Don't you just want to dive into that?
I think I have marinara sauce in my veins. There are few things in this world that can make me as weak in the knees as the combination of tomato, garlic, basil and a delicious Italian cheese. I grew up in New England, raised on the cooking and baking of some very skilled Italian aunts and a mother who makes a killer sauce and meatballs. My dear Italian Nona, bless her heart, seems to have passed all of the cooking genes down a few generations and failed to keep any for herself. I'm grateful for this marinara flowing through my veins and for the torrid love affair I have had for the past few years with learning the basics of Italian cooking.
I haven't been to Italy (keep in mind that my dream vacation is eating my way through Europe with my best friend), but I think culinary curing in the Boston/New York/New Jersey area is the second best thing. I have dreams of melt-in-your-mouth fresh zeppole, made in front of you at the local Catholic Italian Church feast. I fantasize about perfectly pounded and fried chicken parmigiana, or pizza with a crust so thin that you can cook it in five minutes flat. Someday, I will go to my ancestral homeland and come back 30 pounds heavier, stuffed with mozzarella and polenta and San Marzano tomatoes and fresh pasta. For now, I will be as authentic as I can in my little kitchen in the Salt Lake Valley.
My mother is an angel, and for my birthday last month, sent me a hand-crank pasta machine, complete with a beautiful Cook's Illustrated pasta cookbook and ravioli mold. Aren't they beautiful? I love my husband, but if this pasta machine asked me to run away with it and live on a white, sandy beach, I might consider it.
