Before Mary Poppins floated down to earth with her umbrella, and before Marie Kondo discovered The Joy of Tidying, there was Betty. Throw in a little Julia Child, and the Italian grandmother you never had, and you’ve got Betty.

With a box of Italian pastries from Boston’s North End and a bottle of red wine in hand, my husband and I knocked on Betty’s door one Sunday afternoon. When she greeted us with a delighted, but surprised, “I just got here,” I knew one of us had the wrong Sunday, and it wasn’t 89-year-old Betty Belmore. It was me.