My grandfather was born in Pontecurone, a small town in Piedmont, Italy, two hours east of Turin. He emigrated to Argentina sometime in the 1880s as a teenager. He met my grandmother in Buenos Aires. She was also Italian-born. Perhaps they fell in love on the ship, during the transatlantic journey. Giuseppe (“José”) Prassolo went back to Italy for reasons unknown and died there. My grandmother died in Buenos Aires, after raising seven kids. My mother was the youngest—and only woman.
I contacted the comune of Pontecurone and Ms. Gabriella Sala is searching for records. In the meantime, our friend Mark, whose passion is to decode family trees, has found revealing clues in ancestry sites. In facebook I met a second cousin once removed living in that region. He looks just like my uncle Federico. He loves to cook and speaks English perfectly. But he looked puzzled when I mentioned the word “kudos” during a WhatsApp video chat.
My childhood was imbued with Italian flavors: my mother made vitello tonnato, bagna cauda, pizzas, and of course homemade ravioli (with a flutted wheel that my sister still has). My father assisted her with the artisanal pasta every Sunday morning, while the ragù was simmering away. In the U.S. I learned to push Malbecs aside and appreciate Piedmont wines: Barberas and Dolcetto d’Alba. Although Prosecco has taken over the bubbly market, I still love a fizzy Asti Spumante, specially when served with a portion of meringata, another Piedmont classic. My mother also taught me how to play the piano. With effort or, as printed on scores, sforzando, “sfz.”
— New York City, 6/15/2021