My Family Recipe

Nana's Spaghetti Soup: Not Your Typical Italian Grandma Story

In this week's four-generation My Family Recipe, one writer looks back on the women who've meant the most to her.

February 29, 2020
Photo by Rocky Luten. Food Stylist: Anna Billingskog. Prop Stylist: Brooke Deonarine.

Good food is worth a thousand words—sometimes more. In My Family Recipe, writers share the stories of dishes that are meaningful to them and their loved ones.

“How’s your friend, that nice boy?” my grandma Clara asked.

We were sitting in the skylight-illuminated kitchen of her condo. She sat in her chair with the special cushion attached, walker keeping close guard by her side. The usual post-lunch bowl of ice cream was in front of her, two scoops of vanilla under a poof of crimped whipped cream. I sat opposite her, watered-down iced coffee for me.

“It’s not going to work out,” I said, holding the cup with both hands. “I probably won’t see him again.” I fought a smile, knowing what was coming next.

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“A gift to read and re-read—these vignettes are like lockets, opened and we are all so lucky to get a glimpse of the women who've shaped you. Thank you so much for writing this <3”
— Maggie S.

My grandma turned from her bowl and shot me her best you’ve got to be kidding me look. She made a great show of rolling her eyes before turning back to her ice cream and guiding a laden spoon to her outstretched, turtle-like tongue.

She thought a minute and adjusted her expression, remembering that this was Serious Business Time (anything outside of “pleasant and friendly” did not come easily to her, so she really had to make a go of it).

“Why not? He’s such a nice boy.” (My grandma had never met him.)

I knew she wouldn’t drop this easily, so I slowly and loudly offered, “I don’t like him, we weren’t a good fit.” She gave me an if you say so eyebrow raise and plucked at the white peaks with her spoon.

I leaned across the floral placemats and extended my hand. “Don’t you trust that I will choose someone good? That takes time!” My grandma and I had different ideas about the importance of keeping “nice boys” around.

“Are you sure you don’t want any ice cream?” she countered (only because her hearing aids failed to keep up). I leaned back, gearing up to disappoint her again.

I shook my head, refusing for probably the fourth time that afternoon. “I’m okay.”

Nana and Grandma Clara. Photo by Celeste Scollan

Some things skip a generation. Red hair, height, a particular adeptness at tennis. For my grandma Clara—the Queen of Ice Cream, descendent of Italian immigrants—it was cooking ability.

Her mom, my nana, had come to the U.S. after she’d sent a portrait of herself across the Atlantic, to some dude one of her cousins knew. Next thing, she was on a boat to New York, en route to meet my great-grandpa Benny. It was like Tinder, but you got one swipe and it only took two weeks to get to the first date. No one was "ethically non-monogamous"; instead, they were looking for someone to settle down with in the States. (Sorry, Nana. I swear I’m taking this seriously.)

And they did, happily! They raised a family in this big two-family home in Mineola, on Long Island. When my grandma Clara married, she and her husband, Celestino (or Chester as he elected at Ellis Island), moved into the downstairs apartment, and my great-grandparents took the upstairs.

Nana was a mean cook. Photo by Celeste Scollan

Upstairs, Nana churned out mass quantities of tomato sauce, homemade pasta, herby lamb chops, roast chicken, fresh fruit, and vegetables, almost constantly. In a kitchen the size of a closet—truly. It was some real Strega Nona shit.

My mom, 12 years old at the time, would come home from school and head straight upstairs to hang out with Nana (and to see what snacks were in store for her that day). Sometimes it was fresh bread with olive oil and salt. Other times, during the summer, Nana would split a watermelon down the middle for the two of them to share. One side for my mom, one for Nana. Other times, it was bowls of cherries, English muffin pizzas, and so on and so forth.

Some things skip a generation. Red hair, height, a particular adeptness at tennis. For my grandma Clara—the Queen of Ice Cream, descendent of Italian immigrants—it was cooking ability.
Nana with my brothers and me. Photo by Celeste Scollan

Downstairs was a different story.

Downstairs, Grandma Clara took things a more ... modern route. I think it could be summed up as: various riffs on meat and potatoes, with the occasional raisin toast and rainbow sherbert. Lots of hot dogs.

