My Nonna has been gone for over 10 years and I can still smell the acidic tomatoes on the stove bubbling to a slowly cooked perfection. I can smell the coffee brewing on the stove morning and evening. I can still hear the sound of her unwrapping the pound cake she’d made in bulk and froze – warming it up to sing us happy birthday when it wasn’t even close to it. She made ordinary days extraordinary with a simple defrost and a candle.

Every smell and every sound was an invitation to be loved that has had an effect on the rest of my life.

Grandmas are special—but Nonnas? Nonnas are a different kind of magic.

Nonna (an Italian grandmother) is more than a name. It’s a badge of honor. Nonnas are the matriarch that glue the family together with every Sunday dinner and every knead of dough. If you didn’t grow up with one, let me introduce you to mine.

With Nonna, it wasn’t just about the pasta. It was about presence – the way she made you feel important just by offering a chair at her tiny kitchen table. Yes, the taste of fresh pasta with tangy tomato sauce and salty Parmigiano can warm the soul. But it’s the art of feeding people and welcoming them in, it’s the atmosphere that says “sit at my table” that warms the soul for eternity.

Her house – outdated, but functional, small, but homey – seemed like it always had people in it. The table, made for four, somehow managed to fit 10. She always said yes to more people so there was always a symphony of loud Italians, cousins playing, and Nonno asking when dinner would be ready. If she wasn’t cooking tomato sauce, she was reheating it for more pasta. The smell of bubbling tomatoes and sweet freshly picked basil were the Italian version of an Anthropologie candle constantly burning throughout the home. It was a smell that said someone is home. And this could be your home too.

I would often walk to Nonna’s house unannounced with a friend she’s never met and she wouldn’t even blink an eye. She’d start boiling water for pasta, go to the pantry for another jar of sugo (tomato sauce) and start cooking - happy to have people at her table to care for. Nonna didn’t strive for perfection, she strived for presence. She would feed your mind, body, and spirit. No distractions, no phones at the table, just her whole and present self with friends and family new and old.

From a young age, I wanted to be in the kitchen with Nonna. I’d sit on the countertop while she made lasagna and granita and brioche and watch how her hands moved and she’d effortlessly weave in lessons about motherhood and relationships and patience all in the folding of bread and the frying of arancini (fried rice balls). I’d try to figure out the secret to her tomato sauce. There was talk of a secret ingredient and I waited eagerly for the day she’d tell me. When she finally did, it felt like I was being given a huge responsibility. It wasn’t just a recipe I had finally received, it was a legacy. A baton toss. Make your home smell like tomato sauce too.

Food is how you care for the people around you. Food connects us. It opens us up. Food is memories. I remember how Nonna’s house smelled, but more than that, I remember how I felt when I was in her presence.

We need more hospitality in our world. I’m not talking about champagne on arrival with towel animals on the bed (although I wouldn't say no to that). I’m talking about a meal-around-a-table (no matter the size) kind of hospitality that says, “I see you, and I care about you, and I want to know your story.”

The kind of hospitality that pulls out the fine china — but will use disposable plates when you’re too lazy to do dishes.

The kind of hospitality that sets the Bialetti on the stove to tell your guests “you don’t have to leave yet”.

The kind of hospitality that keeps making food and sends you home with more.

The kind of hospitality that smells like tomato sauce. And it’s so good, you leave smelling a little like tomato sauce too - taking the memories and the feelings of the moment with you wherever you go.

A Nonna kind of hospitality.

When I got married, we could only afford a 500-square-foot studio in Bankers Hill and my hosting dreams were crushed pretty quickly. We moved into bigger spaces and I still avoided having people over because the home wasn’t “enough”. One day, I decided to do it anyway. I invited friends over and taught them how to cook some of Nonna’s classics. Laughter and chatter, the popping oil of arancini frying, and the sweet bitterness of espresso brewing for tiramisu filled the kitchen and no one cared about the size of my kitchen or that my home wasn’t Pinterest perfect. They cared that they were invited into a home to share a meal.

We need more people in this world who invite others into the mess. We all have one. Literally or figuratively. But to be known is to be loved and we can’t be truly loved if people only see curated feeds and homes so pristine it looks like no one lives there. Don’t get me wrong, I love a clean house and a beautiful tablescape. But if I waited till my home was perfect, I’d never let anyone through my front door. What a waste.

Messes are, well, messy. But somehow, beauty can be found in the cracks too — like late-night laughter and licking the plate clean and a warmth in your spirit that will be remembered long after the meal is over.

I have a photo of my Nonna in shorts and a bra, outside her little home. Their first and only home when they moved to San Diego from Sicily. She is hanging herbs to dry on her laundry line with not a care in the world. I love this picture because it feels like the spirit I want to embody - joy and presence and openness (and a little sass). This was Nonna. This is a Nonna.

Give it a try. Be like a Nonna. Have someone over. Don’t worry about the mess or stress about perfection. Cook them a meal. Or order takeout. Just share a meal together. Host like a Nonna. Invite people into the mess, and you might just find some beauty. And if they’re lucky, maybe your guests will leave smelling a little like tomato sauce.

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