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Angelo uses a knife to tap the gold into the grooves of the design. He brushes a liquid resin over it. The layers of color in the marble emerge through the resin as the gilt settles in the crevices and illuminates the design in brushes of gold. Every element in the design is enhanced by the presence of another, which is the essence ofsimpatico. I watch Angelo work and it reminds me of Grammy B’s expertise with her paring knife.

I heard theclick of Grammy B’s knife on her cutting board as I entered her basement kitchen through the cellar door. Grammy B’s basement was cool without a fan or air-conditioning, even though it was sweltering outside. The scents of dank earth and flour hung heavy in the air. A mound of dough the size of a deflated basketball rested on the cutting board on the silver Formica table.

Grammy B was tall, and her white hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. She wore a sleeveless dress with an apron over it. The apron was like a vest with pockets; it buttoned up the front. The pockets bulged with clothespins. Sometimes she had a pack of Juicy Fruit gum in one of them and would treat me to a piece.

“What happened to Connie and Joe?” she asked.

“They went to the pool.” I washed my hands at the sink. The metal faucet was pitted from age, and the white enamel sink was chipped. The fixtures may have been old, but everything was scrubbed clean. I dried my hands on a starched white dish towel. The fabric was as hard as cardboard and didn’t soak up the water. Iwiped my hands on my T-shirt before I sat down next to her in one of the red vinyl chairs with silver piping.

“Why didn’t you go swimming?”

“Because I promised you I would roll the cavatelli.”

“I wish you would have gone to cool off. You didn’t have to come.”

“We wouldn’t have enough macaroni for Sunday dinner if I didn’t.”

Grammy B grinned and shook her head.

She cut a corner from the mound of dough and rolled it out thin. She set the rolling pin aside and picked up her paring knife, cutting ribbons of dough. She sliced the ribbons into uniform pieces, with precision, as if the point of her knife were the tip of a pen and she was writing a letter. She sprinkled a handful of cornmeal on the cutting board.

I rolled the small squares of pasta with two fingers and flicked the shapes of soft dough into the circle of cornmeal at the center of the table. Grammy B used her knife and got the same result, adding the small tubes to the pile. I played a game with myself and tried to roll the macaroni faster than Grammy B could cut it with her knife. Soon, we needed more dough, so Grammy B cut off another piece from the mound and rolled it thin. She sliced the pieces, and we rolled. The dough seemed to grow the more she cut it and the higher the mound of cavatelli became as we rolled them. I also had my own agenda. I wanted to get this chore done so we could go upstairs and have anisette cookies with sweet tea and watch TCM.

My mom’s family and my dad’s lived close to each other, but they were very different. Grandma Cap and Grammy B didn’t appear to have much in common, but they both loved old movies, and they taught me to appreciate them too. Whenever Italy was in a movie, we made a date to watch it together.Roman Holiday,ItStarted in Naples, andHouseboatare my favorites, but maybe they’re my favorites because my grandmothers loved them first.

Grammy B looked at me and smiled. She saw an eleven-year-old girl at the table, but in my mind, I was already grown up because we were true partners in this pasta-rolling project. That afternoon, we were equals, but that dynamic ended when she rolled the last of the dough. There were boundaries in my family, and though I was just a kid, I already knew how to keep secrets, and I knew not to ask too many questions.

I had my own ideas about our lives on the lake, which I would not share with her or Grandma Cap or anyone for that matter. I was the youngest, and that meant I might not know as much as my brother and sister, but I did understand that I must pay careful attention and forget nothing so I could figure it all out later. I learned that from my mom, who can recall small details of an event that happened years ago and throw them like grenades into a fight when she and Dad argue. I saw them coming and couldn’t understand why he didn’t duck.

“You worry too much, Giuseppina.” Grammy B continued to roll the dough expertly with the knife. She could makechickadadesin her sleep. “Why do you worry?”

I smiled even though worrying is not something that brings joy. I didn’t answer her, because if I did, I would have to tell her things she wouldn’t want to hear. The question should have been: Whywouldn’tI worry? My parents argued about money. There was never enough. Mom worked for Uncle Louie but wasn’t happy about it. Dad got bad news at work and it caused a fight. When they disagreed, eventually they’d make up and everything seemed fine, until something else came up and there was not enough money. I wished we were rich so they wouldn’t argue. If we had lots of money, the fights would end. I was sure of it.

“You can tell me anything,” Grammy B said.

“I’m worried that Dad’s company moved to Buffalo.” What could possibly be better about upstate New York than South Belmar, New Jersey? “Dad says we have to move wherever he can get a job.”

“Did he?” Grammy B was not ruffled in the least, which soothed me. “There are many insurance companies in New Jersey. He’ll get a better job here.” Grammy B rolled the macaroni so quickly, I barely saw the blade on the flat knife move. “Don’t you fret. We are safe.”

“Can I use the knife?”

“Someday. Right now, your hands are still small enough to roll the dough. When your hands are too big, I’ll teach you the knife,” she promised. “Soon.”

Cavatelli are small tubes of dough whose edges touch but are not sealed. Once they’re cooked, you can fit several on a spoon at one time, which always bothered me, because people ate them in less time than it took us to roll them. An entire afternoon of hard work was shot in ten minutes.

“I am southern Italian,” Grammy B said proudly. She was born in America, so Puglia for her was a dream state, a faraway place without all the nice things we have in America. She was happy to relay the stories about her roots, but she had no interest in returning to Italy, even though she celebrated her southern Italian traditions. “My family doesn’t call this macaroni cavatelli. We call themchickadades.”

“Why don’t the Capodimontes call themchickadades?”

“Because the Caps call them cavatelli,” she said, smiling, “and it doesn’t matter to me what we call them, as long as we have Sunday dinner together.”

“And you don’t want to get in a fight.”

“No need. We can be different and get along just fine. The Barattas and the Cascioles are farmers, and the Caps are miners.”

“You grow the food, and they eat it.”

Grammy B laughed. “Does that worry you?”