I’ve been told by a good friend, and trustworthy cook, that my bolognese is the best that he has ever had. If you knew my 6’5” honest to a fault friend, you would know that these words are to be taken as a compliment of the highest order. He is tall, can fill a room with laughter or fear, is brutally candid and equally kind. There are many reasons to love him, including the fact that he almost always picks up the phone when I need his advice. When we were on the phone, some weeks ago, before I left NY, we were catching up. Shooting the breeze about colonoscopies and the weekend. He said “We had dinner at a friend’s house. It was nice. He made bolognese. But it was no Tinamarie bolognese. I’ve yet to eat a bolognese that was that good ever again.”
Read MoreThe thread that has always woven our family story together was, and probably always will be, food. From the planning of meals, to grocery shopping, scoring a sale on escarole or broccoli rabe - this is where my mom and I meet. Growing up, food was our shared love language. Mealtime was common ground in a home where broken English was spoken and where my grandmother threw shoes at my grandfather in fiery frustration and anger when he was being stubborn or mean. But, mostly, we gathered in love. Even if food was something that made me feel shameful and embarrassed, it was the method of joy, source and maybe even our connection to God.
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