People think immortality comes from fame, that the only way to leave your mark on the world is to radically change it, to create masterpieces. And they're not wrong, but not every work of art has to be a David or the Sistine Chapel, larger than life. Sometimes works of art can be little things, the individually dipped biscotti, pasta rolled by hand.

   And really who can say this is any less important than the work of Michelangelo? Sure, he’s remembered by the masses, studied, admired, but he’s no Nonna. No, her family sits around her old wooden table remembering the precious times she had let them help in the kitchen filling cannoli, getting smacked with her spoon when they tried to sneak one without her permission.

       And therein lies the difference between Nonna and the great master. Both are revered but only one is truly loved. No one weeps at the sight of Michalengelo’s ratty old handkerchief, remembers his advice about men before their first date, stuff manicotti by hand because that's how he taught them to do it. Michaelangelo's legacy is written in textbooks, but Nonna's is written in the heart.