Zucchini flowers! Standing in the train station in Naples, Italy, with a large suitcase at his side, a friend recorded an audio message to me, while waiting for the train home to Vienna, Austria. He explained the contents of the suitcase represented the things he most loved about the land of his ancestors: sausage, zucchini flowers, buffalo mozzarella, and boutique shop items, all evoking a sense of nostalgia. Upon hearing zucchini flowers, excitement and nostalgic feelings raced through me. I barely listened when he recited the names of the other items; all I could think about were the zucchini flowers.
Growing up in the industrial city of Paterson, New Jersey, known for its silk mills, I was surrounded by densely stacked houses and concrete, not exactly a place you’d expect to find zucchini flowers growing. The houses on my block were mostly the same, two-family homes with tiny backyards, separated by narrow alleyways. However, there was something different about the house directly across the street where my childhood friend, Fran lived. Lifting the latch of the green wrought iron gate, I often hiked up the eight steep cement steps to her front yard, and then up another set of six, leading to the front porch, where I rang the bell, eagerly awaiting my young friend to answer. The resonating ring was typically followed by the call of a middle-aged woman with a thick Italian accent. “Franz-a! Nenzi is here”! Such is how Rosina pronounced our names, Fran and Nancy.
Fran ran to greet me in a dress with the big bow in her hair bopping to the rhythm of her feet, clad in little leather shoes and lace socks. There I stood in shorts, a T-shirt, sneakers, and most likely, a scab on my knee, frequently sustained when running around and rough housing with the boys. We were as different as night and day but, when not playing football with the boys or riding bikes, I liked spending time with Fran, playing with dolls, although mine were Teddy Bears and stuffed dogs. Read more