This past winter, I was in a bonafide cooking rut—which I have to believe happens to the best of us. Looking back, the cold and dreary, mid-Feb-in-NYC weather may have had something to do with it, because I couldn’t muster up the creative energy to do anything besides roast vegetables with abandon.
If I wasn’t careful when entering the cellar, I’d walk face-first into a thick leg of prosciutto curing as it dangled from the ceiling. And then, of course, there were the orderly rows of mason jars lining the bottom shelf, filled with last season’s tomatoes picked at their peak from the garden and promptly canned. More often than not, I’d spot a crate of potatoes on hand for gnocchi, occasionally a stray box of garlic cloves, too. Continue reading “the Italian narrative Hollywood loves may very well never change, but I can”