Recipes

I have a thing for textures. I always have. For me, a great dish isn’t just about flavor—it’s about the […]

I’ll never forget the mud-splattered boots and that endless drizzle in Bologna, hunkered in my cousin Marco’s cramped trattoria kitchen

I’ll never forget the sweltering August I spent in my godmother’s sun-drenched Puglia kitchen, her hands—gnarled like olive branches—chopping sundried

I’ll never forget the frost-kissed morning in my nonna’s Tuscan kitchen, where the air hung heavy with ricotta’s milky tang

I still catch a whiff of that salty Jersey Shore breeze whenever I uncork a bottle for this dish—the one

I’ll never forget the sticky Ligurian afternoon when my cousin Luca shoved a twisty handful of trofie into my palm,

I’ll never forget that rainy evening in Alba, Piedmont, when my husband surprised me with a truffle hunt—me in wellies,

I’ll never forget the dusty Sicilian road trip with my aunt Sofia, her old Fiat rattling like a tambourine as

I remember the power outage in my old Chicago walk-up, mid-blizzard, when the fridge hummed its last and I was

I’ll never forget the earthquake that rattled Amatrice back in ’16—news hit like a gut punch while I was elbow-deep