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.

the base of many of her sauces. The recipes were a family secret passed

how to tell exactly when to remove the pasta from the boiling water… and

my grandmother, and I

of her, I have always seen cooking as an act

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