I was fortunate to grow up in the Bronx alongside my Italian grandmother, Millie—formerly known as Emilia—a petite, spirited woman steeped in old-world tradition and a romantic view of the world. She had a jubilant aura shaped by teenage summers spent in Italy eating pasta, riding her bike, and lounging on the beaches of Torre Annunziata.

Millie would express delight at shaped butter on scalloped plates in restaurants and compliment the chef even at a local diner for sunny-side-up eggs. She'd pluck dandelions from cracks in the pavement and place them around the house alongside ornate picture frames filled with photos with her five grandchildren.