Mangia!
Amanda Hazeltine
Mangia! Mangia! Growing up in an Italian household in New York, this was probably the first Italian word I ever learned. With this incantation, my great Aunt Frances would implore us to eat up at every meal. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. Cooking for us was her love language. After we all dug in, she would ask, “Ti piace?” (Do you like it?) Although I was only a small child at the time, I have fond memories of her preparing delectable meals in the kitchen while I played around the house. I also remember her pseudo admonishments when I used to hide in her pantry and pilfer snacks. “Don’t be fresh!” she’d say as she wagged her finger at me, holding back a smile. She was essentially the Italian grandmother I never had because mine died long before I was born.
Although some of my favorite great Aunt Frances recipes are lost to time, I can still recall the distinct flavors of her rich clam sauce linguine, garlicky broccoli rabe and the tang of tomatoes draped over her tender steak pizzaiola. The 30 plus years that came after my childhood in New York encompassed multiple moves around the globe, college, graduate school, a robust first career, a family of my own, and a life change that brought me to oncology nursing.
As an oncology nurse, I meet patients and families at some of the most challenging times in their lives. There are days that are hard, when patients are at their most vulnerable. Maybe they were just told they have cancer for the first time. Maybe their cancer came back. Or maybe their status was just changed to “comfort measures only.” In my own way, I share in their grief, but I also share in their joys and hopes. The grandfather who beams when he talks about his 25 grandchildren. The mom who brings her daughter her favorite coffee drink. The husband who sits vigil by his wife’s bedside. The older sister who brushes her little sister’s hair. Love is all around. And sometimes when family can’t be there either due to distance or visitor restriction as a result of this devastating pandemic, as nurses we are by our patients’ bedsides all day and all night. We become their extended family in many ways, and they become ours. And sometimes, a connection to a shared tradition that once was lost, is found.
It was one of the weekends before the start of the winter holidays, and I was scheduled to work on the inpatient oncology unit. I wrote down my patient assignment, scanned their charts and took report from the night nurse: reasons for admission, any notable events, treatment plans, etc. She also briefly mentioned that the family of one of my patients would be visiting later.
After report, I entered the patient’s room, wished him a good morning and introduced myself as his nurse for the day. He was very matter of fact and a bit reticent. I thought, that’s OK, it’s early in the morning and he may not be feeling his best. We’ll work on that. On the surface, it didn’t appear that we had very much in common. I went about my morning, and soon his son came to visit. He took great interest in what I was doing to care for his father, and we got chatting and soon learned that our families are both from Italy and that he was familiar with the small town we’re from–Moschiano. Most people I’ve spoken to have never heard of it. When I visited more than a decade ago, it was even hard to find it via the rental car GPS. Soon the conversation shifted to food–of course. We volleyed back and forth all the great Italian dishes we grew up on. I lamented over the fact that I never got the recipe for my great aunt’s steak pizzaola, and how I haven’t had it since I was a child. This was the dish I missed the most. He thought for a second and said, “My mom has this amazing family steak sauce recipe that sounds like what you’re describing. She’s coming later, I can ask her for it.”
That afternoon, the patient’s wife came to visit. We talked about the day, and then she added, “So I heard you may be interested in a steak sauce recipe. I can write mine down for you before I leave.” I tell her no worries if she doesn’t have time, as she is here to spend it with her husband.
Before the end of my shift, I went to check on my patient and his family. His wife handed me two pages of a handwritten steak sauce recipe that her mother taught her. She walked me through each step–from the careful selection of ingredients to the detailed preparation of the dish. I held back tears as I thanked her for this profoundly personal gift. What started as a shift caring for strangers ended in a connection to each other’s heritage, and the familiarity of my childhood that I had been missing for so long.
Over the holidays, I pulled out her recipe and made steak pizzaiola for my own family for the first time. I took a bite and was instantly transported back to my childhood, sitting at great Aunt Frances’ kitchen table–that undeniably familiar tang of tomatoes draped over the tender steak pizzaiola. Mangia! Mangia!
Amanda Hazeltine, MS, RN, is a second-career nurse working in oncology, and a Doctor of Nursing Practice student in the adult-gerontology acute care nurse practitioner track at UMass Chan Medical School. This piece was also presented as part of the Gold Humanism Honor Society Identities in Medicine event.
