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“Well, that’s not happening. Have you met my mother?”

We enter the kitchen, which is packed with women. They turn to look at us.

“Someone needs a lipstick touch-up and it’s not me,” Mom says quietly. She circles her finger around the outside of her lips. “Ring of fire.”

The kitchen door from the back porch swings open. Babe Bilancia pushes the screen door aside with her hip as she carries a Nordstrom gift box filled with cookies, her signature sesame dunkers. “Did I miss anything?”

For Good

I nest the last of the party platters in its place on the shelf in my mother’s kitchen markedFor Good. These are the platters and utensils used for Sunday dinner and holiday parties, never in ordinary time. They’re mainly the serving pieces Mom inherited as a daughter-in-law from Grammy B and the spoils of whatever she and Uncle Louie split when Grandma Cap died. On the Baratta side, Dad’s sister, Pamela, got the dishes; Mom offered Aunt Pam the serving pieces, but she said, “No, no, Mommy’s wishes.” Once in a while, in my family, on either side, someone actually honors the wishes of the dead. There are more stories about my ancestors wandering the afterlife looking for the platter from Deruta they were promised, because somehow, it wound up in the wrong hands. Iwill make sure to follow Uncle Louie’s and Aunt Lil’s instructions to the letter of the law.

Nothing changes in Lake Como; we live, we die, and those who remain polish the silver for the next reception. There is a part of me that will always find comfort in our traditions. A cup of hot, fresh coffee in my mother’s kitchen is more comforting than all the pharmaceuticals ever invented in the science labs of north New Jersey. I pour my mother a cup.

“There’s cake.” Mom pushes the pedestal holding three-quarters of a lemon Bundt cake toward me. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with all these desserts. The freezer in the garage is full.”

I cut a slice and taste it. “Who made it?”

“Elena Nachmanoff. It’s her best cake, you know. Always popular.” Mom sips. “You’re the only child I birthed who knows how I like my coffee.”

“I’m the only child who paid attention. Because I had to. That’s what good servants do.”

“Not true. My Joey steps up. And Connie in her fashion.”

“Yup. We are all equal,” I say sincerely, meaning it. I learned in therapy that sarcasm is a wall of defense used by bright people who sense danger. Since I am no longer in danger, I can afford to be kind.

“Are you okay with Lisa and Bobby?”

“I am. I gave Bobby his diamond back.”

“Giuseppina! Why did you do that? You’ll need that money someday.”

“I don’t think so.”

“No matter how hard I try, this family just can’t hold on to money. We are not meant to be rich,” my mother cries.

“Every family can’t be Vanderbilts and Rockefellers.”

“No, because they’re not Italian. It would’ve been nice, though.” Mom sighs. “What the hell. I give up.” Mom looks at me and offers me a cookie. “You look good, Giuseppina.”

“Thanks, Ma. So do you.”

“Italy agrees with you.”

I take my mother’s hand. “You must see Italy.”

“I follow you on Instagram,” she says. “I take whatever portion is given to me.”

“I’m serious. You have to see Italy for yourself. My biggest regret is that we didn’t take Grandma Cap. We should have.”

“We were lucky to make it to the Poconos. The Caps and Barattas are not bons vivants.”

“We are the ultimate world travelers. We’re immigrants.”

“What’s the story with this Angelo fellow? Is he looking for a green card?”

“Ma!”

“There’s my answer. You like him. Are you happy, Giuseppina?” Mom asks.