As far back as I can remember, I loved to cook.

My grandmother used to teach me when I was little. I would crack eggs for her, then spend several minutes fishing out the broken shells that always fell in. Nonna would smile and not say anything, but she would always double-check before she combined the eggs with the other ingredients.

I would knead dough with her on the kitchen table, my tiny hands chubby and pink next to her wrinkled ones.

onions that formed the base of many of her sauces. The recipes were a family secret passed down

to remove the pasta from the boiling water… and how to combine ingredients so that all the flavors blend harmoniously, with no one

loved my grandmother, and

her, I have always seen cooking as an act of

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