My grandmother's ''fava''

My grandmother, Jessy, had hands that smelled of flour and age. Her small cottage in Newport transformed every meal into a celebration. "Come here, my child," she'd call out, her gentle voice sounding like the gentle gurgle of water. "Today I'll be preparing Grandma's fava."

Lunches with my grandmother lasted for hours. I learned about the process of how wheat is converted to bread, and also about how love can give an ordinary recipe its own special flavor. "Cooking is meditating," she would always tell me while cutting onions like a poet.

When I became seriously sick at 18, my grandmother was there caring for me. The cups of tea came one right after another, while the fire crackled around us, and stories poured from her mouth. "Life is like rice," she would say. "You must cook it very slowly until it becomes sweet."

When I saw her for the last time standing on her feet, she was 90 years old. "I am making meatballs for you," she said, as tears filled her eyes with clouded memories. Those same hands that had taken care of me in the past were now taking care of my last meal. Each bite was telling a story. Each smell was filled with memory.

Eventually, when her life was fading away, she gave me some great advice. "Take up the tradition," she said. Her words sounded inside of me like a bell.

Whenever I cook, the kitchen transforms into a sacred space. With each bite I take, I feel the warmth of her arms wrapped around me.

...................................................

I saw her crying

...

I saw her crying.

Bent over her two

calloused hands.

The wet ones.

"What is wrong?" I stammered.

"Are you okay?"

The two beautiful, drooping

eyes turned.

They looked right into my soul.

The legs buckled.

But they held their breath.

Then I whispered words.

They came out spontaneously.

By a winged angel.

They must have been crafted.

...

"You are not alone.

You must know this.

You are my solace.

A votive offering of love.

A lily’s comfort.

Joy of the Morning Star.

My tiny grandmother.

My soul trembles when you hurt.

My sweet breeze.

Hold on.

Inside the wound of pain.

You were always

the golden recipe."

...

"My child.

What can I do?

Since I have you

always here.

I will be a beast standing tall.

Worshipping all day, the Virgin Mary."