Good food is worth a thousand words—sometimes more. In My Family Recipe, a writer shares the story of a single dish that's meaningful to them and their loved ones.
Growing up, every Sunday when church let out, we drove straight to my grandparents’ house. Even with the door closed, you could hear them from the driveway—a crowd of family, friends, neighbors, and the occasional priest or nun gathered in the kitchen. The adults sat around the table or leaned against the butcher block island, laughing with their mouths full; the kids ran in and out of the room playing games. The table would be strewn with Italian food: sausage rolls and meatballs soaking in the sauce my grandmother made that morning; bread, still warm from the bakery down the street; and homemade sausage-in-oil (more on this later), sliced paper thin. My grandfather would invariably be at the stove wearing a grin as big as the giant cast-iron skillet in front of him, a shimmering lake of hot olive oil inside. On the counter, a half dozen balls of pizza dough sprinkled with flour, and a plate layered thick with paper towels.
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