When Tim and I met, we instantly shared this history of having moms who liked cooking because they had moms who liked cooking. We grew up in homes where our families got super jazzed about dinner and would build holidays around what to eat and where. I know there a lot of people like this, probably a lot of the people who read food blogs included, so hi, but I guess there are also a lot of people not like this. Over the last few weeks, we’ve been talking a lot about it, our parallel history of loving food, of being loved by people through food. My Italian grandma died sixteen years ago and was part of the reason I later started this site; Tim’s Italian grandma, a sweet, smiling woman who was also from Chicago, died this last month. It’s such a great thing to have an Italian grandma who makes homemade sauce from the tomatoes in her garden and who always has food on hand that she’ll offer you when you come by. It’s such a great thing, it’s almost trite to talk about it. A grandma or a mom or an aunt or a friend who says, from your earliest memories, that her house is your house and you can come there and feel safe. And while Tim’s grandma, like my grandma, was more than just her cooking, she was at least it, too.