Food Memoir

Mia Lewis

Mrs. Herzog

Food in Lit - 1

16 February 2024

The Vicedomini Legacy

November 8th, 2014, Boynton Beach, FL. The deep set wrinkles and the old souled eyes determined the aging of this 90 year old man. Little 7 year old me, with my silky pink dress, did the classic shoulder shrug and dopey smile when people cheered for me after I did my rendition of happy birthday. My voice didn’t even minorly to compare to what his was. His italian tunes would absolutely light up any room. I have soundcloud recordings of him singing Frank Sinatra saved on my computer. His love for music must’ve rubbed off on me. Little Mia wouldn’t have thought that by now I’d actually have written songs and recording them myself. 

December of 5th grade, he got sick. Not just “sick”, his time was coming. My mom flew out as soon as she heard the word “hospital”. I kept calling my mom, asking for updates, anything that she could tell me. I couldn’t let this part of me go. He had so much more to tell me, so many stories that I could live through. I don’t even think he ever cooked me anything, he was too old. He died peacefully of old age, going back to sitting in my parents bed, crying while watching one of the Late Night Shows. It was a Thursday. It’s odd how I remember that, but it’s understanding with who that sweet old man was to me. I truly thought I knew him well enough to be “ok” without him. 

July 2022. Ischia, Italy. My first ever journey to Naples, and it was a dream come true to be in a place where my family originates from, where he originates from, to bask in the history of his heritage. The culture, the clothing, the food, it was intoxicating to my brain. They eat all these grains and carbohydrates but it never catches up to them, I didn’t understand how. The food in America is so overly processed that it doesn’t even mildly compare. This little shack of a restaurant, on the middle of the island off the coast, a cheap place, only €11 for a meal. My choice had this light and aromatic sauce mixed with the rich, gooey mozzarella made for a real treat. With the gnocchi perfectly cooked, that mouthful was truly godsent, the flavors mashing together to create this heavenly mixture. It brought me right back to my grandpa, singing his little italian tunes, playing dominos with me at the stained kitchen table. Like a Ratatouille moment, where those fireworks are surrounding your face, and you transport back to a more innocent time. That sweet old man who had lived such an incredible life, and saw me grow up. The man who I can hear when I close my eyes. I think of that party, of me singing. Of what he would’ve told me if I called him after that trip, if I told him about what I ate and saw, about what I heard and experienced. He would’ve cheered, asked me to sing a song to him. I would’ve tried to send him pictures, he used to work as an electronic engineer so he must’ve understood how an iphone works. 

February, 2024. Current day. I’m 16 years old now. I have my license, I’ve moved quite a few times. I’ve grown as a person, and I am proud to say that. I think when I was younger, I didn’t know what death meant. Obviously it means someone is no longer alive, and you can never see them again. He ate 101835 meals, he slept 33945 times, he had 93 celebrations for his birthday. What it meant for him was that he had lived his life to the fullest. He was 93, that was 93 times around the sun. Most of all, he spent time with his family, with my sisters and I, my mom and I. He would sing “A bushel and a peck”, his little games. “All around the station, put the penny in, one step, two step, tickle under here!” And I’d giggle, wiggling as he would tickle me. As I make my own food memories, learn about his culture, and celebrate his life, I build on what I never knew about him. I teach myself, and I can feel him looking down on me, cheering me on, telling me it’s all gonna be ok, singing to me.