“Hello Uncle Pippi!” A chorus of four, young girls greets him as my uncle comes into Nanny’s kitchen, brings a blast of cold air in with him, shakes a chill from his body, warmly smiles at us, walks past, through the dining room, livingroom, to his bedroom to change. Silently, he comes in, a pattern, a routine, a day in his parents’ house. Mom always reminds my sisters and me to say “hello” to Uncle Pippi, and Grandpa, too, which we do, but this isn’t a necessary order. It’s a soothing routine to me.

At the kitchen table, Aunt LaLa grabs a sharp knife and cuts handmade, flattened dough into ribbons, for noodles. I place them on a wooden pasta drying rack that stands on green-striped dishtowels laid out on the washing machine. The noodles hang over dowels, moist dough with white flour flecks, and wait to dry overnight in the warm, moist-air kitchen, the smell of coffee percolating the air as Mom fixes a slipping barrette in Maria’s hair, hands Barb a star-shaped cookie with round, colored sprinkle dots on it, and tells Donna to go watch a show on the little t.v. in Aunt LaLa’s bedroom.

“Be quiet. Be good. Nanny’s sleeping,” warns Mom, a reminder that our grandmother’s napping in her bedroom.