Nellino's Sauce Co.

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A Little Bit of Magic: The Nellino’s Story

Ciao! Thanks for taking a moment to read my story. I say "my," because while it is a brand you've discovered, it is a very human story that brought it to life. I, Neal McTighe, grew up in central New Jersey to an Italian American mother and a father who makes a very good sauce. It was not your quintessential Italian American household, for sure, as I have plenty of Scottish, German, and Irish blood, but my mother certainly did grow up surrounded by Italian in Philadelphia. I have blond hair, am tall and fairly skinny, and don't look Italian at all. All this aside, much Italian culture made its way to me. I hadn't a clue what "Italy" or "Italian" meant as a little boy. I just remember my mother would always make lasagna on my birthday; she'd often make homemade pasta, like ravioli, and countless other delicious dishes. Like my great grandmother who was born in Carife, Italy and came to America in 1919, my mother has always had a beautiful garden: tomatoes, cucumbers, figs, flowers. I once built a scarecrow for the garden. My mother's temperament is classic Italian (I can imagine I'll get a "talking to" for this post!) and I've taken on a lot of that temperament in my own life. What do I mean? Well, you had to speak your mind in my home growing up. There was no sitting on the sidelines. If you're lazy or have done something stupid, you'd hear it from someone. No free passes. Lots of love. The kind of love you can count on. My father, my brother, and I sure are lucky guys.

And while it begins at home in New Jersey, my story blossoms in Italy. My first day in Italy was anything but easy. I remember getting off the plane, not understanding a word. The weight of knowing that I'd be there for ten months as a college student was so heavy on my shoulders. I was thrilled, too, of course, but overwhelmingly worried. How would I, the worst student of Italian at Dickinson College, survive? I did what many American students abroad do, I went straight for comfort food, things to remind me of home. My first purchase in Italy? A Coke. It tasted so good. Ahh, the crisp, refreshing flavor of "home."

But soon "home" became "casa." Everyday was exciting. New experiences. New tastes. New things to see. New friends. I'd have lunch with my Italian friends; we'd sit around the table and talk (well, I'd occasionally add a peep or two) for an hour each day. I'd visit my friend's family in Savio di Ravenna almost every weekend. Soon enough I was speaking basic Italian. Later I was speaking better than basic. Then I was relatively fluent. But it was hard. Every day a battle. I even once asked the store clerk at a supermarket if the sauce had "preservativi." What a mistake that was, "preservativi" in Italian means "condoms." Oh Lord. His response? Just a huge laugh, then an explanation. Almost as bad as when when my friend (female) asked the clerk (male) for "pene," not "penne," at the stationary store. That'd be--cough, cough--a "p***s," not "pens!"

Those ten months in Italy were some of the best of my life. I learned much about the world and about myself. My time there instilled in me a love not just for Italy, but for life. Coming back to the United States was not easy. I was leaving my new friends. I was leaving a place that felt just right. I was leaving that feeling, I thought. The excitement of the day to day. Many of my classmates grew very close that year abroad, but we all worried we'd change--go off on different paths--once back at Dickinson. The challenge was real. Pennsylvania is hardly Italy. But, I knew that I would make my life Italy at that point. I enrolled in every Italian class I could, continued to study Italian (this time I was getting As), became the vice president of the Italian club . . . I was becoming Italian.

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