My daughter is standing at her stove,
singing a bit of nonsense in Italian,
waiting for the water to boil for pasta,
remembering how I always sang that way,
and my mother before me, though not exactly why.
This story started a century ago
when my schnitzel-eating, beer-drinking
German grandparents moved in next-door
to the spaghetti-eating, wine-drinking neighbors,
Giacomo Tonoli and Mary Pezzarossi Tonoli.
The Tonolis loved opera and had a wealth of 78s:
La Traviata, Tosca, Rigoletto, Pagliacci.
When they played them –
in those days before air-conditioning –
the music would spill out into the streets.
My grandfather, ever a jokester,
would hang out the side window and respond
in a throaty tenor, O sole mio,
no doubt thinking himself Caruso,
and adding his own teasing lyrics.
O sole mio, he’d croon,
O Tonoli loves spaghetti.
Now my daughter sings this
absent-mindedly in her kitchen,
and I imagine my grandchildren will someday
sing in their own kitchens, having no idea
who Tonoli is or why they sing it. I like to think
this could go on forever, the two entwined,
singing and spaghetti, spaghetti and singing.
Che bella cosa: what a beautiful thing.
INSTANT NOODLES 