My grandma was not a good cook. Sicilian but she overcooked everything--chicken, rice, you name it. But she made good soup. Probably because it is hard to dry out soup without calling it something else. It is the first thing I learned to cook that was edible and my favorite simple thing to eat in winter.
Last week, my grandma had a massive stroke and a heart attack, the day I arrived in Milan. She is 95 and has signed a "do not resuscitate" form and this is her second stroke. I saw her in November and she was still very clear of mind. Stubborn, but that has nothing to do with her age. At Christmas, I wrote to her in Italian and my Dad she she understood it. Tonight I am making her soup, lots of onions and carrots, no chicken anymore, cheese on top.
After I talked to my sister, I walked around the park again, getting a new view on what is becoming my favorite place in Milan. I listened to an old favorite album, walked over the snow and thought about a hundred things that make time feel long and spread out and good and sad, all at once. Buonanotte, i miei amici.