Lunch With Nonno

I loved to lunch with Nonno, my grandfather, because not only did I get to taste some great Italian food like my Nonna’s homemade bread, spicy soprasatta and aged provolone cheese, but I was also lucky enough to accompany it with some of his excellent homemade wine. One fall day we were at the table, just the two of us for some reason, and we both were eating quietly. We did not say much; we just enjoyed each other’s company. He had on a white shirt and tie with a vest. His head was round, shiny, and bald with a little band of hair from ear around the back of his head ending at the other ear. In one of my sips of the dark red wine, it found its way into my windpipe, and I coughed uncontrollably, propelling a jet spray across the table landing on you know who. I’ll never forget the image of red wine all over his white shirt and, most of all, on his baldhead where it ran down his forehead forming three or four little ruby rivulets. I immediately and profusely apologized. He said nothing, but grabbed his cloth napkin, wiped his forehead, put the napkin down, shoved the wine bottle in my direction so I could refill, and continued eating as nothing happened.