La Cucina Sigismondi

Cara Mama, 

I’m sitting in our kitchen again, another December, trying once again to write down what I know. Or maybe what I fear I never really learned. The blank pages of this recipe book have stared back at me for years now, mocking me. Where there should be three pages of Nonna’s Christmas lasagna recipe lies remains of crusty old flour; so, I’ve decided to take control and write you a letter. The book itself was bought in—well, who knows—maybe 1952? Holds more history in its water stains and espresso rings than the actual contents.

But preservation isn’t the Sigismondi style, is it? Every year, the same thing: “Can we please just write this down.” But like a stubborn fly, you shake your head. Guarda e basta you say—just watch. Watching doesn’t tell me anything about how much salt goes into the sauce, or when the pasta’s ready. Never measuring anything may work for you; you’re all about “it should be up to this line on my finger.” But what happens when yours aren’t around to know anymore?

At home, Spanish fills the rooms. Rapid Venezuelan Spanish slang mixed with Galician accents feels like all I know. The weird thing is, Italian was my first word. All I truly knew for a while. Now look at me—English has taken over my thoughts, Spanish sneaks into my dreams during summer holidays, and Italian? I find myself chasing after it. Still, each December rolls around and suddenly there’s Italian floating through the kitchen—strange, warm, and never quite enough. Tu e papa spent what, twenty years in Venezuela? And somehow, you’re both still more Italian than I’ll ever be. It’s just there—a part of you. It feels like I am trying to relearn something that used to be so natural. How does one forget their first language? Maybe that’s why I am so desperate to get this recipe down on paper. If I can’t get a hold of the language I was born with, let me at least keep this one thing, this tradition that lets me call myself Italian. 

It is weird to miss a place I never lived. With Sabrina and Sofia both being born in Italy and me in Mexico, I feel like the only sister disconnected from our “motherland.” Times in Naples and Milan exist in my head in small patches from trips and stories told. Italy had tradition, religion, and family. Meanwhile, I grew up with hail downpouring in London with Feliz Navidad muttering in the back, right next to the Christmas lasagna. You and Dad tell stories of warm Christmases on Venezuelan beaches instead of Italian ones.

Seven days of preparation—that I do know for certain. Today, 18 December, 2024, marks another year of our kitchen transforming into a theatre. I must admit I enjoy watching the curtains fall; as they rise again, the rusty red manual pasta machine comes out alongside the classing rolling pin with S engraved—still in use since Nonna’s time. I keep losing words I should know: mestolo, that ladle kept from Nonna’s time in Sant’Egidio. Matterello, the rolling pin that is probably older than me. When I try to speak Italian, the Spanish vowels sneak in like they own the place. 

Your movements are precise and practiced. You’ve gained the honor of maintaining the tradition after Nonna’s passing. The mental crank of the pasta machine marks time, sheets of pasta emerge thinner and thinner with each pass. “Troppo spesso,” you mutter, feeling the pasta. Too thick. From what I’ve pieced over the years, here’s what I know about Nonna’s Christmas lasagna: 

For the Suggo di carne, create a soffritto of carrot, celery, and onion. San Marzano tomatoes, never from the can for ultimate flavor. Bay leaf, maybe one or two? Simmer the beef sauce for hours, until the entire house smells of spice. In the meantime, take the 1 kilogram of raw minced beef and begin rolling hundreds of mini meatballs. Be sure to force your hungry family to assist. Add a splash of red wine to the suggo, the kind Papa likes. 

Moving onto the béchamel: butter, flour, milk. I am still unsure if you add nutmeg or not. 

Pasta all’uovo: four eggs for every….five cups of flour? I vaguely remember you teaching me to form a small well, before mixing with a fork until the dough comes together. You claim you know the fresh pasta dough has been kneaded enough when it feels like a baby’s earlobe—genuinely, how am I meant to know what that feels like? 

I’ve started recording you when you cook. I know you’ve noticed, but pretend not to. 

Watching that footage each night, studying how the folds in your hands effortlessly grip the dough, I understood that I was documenting you, us, and my family. It reminds me of the story you tell each year after we scarf down each hand-rolled meatball: 

“After your Nonna passed,” you’d tell me, “I had to figure out your father’s mother’s recipe from scratch. Just what I remembered watching her work her magic for twenty years. You describe how Zia insisted there was nutmeg in the béchamel mixture—“just a pinch to add a little spice.” Meanwhile, the other sister nearly revolted at that suggestion. Each of the seven siblings held a piece of the puzzle. “So I gathered all those scraps and tested and adjusted until it tasted right. Not exactly like hers, as you all prefer meat over spinach, but close enough to keep her with us.” 

With each roll, I begin to understand that maybe the mystery is part of what we inherit, keeping the family together. The recipe was never meant to be written down, because it's beyond measurements and exact temperatures. The stories you’ve told me while the sauce takes hours to simmer, the arguments over where nutmeg belongs, and the way you celebrate when I finally crank the pasta thickness just right make the experience worthwhile. 

Nonna wasn’t being stubborn but wise. If the recipe existed on paper, yes, maybe I would be able to recreate it in my bleak 20s apartment and not return each December. Maybe I'd lose these days together when my Italian flows more fluently and I feel connected to something beyond myself.

I’ll close the recipe book, leaving its pages blank; instead, I’ll sit beside you next Christmas, watching more carefully than ever and speaking my broken Italian that you patiently correct. 

Con tutto il mio amore, 

La tua figlia