The Silence of the Afternoon

The Second Kitchen: Why We Build Bridges to the Old Country

I can still close my eyes and smell it: the air in my grandmother’s "second kitchen."

Growing up in the Midwest, my siblings and I were raised in a house that smelled of simmering sugo, toasted sesame seeds, and anise. We were surrounded by the chaotic, beautiful "discussions" of my grandmother and her sisters—women of immaculate style and fierce opinions who could debate for hours over a stove.

We didn't realize it then, but we were living in a Sicilian enclave in the middle of suburbia.

When my grandmother passed away during my teenage years, the house went quiet. The recipes—never written down, existing only in her muscle memory—faded. I missed the noise. I missed the smells. I missed the direction.

In 2019, my sister and I went to find it again.

We had read on social media that it was easy. Just go, people said. Walk into the town hall, ask for the records, and they will hand them to you. It sounded so romantic, so simple. So we arrived in Italy with nothing but our optimism. We didn't have the birth records. We didn't have an appointment. We just had a map.

The Middle of the Afternoon Silence…

We arrived by train. On the map, the station looked deceptively close to the town center. In reality, it was a long trek down a busy road with no sidewalk.

The July sun was relentless. We dragged our luggage through the heat, sweating through our clothes, fueled only by the hope that we were "coming home." When we finally rolled into the town square, it was the middle of the afternoon on a Monday.

If you know Italy, you know exactly what that silence sounds like. The shutters were down. The streets were empty. The Anagrafe (registry office) was closed. The church doors were locked tight. Even the cemetery gates were shut.

We had traveled thousands of miles to stand in a ghost town. Because we believed the internet instead of locals, we were treated like strangers. We left without the records, without the connection, and without the closure we sought. Although we did take time to stop for a dip in the sea under the famous Calarossa cliffs.

The Moment We Missed

There is a harder part to this story.

My mother did eventually make it back to the old country last year. But by then, Alzheimer's had taken hold. She was physically present in the land of her parents, but she couldn't grasp the return. She couldn't bridge the gap between the stories she heard as a child and the streets she was standing on.

We were there, but we weren't there.

That heartbreak taught me the most important lesson of all: Reconnection isn't just about geography. It is about timing. It is about building a bridge to the past while you are still present enough to cross it.

It’s never too late, until it is.

That failure changed the trajectory of my life.

In 2021, I didn’t just go back for a visit; I moved to Italy. I bought a home in the very town my ancestors were forced to leave behind.

I built a life here, but more than that, I found a rhythm.

There is an indescribable feeling in walking these streets daily—pacing the same cobblestones that my great-grandparents walked, but doing it with the freedom they never had. It is a daily conversation between their history and my present.

It is deeper than just sightseeing. Every Saturday morning, I volunteer in the community alongside my 3rd and 4th cousins. We work side-by-side, sharing a language and a purpose. Through them, I found a definition of "family" and connection that I simply couldn't find in the quiet isolation of the Midwest suburbs.

Living here taught me that honoring my past isn't just about looking backward; it’s about building a future for my children on the foundation our ancestors laid.

It changed everything so profoundly that today, my team and I help others do what I couldn’t back in 2019. We don't just plan travel; we help you find that same sense of belonging.

Together we built a team of local experts, drivers, and interpreters. I learned who holds the keys to the church and which office holds the records. We now have a full-time travel planner whose entire purpose is to make sure that our families connect with their history, the culture, and that their return to the Old Country is special.

But for 2026, the challenge is personal again. I am bringing my family back.

This time, the circle is wider. My brother is joining us. My cousins are coming. And most importantly, we are bringing my dad and his sisters—my aunts. We are going not just to Sicily, but to Leipzig, Germany, to uncover the other half of our history.

Bridging the Generations

The stakes feel incredibly high. I feel the pressure to make sure my family sees the beauty my ancestors left behind to give us the future we have today—not the empty streets or deserted beach my sister and I wandered into back in 2019.

We are designing this trip to avoid the mistakes of the past:

• No Long Walks: My father and aunts won't be dragging luggage down a long road in the heat. We are using professional drivers and vans to ensure they have the energy to feel the journey, not just survive it.

• Pacing for Connection: We are balancing the energy of the younger generation with the needs of the older generation. We are planning rest days and slow mornings, ensuring everyone is comfortable enough to be present.

• Scouting the Path: For the Germany leg, we aren't guessing. We are sending researchers and scouts to Leipzig ahead of time to ensure that when we arrive, the doors are open.

Building Your Bridge

We do this work because we want to know who we are. We want to understand the community, the place, and the food that shaped us. We want to thank the past for the future it gave us.

If you are feeling that pull—the desire to understand the stories that made you—don't wait for "someday." Social media makes it look easy, but real connection takes work, time, and care.

If you are ready to bring your family together in 2026, let’s start building that bridge now. Let us handle the details, the drivers, and the closed doors. You just need to show up, together with your family.

A Moment of Reflection

I invite you to pause and ask yourself:

1. If you could sit down at a table in your ancestors town, what is the one specific family recipe or flavor—like my grandmother’s anise spiced sugo—that you are desperate to taste in its original home?

2. Who is the person in your family who holds the keys to the stories? Are they still with us, and are they able to travel? (If mobility is the worry, remember: we can solve that).

3. Is there a specific "family legend," a house, or a church that you have always heard about but never seen with your own eyes?

   
   

If any of these questions sparked a memory or a wish, let's chat. Tell me just one of your answers. Let’s see if we can turn that thought into a plan for 2026.

Your history is waiting.

P.S. A snapshot from the archives: 

My sister and I learned to make fried zucchini blossoms during that same 2019 trip with the fabulous Manuela La Spina from CookEat Italian in Catania. We may not have found the records we were looking for in the village that week, but looking back at this photo, I realize we found something else—the conviction to keep searching and eating well. It was this trip that planted the seed for everything we do today.