Vino, Vino, Vino!: A tale of four generations of lovable, unpredictable Italians

My life feels like a bowl of pasta alla puttanesca – a mixture of every ingredient imaginable. Take my name - Maria Theresa Elena Schiavone Hillebrand. A mouthful, huh . . . I’m 16 and live in Boston’s North End (‘Little Italy’). Take my parents – papa, my heart and my love – a Brit, who is Professor of Latin & Classics at Harvard while mamma, a thug, runs a small garbage company. Take my nonna, please. At 91, grandmother Violetta installed thick black curtains and nailed them to the windows. Nonna feels the sun will only age her, but Dr. Rugnelli says nonna has the constitution of a stud. She yells downstairs several times a day to Bridget, our Protestant saint. “Ima dyin’ give me food. Ima dyin’ bring me pasta.” My bedroom faces the street, and the breeze washes in all the aromas of onions, garlic, pasta sauce, and fried calamari - all the luscious Italian food. Everything you could possibly want is here in our little corner of the world. But I’m getting ahead of my story. It starts with Octavio, my great grandfather who’s actually a pretty cool guy . . .