I was about four when I had my first “big girl” lunch alone with Nana. I hadn’t wanted to go; I was not only shy, but the excited, enthusiastic, gesticulating way that my Italian side of the family spoke was in such stark contrast to my “American” side of the family that it made me feel nervous.  Frankly, I hadn’t been at Nana’s house alone before — without my brother, sister, mom, dad, or any of the extended members of the family — and I was scared.

I watched through the screen door as Mom backed out of the driveway. It was too late to run after her. Nana hoisted me up onto her kitchen counter and started inspecting me. I trembled looking out at the dozen straight pins Nana held clenched between her lips.

“Hold still or I’ll poke you.” I put my arms straight out, holding very, very still, while Nana checked my hem. I was wearing the bright yellow dress with daisies sprouting from the pockets that Nana had sewn for me. After lunch, she was taking me to J.C. Penney’s to have my portrait taken. I guess I passed muster because Nana grabbed both of my hands and kissed them.

“It’s about time for lunch, don’tcha think?” Nana asked loudly, helping me down. In Nana’s family, I later learned, food was priceless, a blessing not to be squandered. Her father, Nonnu, my great-grandfather, had immigrated from Italy when he was but thirteen. His family had been so poor they couldn’t feed him. Their only hope was to send him to “Go find your America!”

His America, as fate had it, was a steel mill in Pueblo, Colorado. More than one boatload of Italian immigrants had been recruited in the Philadelphia ports for mill jobs out west.

But the town benefited from more than just Italian brawn. Pueblo grew thick with great Italian restaurants, butchers, bakeries and the scent of handmade pastas with home-grown tomato sauces rising from many a family dinner table. Nonnu’s home was one of them. Nana’s was as well, and she didn’t want the legacy to end with her.

“Go outside to Nana’s garden. I want you to find round leaves that smell like they go with what Nana’s cooking.”

I skipped off into the garden, with Nana’s voice trailing after me, “And don’t dirty your dress.”

I crouched down and looked at Nana’s plants, and a bright red ladybug seated atop one of them. Some of the leaves were smooth, others were long and pointy, and each had their own unique scent. I leaned in to a plant with leaves shaped like teardrops and breathed deeply. I picked my two favorites, kissed them and brought them inside.

“Basilico! Perfetto, Belleza! You’re so smart, my little cook!”

I sat while Nana poured the soup in the bowls, drizzled in a little olive oil, then placed a perfect basil leaf on top of each. She took the sandwiches out of the pan, and cut them in half, got a dish towel and tucked it in the collar of my dress, covering me up completely, just in case. I picked up my grilled cheese, and was about to take a first bite.

“What are you thankful for?” Nana interrupted.

“Um…I saw two ladybugs!”

“They love Nana’s garden.”

I stared at the red puddle of soup Nana had set before me.

“Tomato soup? Ew. That doesn’t go with grilled cheese…”

Nana slid my bowl toward me.

“You’ll be surprised. This is actually Nana’s favorite everyday lunch. The two bring out the best in each other.”

I buried my hands in the pockets of my dress.

“Do you like grilled cheese?”

I nodded.

“Do you like tomato soup?”

I scrunched my nose.

“Try it. If you don’t like it, what did you lose?”

I shrugged, biting into my old faithful grilled cheese.

“Now. While you’ve got the grilled cheese in your mouth, take a bite of tomato soup.”

It was sloppy, but I did it. When I took another bite, and another spoonful of soup, Nana smiled. She knew.

Over the years, I’ve spent a lot of time in Nana’s kitchen. Whatever heartbreak or confusion I’d brought with me somehow always seemed to fade at her table. The steam rising from a hot bowl of tomato soup and the aroma of melted cheddar and provolone sandwich never failed to work their magic.

Our lunches grew more frequent after my parent’s divorce, and many years later, after my own. How was it that a grandmother could provide a comfort I’d never found with any of my peers? Maybe it was the half-century age difference that gave us such freedom to talk and let our guard down.

For a long time, however, I didn’t return to her table. I lived abroad for nearly a decade, and then on both coasts, seldom returning to Colorado. With each visit home, I invariably found my way back to Nana’s table. She, too, needed the comfort of a warm soup and a granddaughter’s company. She’d been widowed — twice  — which never stopped her from cooking, except that now most of her meals are eaten alone.

Though Nana makes, what to my taste, is the world’s best osso buco, it’s our lunch of tomato soup and grilled cheese that I most treasure. Over the years I’ve come to see Nana as her zesty Italian tomato basil soup, and myself as the American grilled cheese.

I guess Nana was right all along. The two do bring out the best in each other.