On a Wednesday late last semester, I turned 22. I was standing on the dance floor of the Brick Street Bar and Grill, clutching an amaretto sour in one hand and a vodka-cran in the other while my friends cheered for the stroke of midnight that ushered in my 22nd year.
In the “The Godfather”, there’s a scene where Peter Clemenza says to Michael Corleone “Hey, come over here kid, learn something. You never know, you might have to cook for 20 guys someday.” Clemenza then teaches Corleone how to make his signature sauce in bulk. I thought of this line last night as I peered over the edge of my newly purchased industrial-sized red pot, stirring onions and spices at a low boil. It was my first attempt at my mom’s recipe, which she adapted from The New Basics Cookbook’s “Pasta Sauce Rafale.”
I was 10 years old the first time I traveled by plane. I was going to Disney on a family vacation, and I was terrified to fly. During the flight, my mom had me switch from yoga pants to a skort to accommodate the weather difference between Boston and Orlando.