The kitchen in your grandmother’s villa by Lake Como was alive with sound and warmth. The open windows let in the golden evening light, carrying in the smell of the lake and the faint chatter of neighbors down the winding road. Inside, it was the smell of heaven: garlic sizzling in olive oil, fresh tomatoes bubbling in a copper pot, basil leaves freshly picked from Nonna’s garden scattered across the counter.

Your Nonna stood at the stove in her floral apron, her silver hair tied back in a bun, moving with the grace of someone who had been cooking pasta for nearly eighty years. Your mother was chopping onions beside her, and your sister darted between them, setting out plates and occasionally stealing bits of cheese when Nonna wasn’t looking.

You were in your element — standing near the stove, conversing with your grandmother in rapid-fire Italian.

“Nonna, nessuno fa la salsa come te,” you said proudly. (“Nonna, nobody makes sauce like you.”)

She cackled, waving her spoon at you. “È perché nessuno ascolta alla salsa. La salsa ti parla, ma voi giovani siete sempre troppo di fretta.” (“It’s because nobody listens to the sauce. The sauce speaks to you, but you young ones are always in too much of a hurry.”)

Your mother laughed at the exchange, shaking her head. “She’s right, you know.”

Behind you, Tate lingered by the counter, watching the scene with wide-eyed admiration. You had brought her here to meet the family, to really live Italy with you — and she looked equal parts charmed and slightly intimidated by the controlled chaos of your household.

She was holding the blue box of spaghetti, turning it over in her hands as if she were trying to figure out her place in the ritual. The water was already boiling in Nonna’s big silver pot.

You were mid-laugh with your Nonna when it happened.

CRACK.

The sound was sharp, unmistakable.

Time froze.

You whipped around just in time to see Tate dropping the snapped halves of spaghetti into the pot, smiling innocently as if she had done the most helpful thing in the world.

“Okay, it didn’t fit,” she said cheerfully. “So I just—”

“MADONNA SANTA!” Nonna shrieked, clutching her chest as though she’d been shot.

Your mother dropped her knife with a clatter. Your sister gasped so loudly it echoed. And you — you felt your very soul leave your body.

“Tate!” you cried, rushing across the kitchen. “What did you just do?!”

She blinked at all of you, startled. “What? I just… snapped it in half so it would fit the pot. Isn’t that what you do?”

Nonna staggered back, hand gripping the counter dramatically. “Spezzare la pasta? Nel mio cucina?!” (Break the pasta? In my kitchen?!)

Your mother crossed herself as though Tate had summoned bad luck. “In this family, we never break spaghetti. Never.”

Tate’s cheeks flushed bright pink. “I— I didn’t know! I thought— it’s just pasta!”

That was the final straw. Nonna threw her spoon into the pot with such force it splashed, glaring at you as though you had personally brought dishonor upon the entire lineage. “You bring this beautiful girl into my house, and she breaks the spaghetti?” She turned to Tate, her accent thick and dramatic. “Tesoro, no. Pasta must dance in the water! Whole, long, like life! You cut it, you cut the joy!”

Tate’s eyes widened, torn between laughter and horror. “I’m— I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”

You buried your face in your hands. “Oh my god. Canadians.”

Your sister was laughing so hard she leaned against the counter for support. “This is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. Nonna looks like she’s about to disown you both.”

Nonna dramatically turned away, muttering under her breath. “Spezzare la pasta… Dio mio…”

Finally, you grabbed Tate’s hands, pulling her close before she could shrink into the floor. “Amore, listen to me. Rule number one in this house: never break spaghetti. Ever. It’s not just food. It’s… sacred.”

Her lips twitched, trying not to laugh. “So I basically committed an Italian war crime?”