Sophia: Picture it: Sicily, 1852.
Dorothy: Ma, I am in no mood. And besides, you weren't alive in 1852.
Sophia: What? We can't learn from history? It was mid-century and a disillusioned Italy looked to the house of Savoy for leadership. Giuseppe Garibaldi, our courageous leader, and not a bad dresser, thought, "Let's regain some national pride and jump into this Crimean War thing." Of course, there was a big kickoff party at Giuseppe's beach house, and everyone came. Coincidentally, this was also the night his wife Rosa hit her sexual peak.
Dorothy: Ma, I am in here because of guilt.
Sophia: This is not a story about guilt. This is a story about being a bad hostess. While Rosa had Giuseppe in the bedroom with his saber around his ankles, were strip-searching mice for a piece of cheese.
Dorothy: Ma, so what's your point? That Rosa and I throw bad parties?
Sophia: That's my minor point. My major point is that, like Rosa, you're screwing around in the bedroom when there are important things to do outside.
Dorothy: I can't believe it. That makes sense. I mean, you went the long way around but that actually makes sense.

Blanche: Dorothy, shall I get Angela's luggage?
Dorothy: She doesn't have any luggage.
Angela: No, I never travel with luggage. Ever since the time I found a dead man in my suitcase.
Blanche: You found a dead man in your suitcase?
Angela: Right. Picture it. New York City. 1956. I was a young widow returning to Sicily. There I was on the boat alone, watching Lady Liberty grow smaller in the distance. When suddenly I heard a voice from the vicinity of my knees. I looked down. There was a midget. It turns out that his name was Peewee Bonbunzi, and he was fleeing from the Mob. For the next few days, we ate together, laughed together, and went for short walks in circles. And then, one day, suddenly Peewee disappeared. Well, we docked in Sicily and I was going through customs. And I noticed a strange odor coming from my suitcase. I thought it was the veal shank that I was bringing over for Mother's Day. But when the customs man opened the suitcase, there was Peewee. Someone had stuffed him in my suitcase between the veal shank and my beaver coat. Well, the Mob had gotten Peewee after all.
Blanche: Oh, God, you must have been heartbroken.
Angela: I was absolutely devastated. I mean, first I had to burn the suitcase and then the beaver coat. And the veal shank never did taste right.
Dorothy: Oh, Aunt Angela, you made that up.
Angela: Hey, I'm 80. As long as I keep talking, I know my heart is still beating.
Blanche: Angela, may I offer you something to eat?
Angela: As long as it isn't veal. Why it's not because of Peewee. I had some on the plane.

Dorothy: Mail call. Ah, Ma. Here's a letter for you from Palermo.
Sophia: Oh, it's the latest chess move from my old rival Serafina Gambrotsi.
Dorothy: Ma, how long has this chess game by mail been going on? What, it must be ten years now, huh?
Sophia: And it's going to keep on going until I beat Serafina at something.
Dorothy: What are you talking about?
Sophia: Picture it. Sicily, 1920. Serafina and I were both crazy about Marco the Goat Boy. In appearance, an Adonis. In behavior, horny as a toad. Little did I know he had a thing for hairy fat girls. If I were fatter and hairier, Dorothy, Marco the Goat Boy could've been your father.
Dorothy: I think we all grieve. Ma, that was 70 years ago. I was sure you'd forgotten.
Sophia: I forget nothing. So, any mail?

Sophia: I think my milestone birthday was when I turned 50.
Dorothy: Oh, Ma, I remember your 50th. We were supposed to go to a party at Guido's, but you were fighting with Pop.
Sophia: Oh, yeah.
Dorothy: Oh, I'll never forget it. It was Brooklyn, April, 1956.
Sophia: Dorothy.
Dorothy: Yes?
Sophia: I tell the stories around here. Picture it: Brooklyn, April, 1956...

John Porter: OK, let's fill this out.
Sophia: Uh, please.
John Porter: And you are?
Sophia: Sophia. Sophia Pe- Hawkins.
John Porter: OK, Mrs. Pehawkins, um... Maybe you can tell me a little bit about your mother's history?
Sophia: Picture it. Sicily, 1900. An olive-skinned woman sets sail for the new world.
John Porter: I was talking about her medical history.
Sophia: So was I. You think that was a pleasure cruise? There was smallpox, scurvy, typhoid. And that was business class.