Sometimes, to mix things up, she would experiment with new recipes or off-the-cuff, uh, flourishes. One such experiment stands out in my mom’s memory in particular.

“They were called cheese dogs," my mom tells me over the phone, years later. And they were exactly what they sound like.

You take a hot dog, split it down the middle (or maybe you boil it first, warm it up, and get a nice hot dog water aroma going in the kitchen), then stick some American cheese in the little pocket, and put it under the broiler. Once the cheese is melted, you take the cheese dog out and douse it in ketchup. It's better that way. If you want to be gross about it, chase it with a glass of whole milk like my grandpa Chester did.

As my mom puts it: Someone said "I like this," and that was that. Cheese dogs were on the menu every Friday for years and were, by default it seems, Grandma Clara's signature dish.

Grandma Clara (center) and Nana (right) with a friend. Photo by Celeste Scollan

I never knew the cheese dog days, though. The Clara I knew didn’t do a ton of cooking, if at all. Eventually she stopped altogether.

When Nana passed away, Clara moved out of the big two-family home and into a condo five minutes down the road from my parents’ place. She made herself things like egg salad and tuna salad, and my mom would bring over sauce and meatballs. But she rarely cooked for herself. When I was old and tall enough to work with small appliances, she taught me how to murder steaks on the George Foreman grill. We ate Taco Bell at her table when my parents’ kitchen was gutted. She paired my mom’s pasta with a salad and made me finish all that was left after we’d each had our fill.

I spent my adolescent, teen, and early adult years at her place. Watching Family Feud, sometimes throwing out bits of my love life like birdseed, and denying various “treats” at every turn. Fiber One bars (kind of like dessert), ice cream, fun-size Milky Way bars, Rolos, toast when there was nothing jazzy available (sometimes even the raisin bread kind, her favorite). I wish I’d accepted her offers more often. She was only trying to share what she could, and what she loved.

My grandma died at home, with my mom and two of her home aides by her side. They knew it was coming and were her cheerleaders until the end, encouraging her, loving her, even when they didn’t think she could hear it.

My mom even brought me into it. Later, when she knew that my grandma Clara didn’t have long left, my mom told me what she'd said to her.

Mommm!!!” was my first, and very proportionate, reaction. “What the hell?! WHY?”

“What! It makes her happy.” My mom was defenseless, but smiling like an idiot.

I laughed through the tears, in that part of grief where you don’t know which way is up. What's funny, what’s sad. Happy tears turn into sad tears real quick. But I couldn’t stop laughing.

“Christ. Well now she knows you’re lying!” If I’m being honest, I was delighted. Because, really, it was just the most “us” way for Grandma Clara to go.

She made a great show of rolling her eyes before turning back to her ice cream and guiding a laden spoon to her outstretched, turtle-like tongue.

In her litany of encouragements at her own mother’s deathbed, my mom had very conspicuously inserted one about me, one she knew my grandma would happily cling to and, my mom hoped, would move on peacefully knowing:

“And Celeste found someone wonderful, isn’t that great? He’s a nice man and she’s very happy.”


Obviously, this wasn’t true. I was so contently single, waiting for absolutely no one to come into my life and turn it upside down.

More recently, Mom said to me, shaking her head and laughing, “She knew I was lying. She was probably so annoyed with me. But I couldn’t help it—it just came out!”

It was okay in the end. Because it was the culmination of our little bit, mine and Grandma Clara’s. I know she was laughing with me after that. None of the boy shit really ever mattered. We only ever loved one another, beyond everything, just a little more than she loved ice cream, raisin toast, and cheese dogs.

Grandma and me. Photo by Celeste Scollan

Unsurprisingly, this family recipe skips over my grandma. She actually never made sauce or anything Italian now that I think about it. It’s somewhat of a generational tribute, though, taking a bit from my nana and a bit from my mom. And now me.

I grew up on this soup. Nana brought a plastic container of it to my parents’ house every time she and Clara visited. Nana never gave up the recipe because, well, no one thought to ask. It was hers. It was almost more special that way, because not just anyone could make it. Until I did.

