EULOGY FOR NONNIE (AS DELIVERED BY MY MOTHER AT THE FUNERAL).

Hello, friends, family, and Uticans past and present. We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of my mother—Master Chef Frances Cecere Oliva. Hers was a long, giggly, gourmet life.

Frances was born in Utica in 1919. For those of you who might be math-challenged, that was almost 100 years ago.

Her parents, Angelo Cecere and Anna Agrusti, were born in the city of Alberbello in the Italy’s Puglia region—also known as “the heel.” Alberobello is an architecturally unique, UNESCO World Heritage site. It is famous for its white-washed buildings with cone-shaped “trulli” roofs, its orrechiette pasta, and its vegetable-heavy regional cuisine. Alberobello is a popular tourist destination for Europeans with good taste—and a popular destination for our family.

Angelo and Anna immigrated to the US. We’re not exactly sure when, but it predated the iPhone.

Fran was the third of four sisters—Mae, Molly, and Jo. We often refer to them as the “Giggle Sisters.” Giggling is what they did when they were together. They giggled at parties. They giggled on the phone. They even giggled during the final scene of Old Yeller.

She had a younger brother, Joe, who was also giggly—although, unlike the sisters, Uncle Joe’s giggles usually came on the heels of a dirty joke.

Rounding out the Ceceres was Uncle Frank. Not so giggly, but a handsome, quietly cheerful guy that was an artist of some renown in Upstate NY.

Fran married my father, Cataldo (aka, “Sam”…aka, “Gates”) Oliva in 1942. Dad was decidedly NOT giggly. His schtick was more of a razor-sharp, bone-dry, biting sarcasm—a trait that, for better or worse, has been inherited by some.

Fran was Yin to Sam’s Yang, but they made it work. They were married for 65 years, had three children, 8 grandchildren, too many great grandchildren to count on a normal person’s fingers and toes, and 2 great-great grandchildren.

When people reflect on my mother, she evokes many different memories. But the only memories that matter are those of my son…because I strong-armed him into writing this eulogy.

When my son thinks of his Nonnie, he thinks of her cooking. I suspect that many of you think the same.

The smells and flavors that came from her kitchen defined our family. Truly, the flavor, essence, and identity of the Oliva, DeTraglia, Gianfrancesco, Lowell, Sizemore, Occhipinti, and Weigand families can be reduced to—and is epitomized by—a spoonful of my mother’s tomatoey, meat-heavy Macaroni Sauce.

When my son was 20, he had a revelation: “Someday, Nonnie will die.” Ok…so his estimate was off by almost 30 years, but let’s not split hairs.

Since Nonnie would someday die, he saw a need to document the recipes for her best dishes. Her Macaroni Sauce. Her Fucazzo. Her Italian Sausage. Her Mushroom Stew. And most importantly, her Pusties.

So he sat down with her and said, “Explain to me how you make all this stuff.”

She immediately began rattling off a list of ingredients. “You add a little parsley. Then toss in some cheese. A smidge of this…a handful of that.”

Now, this sort of abstract explanation does not sit well with a 20 year old’s less-than-fully-formed brain.

“Wait, wait!” he said. “When you say ‘Add a little parsley’… how much parsley should I add?”

She looked at him as if he had just asked Abraham Lincoln, “So…what do you do for a living?”

Then she did what all truly great cooks do. She said, “How much parsley? I don’t know…just taste it.”

After a few more minutes of debating the merits of Art vs. Science, my mother said, “Let me play around in the kitchen and I’ll get back to you.”

A few weeks later, my son received a package containing a small stack of hand-written index cards. They were her recipes, written in the language of “teaspoons and tablespoons.”

Each person was put on earth for a purpose. My son’s purpose was to preserve my mother’s best recipes for posterity. Which he did…with 30 years to spare.

Her recipes have been posted to a website. They’ve been accessed, shared, and used by people around the world. They’ve been published in the “Taste of Utica Cookbook,” by Joe Mezzanini and Jeanann Murphy (available on Lulu.com).

And…believe it or not…if you Google the words “pusty recipe,” the first or second link listed is my mother’s pusty recipe.

The death of a loved one is never a happy occasion, except to the extent that it brings reunion, reconciliation, and remembrance. On behalf of myself and my family, we thank you for coming and celebrating my mother’s long, giggly, gourmet life.

We no longer can see or hear her, but we—and many others throughout the world—will continue to taste her for years to come.