I’m named after my grandmothers. My mom’s mother, Judith Anne and my dad’s mother Naomi Gene combined and my parents named me Anna Naomi. When I was younger, I never really liked my middle name. In classrooms filled with Megans and Brittanys, Naomi stuck out and my classmates loved to poke fun at the pronunciation. When I was 17, my dad’s mom passed away suddenly and at the funeral, there were pictures of my grandma from her youth, pictures I had never seen (or didn’t remember anyway) and stranger after stranger commented on how much I resembled my grandmother. As I remembered my grandmother through pictures and stories, I was struck with what an honor it was to carry her name.

My grandmother was so much fun. Growing up, we would drive to Pensacola each year right after Christmas and spend the second half of our Christmas holidays with her and my grandfather. We would make the trek out to the outlet mall and spend at least one entire day blowing through all of the Christmas money we were gifted, eat butter pecan ice cream from cake cones, and watch “West Side Story” over and over again. I remember so many little things about my grandma, but the strongest pull was the smells of bread and sausage that would come from the kitchen when she would make Briolata, a Sicilian-style sausage bread, synonymous with our family. Everyone makes briolata, but everyone makes it a little differently. My grandma would make giant, snail-like rolls that would almost envelop the entire countertop when they rose. My mom, who worked full-time, would use pizza dough for a quicker, more accessible briolata. We made briolata for my husband the first time I brought him home to meet my parents and now, even he has created his own rolling and filling system. When I started making briolata on my own, I sought to put my own stamp on it. I emailed my aunts and my dad, looked through photos of old recipe cards, and tested batch after batch. I decided to lean into the simplicity and use an adapted Italian bread dough. It’s pretty easy to put together in the way of bread doughs and gives a consistency as close to the ones coming out of my grandma’s kitchen that I can remember. The dough is rolled out, filled with Italian sausage, roasted garlic, and lots of freshly-cracked black pepper and each time I make it, I’m taken back to a small kitchen in Pensacola, sitting with a woman I’m proud to be named after.