I come from generations of Mangia. I like to feed people. I wait in anticipation as they take their first bite. I look for a glimmer of foodie sensibility: a subtle nod, the sensory aha moment, the sweet smile of pure delight as flavors and textures and tinctures ignite their palates. The words, “OMG, this
Dear one, I have a confession to make. I experience blogger paralysis each time I sit down at the keyboard and start typing a post. Hitting the ‘publish’ button makes me break out in a cold sweat. I imagine the look of disappointment on your face when you find me telling you about the amazing
Summer, a time of promise. Lazy days. Bountiful produce. Moon flowers. Ice cream cones. I love summer. I even love the humidity and the way my hair curls and my glasses fog when I step out of an air conditioned space into a steamy, sultry evening. It was one of those nights when I stepped
In Memoriam Salvatore R. Campagna 1921-2014 It’s Your Party Rest in peace sweet Sam. The time has come to greet your sisters, hug your brothers. Wrap your heavenly friends in the arms 
that embraced us all. Grab a slice of pizza, a Genny Cream Ale. Reclaim the laughing loving larger-than-life man, your former self. Laugh.
I love my husband. He has this quirky sense of humor that shows up in the funniest places. Like the little notes he leaves me when our gardening efforts fail to yield the prolific produce we were anticipating. Or the commentary he posts on my culinary experiments. And I really loved the chalk line he
I’ve been writing in some form or another ever since I could hold a pencil. I had an advantage over my peers: I could write with both hands. I’d like to say this was an ambidextrous feat, and in some ways it was. I definitely have some of that mixed dominance going on. The sadder
“You’re too sensitive.” I heard those words throughout my childhood. I came to believe they were true. They were typically spoken by my mother. One of my earliest memories of my mother included the crack of a wooden spoon on my crib and the words, “Stop that crying or I’ll give you something to cry
Every now and then I peek inside my refrigerator and gasp at all the duplicate items that show up there. I wouldn’t call myself a “hoarder” but sometimes, even the best laid plans escape me and I find myself grabbing that extra bag of carrots or a few more sweet potatoes. Just in case. Yes,
It’s March 17th and snow swirls outside my kitchen window. The flakes are getting bigger instead of tapering off as the meteorologist promised. I smile at these frolicking flakes. I am reminded of Buffalo snow. In Buffalo, it wasn’t uncommon to see snow falling in the middle of March. In Buffalo, it wasn’t uncommon to
I enter the room, not sure what I’ll find. It’s been almost two months since I last saw him. An oxygen tank hums behind the curtain where my father’s roommate lies sprawled on top of the covers snoring and moaning in his sleep. This man is far too young to be in a nursing home.
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