"Cara," my Italian grandmother said. She clutched my whole face in her hands and plastered me with kisses. "Carissima!"

She had a fierce way of loving us, with the kind of unconditional love you don't always find in life. The Italian word for Grandma is "Nona." For some reason, she had an extra n: Nonna. She had dark, flashing eyes that drooped at the corners, and sparse, curly black hair. She descended from a seamstress who made Victorian wedding clothes in Lake Como, so she always looked super stylish.

"Let me show you how I like to eat peaches," she said. First, she peeled it. This was August in northern California. All of my relatives from both sides of they family, live in this tiny town called Biggs, in a very fertile fruit-growing region. My parents were farm kids. My mom, who used to look like Audrey Hepburn, was even voted Queen of the Future Farmers of America.

Back to the peaches, perfectly ripe. My Nonna sliced one for her, and one for me. Her knife revealed the lovely magenta center, blushing near the pit. As if they weren't sweet enough, she doused the peaches with honey, and then, a flourish of cinnamon.

We sat at the picnic table on the porch, just the two of us. I barely slurped one bite, before Nonna grabbed me again, in a torrent of kisses. I loved every minute with her.

We were up in the Sierras. A soft wind ruffled our hair. We could smell the sugary pines that shaded our tranquil cabin on the lake. All the men were off fishing. It was their tradition to take off at 5 a.m., with their wicker creels slung over their shoulders.

The current pummeled their waders, but they kept their footing. They flicked and flicked their invisible lines to, ever so gently, place the fly into a shadowy pool. They returned with the iridescent trout, gently padded with fern leaves.

Nonna and I, bellies full of peaches, snapped to attention when we heard their boots on the porch. I turned the fish into proper filets. She dredged them in flour and fried them until they turned crisp and golden.

Fresh trout with coffee and a raspberry danish, so tasty in the mountain air. If Nonna suspected one of us was not eating enough, she would stand behind us, spatula raised like Mussolini, and shout, "Piccolo mangiare!"

My Nonna is gone now. She held out for my wedding day, resplendent in raspberry lace. I still miss her. And every time I eat a peach, I add a little cinnamon and honey, and send her tanti baci.