It was only a few months ago that someone told me that my passion for everything I do was a fault of mine. I'd be lying if I said that for a moment I didn't question myself and my actions, but that moment was fleeting as I realized that my passion for life, love, food, and the people around me is my favorite quality.

Let me tell you a little bit about where I got it from.

My grandmother, Mafalda, was a short, large busted, not quite rotund, yet round woman with high cheekbones and a heart bigger than the nights sky, who possessed a talent in the kitchen like no other.  She spent her years as the matriarchal care taker of not only my grandfather, but three sons, and eventually my mother, and me.

In addition to her honorary duties of cleaning like company was always expected and making sure everyone was fed as though every meal was their last, my grandmother spent hours soaking her hands in warm water, yeast and flour making fresh bread, perching herself on the front steps saying hello to everyone walking by, and accompanying my grandfather on his morning trips to the Italian imports store to buy the Italian newspaper, Oggi, and wherever else he wanted to go.

Every Monday, my grandparents made the long trek, about forty miles, to the livestock auction, or as they affectionately called it, "the fair." English never quite came naturally to them as they didn't move to America until my father was sixteen years old, but they tried.

I loved Mondays, or at least the idea of Mondays.  I would beg, plead like my life depended on it, for them to take me along on their adventure. My grandfather would hem and haw (rightfully so because let's just face it, after about fifteen minutes the "I'm bored," complaint would start flowing from my gums), but my grandmother would never leave me behind.

My grandparents had a brand new, navy blue, top model Volvo sedan that my father helped them buy with the star of the show being the air conditioning, but (I'm sure you know how this goes if you're a first gen kid), they never used it. Just like the dishwasher, having this luxury was moot. I refer to it as a long trek because, although forty miles is not all that far, taking every off the beaten path back road made it a leisurely ride for them, but ultimate torture for me. Remember, I begged- pleeeeaaaddded to go.

My grandmother never learned how to drive so as most elderly couples, my grandfather drove allowing my grandmother to be the house DJ all the way there.

She was not a glamorous woman by any means, wearing mostly casual stretchy pants, house shoes, and top three sizes too big, my grandmother had her own sort of flare. From her left shoulder cascading to her heart she would adorn her daily outfits with her pin collection, mostly those she either received from me as gifts, or from the woman at the church resembling angels, the Madonna (Mother Mary), Padre Pio, the Pope, or the late, great Jesus Christ himself.

In her bra, my grandmother kept her most prized possessions. Money, of course, what seemed like and endless amount of funeral prayer cards, pictures I drew in kindergarten, and pictures of her sons, all wrapped up in about two dozen multi colored elastic bands.

There I was, I would say about six years old when I truly started making this journey with them, in the back seat, car sick from all of the winding roads, hot, and any child would be, bored out of my ever loving mind, and we were only a mile from home.

My grandmother would rummage through the front console of the car, pulling out the same Luciano Pavarotti cassette like she had never heard it before and the feeling of dread would instantly come over me like I would never actually survive this trip.

Per usual, my grandmother dug deep into her brazier and pulled out the wad of cash and memories and unwrapped them, gazing at them with all of the love in the world. I would sit as quietly as I could  because I was generally on thin ice at this point as incessantly fanning myself with a half empty tissue box was clearly getting on my grandfathers nerves.

And then there it was. Nessun Dorma. The last song from the opera Turnadot came on. I was in for it now. My grandmother would shift her gaze to the window and begin to sing. Mind you, I had no actual clue what Turnadot was, the meaning behind the words, or the words in general. They were in ITALIAN... I did't speak Italian.

My grandmother didn't sing; she wailed. She poured her heart, her soul, and the souls of all who've ever taken a chance on love, into this song. I mean, now that I know the meaning behind it, I kind of get it. Prince falls in love with princess, there's a riddle, he solves it to marry her, she says "not today Satan," he says," if you guess my name before sunrise I'll kill myself," (okay Rumpelstiltskin) but if not you marry me woman! The princess declares that no one in the kingdom is to sleep until they confess his name and whoever does not will die, a horrible, gruesome, untimely death- okay, unsure of how they will die but come on, middle ages - it can't be a good time.

The song is sang by the prince hoping that the princess never sleeps. He wants her to stay awake and ponder his name until the sun rises. In the end he belts out the words, " vincero! vincero! vincero!"

"I will win! I will win! I will win!" Clearly this prince is persistent.

That being what it was, my grandmother felt this song deep into her body. She would clutch her chest, poured her every last ounce of energy and grit into those words as the tears would rush down her face.

Oh dear Lord. Now put yourself in my shoes. Six-ish years old, sweaty, nauseous, dumbfounded and all of a sudden remembering that my ride home would be sandwiched between crates of live chickens, and rabbits, and God knows what else, and I would spend that trip picking flying feathers from my sweaty skin and blowing rogue fur off my clothes.

It wasn't until I was an adult, experienced the joys and pitfalls of love, that I would understand why my grandmother would not only sing this song with endless emotion, but also apologetically let her seep from her pours, eyes, and strained vocal chords.

There was an undying passion in her. She loved and loved hard. She loved like any second that love could be lost and she kept that a very realistic fear.

I've learned more from her than I could have ever dreamed and I'm so thankful. I bake bread like she did, spark up conversations with strangers, and I've learned the difference between house and home. Most importantly though, she taught me how to love and that my love knows no bounds.

More often than not, when I'm in the car by myself, or ya know, with my kids (life lessons on my childhood), I play Nessun Dorma. I play it multiple times and rotate through has many sources of talent I can find. I get lost in the moment. I sing, no, I wail. I clutch my chest, feel a lump form in the bottom of my throat, and let those tears fall.

Loving hard comes with its consequences, but also its rewards. I can confidently say that a big part of learning about my passion, my beliefs, and my heart has been from my grandmother. I'll never give up hope, I will always do it scared, and I will always give it one hundred percent because that's what loving is.

I miss those car rides with my grandmother. Oh how I would do anything to see her one more time. I would love nothing more than to drive her around, sing that song, hold her hand, and learn as much as I could about love.