My first culinary memory, the first time I realized that food could be deeply meaningful, is coming home from 3rd grade to find my dad making pasta from scratch in the kitchen. He was laughing and singing and there was fettuccine hanging everywhere.

In the deepest recesses of my memory, I can envision seeing an after school special around that same time in which a kid comes home to find his dad with a strange woman. The boy is both crushed (for the obvious reasons) and shocked (because he realizes that his parents have whole lives he never knew about). The pasta moment between me and my dad was similar in that way, although far more innocent. My dad's affair was with Italian food.

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