One of the greatest Italian exports is the lore of the nonna. These formidable women, with hugs that smell like pasta water and strong opinions on going outside with wet hair, are deeply revered, particularly when it comes to food.

I can’t say the stereotypes are untrue. My nonna, a refugee to Canada, lived just a few blocks from where I grew up on the west coast. She was a constant presence in the upbringing of my brother and me, whether picking us up from swimming lessons bearing cold cafè latte, or during afternoons at her house, where she would read to us for hours. Best of all, was when she would cook. She made handmade fusi (a penne-like pasta), sticky polenta, gnocchi, calamari fritti and sweet treats like frìtole (Venetian-style doughnuts), and we would consume everything in abundance and with gusto. “Mangia!” she demanded, until we could eat no more.