Zia Concetta came to collect me one cold morning to sit with her as she prepared us a midweek pranzo.
Inside her warm kitchen the unmistakable aroma of my childhood filled the room. Atop her wood stove ragú simmered in a small cast-iron pot.
With camera in hand, I watched closely as she finger-rolled fresh macaroni on a large wooden board. L'Cingul. Growing up on Long Island I never witnessed fresh pasta made by hand. When I asked her if I could help she gently declined my offer.
"But why not, zia?" "It tastes better with only one pair of hands."
