09/27/2026
Some of my favorite memories of growing up Italian happened at the feasts.
Summer meant long days at the stand, the smell of something frying, zeppoles and fried Oreos, sausage and pepper sandwiches, and seeing the same family traditions come around year after year.
My cousin Santo comes from Italy every year to work his stand at the feast. It’s something our family has done for as long as I can remember.
Nonna loved the feasts, too. She always wanted us to bring her home something sweet — especially torrone, her favorite. She took so much pride in seeing her family together and in watching traditions continue.
One year, she crocheted an Italian flag for Santo to hang at his stand. It meant so much. Even if she couldn’t be there herself, a piece of her would be.
I think about that often now.
How traditions aren’t just things we repeat. They’re the people, the stories, the objects, and the little pieces of ourselves that we leave behind for the next generation.
That’s what I want Nonna’s Workshop to hold onto. 🤍
