWII. He landed in Normandy and marched across Europe right through to the occupation. He was an American hero who loved his country.
My father bought Aunt Ennis a small TV for the courtesy booth to keep her at the store from 3 to 4 each weekday since she adored the soap opera General Hospital. Otherwise, she would walk out of the store waving and saying to my father, “See you later, Lewie!” He would respond with alarm, "Where the hell are you going, Ennis?" while looking at the long line of customers at the courtesy booth. “I need to go home,” she would respond. Truth was, that while she did love the soap opera, I suspect it was her only hour of the day that was not occupied with the demands of a large family and growing business. The TV kept her on the premises, and she would sit and watch her show while eating a slice of apple pie from the snack bar with a steaming cup of black coffee. No milk or sugar, as calories must be saved. Cashiers would pass in and out of the courtesy booth, grabbing their smocks from a cupboard while exchanging pleasantries with an aunt they knew like their own. Oh, how I loved her!!!! How I learned from her.
A pink smock covered a dress always. Aunt Ennis carried a small leather coin purse filled with coins, bills, and rosary beads in her smock pocket. The rosary beads were most frequently used by my aunt while my Uncle Joe drove with abandon through every red light in the city of Taunton. A story for another essay. Anyone who was in need or simply asked for money knew her purse, like her heart, was open to give. She loved deeply and without hesitation. No questions asked. She wore only dresses and rocked them. To my young eyes, she was beautiful and always up for a hug. Smart and exceptionally hard working, she was easy to smile and quick to instruct. Standards were extremely high. I remember my tutorial on “how to clean a public bathroom like your own” when I was very young. Jobs were not dedicated as male or female. There were simply jobs to be done. My husband, Jon, recalled a favorite Aunt Ennis memory of when he worked at Trucchi’s as a teenager. My aunt would ask him to go around the supermarket to get “the bad spots.” In other words, wash the store floor. He at 6 feet, and she at 4’10". He dutifully obliged her request.
Aunt Ennnis had gorgeous porcelain skin. A rosy flush rested on high cheek bones, something I inherited, along with my stature. Small but mighty. Quick to laugh. Weak with laughter if the moment struck her. Aunt Ennis’s hair was thick and curly. I knew her with more salt than pepper, but even chemotherapy for leukemia later in life could not deny the curls when her hair grew back. Brief was her remission, but long is her legacy.
“Remember always, that all of us, and you and I especially,
are descended from immigrants and revolutionists.”
A graduate of Providence College with a BA in English, Elizabeth Ricketson has always had a love of literature and the fine arts. In the 1990s, she studied figure drawing at the Rhode Island School of Design, spending years dedicated to understanding human form, movement, and anatomy. Elizabeth’s essays focus on life experiences and life in Vermont. Essays available for consideration.
Website: elizabethricketson.net
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