Sophia: All right, it's late, I'm tired, so listen up.
Dorothy: Oh, Ma, you gonna tell us a story?
Sophia: No. I'm going to do shadow puppets. See? An elephant eating a peanut. Happy? Of course I'm gonna tell a story. Picture it: Morocco, the '30s.
Rose: The 1930s?
Sophia: No, 30 degrees. Do I look like Willard Scott? Of course the 1930s. Three close friends are haggling over a Camel.
Rose: How many humps?
Sophia: None! I'm talkin' about a cigarette. It was the last one. Well, anyway...
Dorothy: Oh, Ma, what does this have to do with the diary?
Sophia: Suddenly I'm on Nightline. I was just tryin' to tell a story here.

Blanche: Well, what do you think we should we do?
Sophia: It's not for me to say. But I'll tell you a story. Picture it: Miami, 1987. A house, the only one in the neighborhood without a pool. But I digress. Four women, friends. They laugh, they cry, they eat. They love, they hate, they eat. They dream, they hope, they eat. Every time you turn around, they eat.
Rose: Sophia, are those four women us?
Sophia: Look in the mirror, blubber-butt. The point I'm trying to make is, what's going on here is living. Just because you have some rough times doesn't mean you throw in the towel. You go on living. And eating.

[flashback:]
Sophia: Mama, if Salvadore hates you, why does he want you to come live here with us?
Mrs. Petrillo: What?
Sophia: Salvadore and I would like you to move in with us.
Mrs. Petrillo: Forget it. I am not moving in.
Sophia: Why not?
Mrs. Petrillo: Let me tell you a story. Picture it: Sicily, 1881. A beautiful, young peasant girl-
Sophia: Mama, not another story.
Mrs. Petrillo: Sophia, come closer. [slaps Sophia's face]

[flashback:]
Rose: My boss at the center made a pass at me.
Sophia: Maybe you misunderstood. What exactly did he do?
Rose: He called me in his office, threw me down on the couch and kissed me.
Sophia: That's a pass. Okay, I think I can help you. I'll tell you a story, Rose. Picture it: Sicily, 1922.
Blanche: Sophia, I have a problem. I just saw the guy I've been dating out with another woman. What do you think I oughta do?
Sophia: I think you should sit down and picture Sicily, 1922. It was the worst of times, it was the worst of times. It was Sicily, 1922.
Dorothy: Oh, Ma, I have a problem.
Sophia: Just sit down and listen. First, is everyone who lives in this house here at this very moment?
Dorothy: Yes.
Sophia: Then for the last time, picture it: Sicily, 1922.

[flashback:]
Sophia: Sicily, 1922. A beautiful young woman with breasts not unlike Brigitte Nielsen, except hers moved when she skipped, she comes walking down a picturesque country road when suddenly a yellow Rolls-Royce pulls up and blocks her path.
Blanche: Oh! Who was in the Rolls?
Sophia: Robert Goulet, for all I know. It's not important to the story. Anyway, the Rolls-Royce moves on, and the girl finds her pepperoni is missing.
Rose: What happened to it, Sophia?
Sophia: Bambi ate it. How should I know? You keep missing the point. The thing is, she has no pepperoni to bring to her family's table. She gets hysterical. She starts to run. She runs through the field, the meadow, over the hill until she comes to a raging river filled with pepperoni swimming upstream.
Dorothy: Ma, pepperoni swimming upstream?
Sophia: Yeah, I know it's odd. Pepperoni is a land meat, but there it was. She wades into the river, grabs an armful and races home to feed her family. When she tells the story, they think it's an act of God. But as it turned out, a disgruntled pepperoni stuffer had blown up the factory in a neighboring town, causing pepperoni to rain down over a hundred square miles, which is where the Sicilian saying "It's raining cats and pepperoni" comes from. Is this helping anyone yet? Because this sure feels like an ending to me.