“Dandelions aren’t weeds, they’re precious vegetables.”

Every summer I’d reach on tiptoes for globe-sized grapes perfuming the back wall of my grandparents’ seaside home. The clusters dangled from gnarly vines, climbing toward the sun on rickety trellises. With wet knees in warm soil, I gathered their tomatoes, peas and tiny strawberries, tasked with delivering more than I ate.

Long before I ever understood the word organic, I saw the smell of simmering tomato sauce transform even the crankiest family member. The sublime taste with crushed basil? It’s sown and grown with time, worthy of celebration.

After arriving in New York in 1932, my “Papa” Salvatore Carlo Cassata married my grandmother, Frances. He was a barbecue and garden artist who also painted landscapes. Holiday feasting and gardening at their home on Halstead Place was unforgettable—my favorite classroom in which to linger.

Regardless of weather, Papa would barbecue as opera music crackled from a tiny radio. Countless hours were spent watching him from the covered porch we called The Terrace, smelling his rotisserie leg of lamb. We’d play hide and seek in a trusty fort disguised as a hollowed-out raspberry bush, awaiting dinnertime like parched plants.

“No fighting at the table—unless it’s over the last artichoke heart.”

Watching him quietly tend his garden taught me to remove the undesirable and know when to adjust vine ties or cut them altogether. Maybe I learned my colors very young not because I was born an artist too but because his garden was so vibrant.

There grapevines, berries and zucchinis staged land takeovers—I still covet the yellow fried squash flowers more than the dark green fruit (unless zucchini bread appears fresh from the oven). My giant artichoke plants look prehistoric, and non-Italian friends often ask, “What the heck are those?” Eggplants, Swiss chard, bossy herbs and every variety of tomato are ablaze in the yards and kitchens of relatives descended from this place.

In cold or wind, we’ll still bring the hibiscus, potted citrus and herbs indoors. Alongside a pot of homemade bone broth, even the bleakest winter day smells like comfort. My grandparents’ sunporch was the best place to rest from chores with spicy red geraniums spilling from terra cotta pots. Inedible, but exceptional.

“Indoor plants are nature’s air purifier.”

Hearing Italian spoken or sung connects me to a past where we didn’t discuss farmto- table trends, or clean eating. We simply lived it. Dessert wasn’t always served but if it was, we had homemade cannoli, melon, berries, figs or dates. Grandma Frances rarely baked and neither do I; baking demands precision. In the kitchen or painting at an easel, my measuring is intuitive and instinctive— a pinch of this or a splash of that.

“Taste it as you go and you’ll know,” she would say. “Ripe tomatoes and simple foods don’t need a lot of spice to shine.” I’m grateful she taught me to savor.

We saw food growing in dirt, not in a grocery store, and if her ground beef didn’t taste or smell right at the local butcher shop, my grandmother rejected it. She expected only the freshest cuts and knew the diff erence! I fi nally earned the honor of walking by myself and recall sweet-smelling cedar chips underfoot. Entrusted with picking up her order, a stop at the corner market for penny bubblegum was a bonus.

“Daily exercise with arms circles is nonnegotiable.”

No fighting was allowed at the table during silly Saturday morning breakfasts or sacred Sunday dinners, unless someone other than the cook dared take the last bite without asking. Meals were about nourishment and belonging. We were grateful to be squeezed around a table with elbows touching. Fifty+ years later I keep pouring the embellished stories, water and wine.

Papa used to insist, no matter how foul the temperature, we go on a passeggiata, the beloved Italian after-meal stroll. We still enjoy this wonderful tradition but in California if it’s too windy out? We skip it.

“Don’t be a busybody, mystery is elegant.”

The space they created for us to dream became my blueprint: a reliable map for the seasons that followed. In today’s workaholic, drive-thru world, gathering for meals feels almost rebellious. Fast food inhaled alone in front of a screen can’t form bonds to hand down with love.

Our grandson is as hungry for hugs as for great-great grandma’s buttered parsley pastina. While he won’t get to meet them this side of heaven, a bowl of Papa’s cinnamon tapioca tells him what he needs to know. My “grandparent grapevine” lives on as quiet resistance to disconnection—an invitation to slow down with arms open like vine branches, bearing fruit and burdens.

They focused on the pleasant acidity of purple wine grapes, adding garlic bread and music to avoid Marvin Gaye’s interpretation of heartbreaking grapevine gossip.

With every sprouting plant or scattered seed of wisdom, their hard work keeps blooming. Hope preserved along with recipes and memories, their green thumb grace to be shared. By gardening and gathering, we keep each other growing. Isn’t this the best kind of harvest?