One night, by accident, I added too much pasta water to a pot of orzo and some leftover sauce my mom had sent me home with. It was a happy accident, and it reminded me of my grandma’s cheese dog discovery: It combined some of my favorite things and is something I’ll never not make again.

And yes, to make it, you’ll have to make the meatballs first, which go into the sauce. All of which might seem like a deceitful way to get you to the very simple, comforting soup. But in the end, you get meatballs—maybe the best you’ll ever have. (I am comfortable making that claim, even as a non-hyperbolic person.) So it’s a win-win. And if you don’t want to make my mom’s sauce, feel free to try your own favorite recipe.

To get the full four-generation picture, eat it accompanied by a Diet Coke (for me) and some ice cream for dessert (for Clara).

Got a family recipe you'd like to share? Email [email protected] for a chance to be featured.
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Celeste Scollan

Written by: Celeste Scollan

Celeste grew up on Long Island, NY, where she quickly learned the virtues of a good red sauce and spending copious amounts of time at the beach. After graduating from Providence College (go Friars) she came away with an English degree and affinity for Dunkin’ iced coffee, hoping to marry her love of food and writing. Since then, she’s hopped around the food and literary worlds; previously you could find her frying chicken at Pies ’N’ Thighs, venturing into book publishing, and working at the New York City Wine and Food Festival. Today you can find her in Brooklyn, making a mess of her kitchen, chatting over a beer with friends, or—if it’s summer—(you guessed it) at the beach.


witloof October 25, 2020
My dad took me to see his dearly loved Aunt Tillie in the hospital for what I knew would be the very last time. I was about 30 and was in the middle of a huge long dating dry spell. She asked me if I had a boyfriend, and I immediately told her I was dating a Jewish lawyer named Joel and it was looking pretty serious. Who knew I could be such an adroit liar? She died happy and I have no regrets.
Celeste S. October 8, 2021
I'm so late to this, but hahaha omg this is amazing. The instinct, it calls to all of us.
Yvonne S. May 17, 2020
Recipe link is broken
Jill M. May 16, 2020
The recipe link?
Marjorie W. March 3, 2020
What a lovely piece! Thank you for writing it. I'm a pretty good cook, but don't do it much now that my husband and I are empty nesters. Honestly, I think I might make those cheese hot dogs for my son next time he's home from college. He'd get a kick out of them! Why the ketchup hate? Is that an East Coast thing? I Mom was a born and raised Brooklynite and I don't remember her hating on ketchup on hot dogs..... :)
Celeste S. October 8, 2021
Did you ever end up making the cheese dogs?? Would love to know how they turned out! And the ketchup is just a personal gripe, totally non-representative of East Coast sensibilities :)
Alex E. March 2, 2020
Loved this, Celeste! Heartwarming, heartbreaking and hilarious all at once. Plus now I’ve learned there’s such a thing as spaghetti soup, and I know I’m better for it.
Maggie S. March 2, 2020
A gift to read and re-read—these vignettes are like lockets, opened and we are all so lucky to get a glimpse of the women who've shaped you. Thank you so much for writing this <3
Holly March 1, 2020
I LOVE this story, thank you so much! But ketchup on hot dogs imho is a sin, as bad as on scrambled eggs, but who am I to judge? No one is forcing me to put ketchup on anything ! I do mix a wee bit with mayo for dipping french fries & put some in my Brunswick stew , so I am not a hater, just only use for very specific purposes. And I will go out on limb & say it has to be Heinz :-)
Jenny D. March 1, 2020
Really enjoyed this article! And the pics...😍 Great stuff!
Evan L. March 1, 2020
I loved reading this. Thank you for posting some real thoughts, and real culture. I am in your debt.
Eric K. February 29, 2020
Celeste, this is a beautiful tribute to three wonderful women. Thank you for taking the time (out of all that free time you have!) to write this for us.
Katsudon February 29, 2020
My dad's English mother married his Italian father several years off their respective boats. My grandmother then taught my Japanese mother my dad's favorite Italian dishes. As an adult, I discovered these were not very Italian, but more American-inspired due to the substitution of less costly ingredients.

Those cheese dogs, however, sound pretty good.