An Introduction to my family cookbook

"Don't lose this," my mother says as she hands me a ripped up, brown paper bag with some loopy-scrawling on it. "It's the only version of this recipe I could ever get from your Nonna." As I squint through the cursive, I see the timeless recipes that we repeat during the holidays; pasta dough, meat filling, broth. All of these elements together make the perfect tortellini soup – a once-a-year delicacy in my family and a dish inexplicably more valuable than the turkey that follows.

"Where are the measurements?," I ask my mother, flipping the page over and over again, searching for numbers or any sign of a detailed instruction.

"Just keep adding the ingredients until it feels right," she says.

Until it feels right? I was raised in a generation where specifics and numbers make up the fabric of our daily lives: addresses, times, quantities, prices, measurements, increments, percentages. In my mind, consistency comes from repetition of concrete facts and numbers. But this is not how my ancestors cooked, and certainly not how my mother cooks now. They used eggshell halves as measuring spoons, palms as scales, finger-lengths as rulers. Yet every time I eat a meal that my mother or my Nonna cooks, it tastes the same. The qualitative consistency in taste is there even though there seems to be no quantitative consistency to the product. My Nonno knows when he makes pasta that it will fill up a whole pot, or that if we're having ten people over for dinner that we'll have "plenty." He never measures in pounds, quarts or practicality. He measures with sense and the intellect that only comes from experience and an informal, familial culinary education.

To watch my family cook has been a great joy in my life. It is an art form – a dance really. Watching my Nonno move around the kitchen, tomato in one hand, cutting board in another. Have you ever smelled a tomato that was just picked from the garden? Or basil being crushed between someone's fingers? It is an overwhelming experience. All of these scents exist on their own, come together and create a collaboration of flavor on your palette. Each part contributes equally to the whole making each bite significant and worthy of savor.

As I grow up, I learn more and more about the people I love over a bowl of spaghetti or a cup of espresso and biscottis. Forever in my mind will these dishes be tied to stories and shared moments with those I deeply care for. I take great joy in being Italian – it has always kept my stomach, and my heart, well fed.

Enjoy.

My first Blog Post...as an adult

So once upon a time I had a livejournal. I probably had an OpenDiary too. And a deadjournal at one point, I believe. And all of this happened before I was 16.

Looking at my adolescent writing now after (almost) earning my bachelor's degree in writing, it looks, well, very adolescent. It is amazing to see what used to interest me as a young adult to what interests me now as a slightly older -- yet still young -- adult.

This blog will force me to keep writing and in turn, force me to keep observing and self-educating myself even though the days of official classes & assignments are almost behind me.

Writing is so valuable and is important as I begin searching for a place to fit in this world professionally. Should I write professionally or should I use writing as a tool to other professions? Marketing? Public Relations, perhaps? Could I be the next Carrie Bradshaw? Jodie Picoult? Susan Orlean?

When I decided to pursue a degree in writing, I had no intentions of becoming a writer but I had every intention of using my degree as a catalyst to pursue any career I could imagine. I had been told my entire life that writing is the most essential tool for success in any individual company or wide-scaling industry. So here I am, writing and still trying to find a specific place to utilize my widely useful skill.

Here it goes.