I'm unsure where my deep and abiding appreciation for food, wine and the culinary arts was born.  As a third-generation Italian-American (with a smidgen of German thrown in from dad's side), one would assume that growing up,  good food and wine were the staples of our everyday culture, present and accounted for at the family table at every meal.  Any prowess I may have demonstrated ala cucina must  certainly be attributed to the genetic code of my Italian heritage, passed along from a long line of incredibly domesticated mammas and nonnas, right?  Picture a small girl of 8, perched atop a worn kitchen stool, watching as momma carefully rolls out the pasta dough, her small hands helping t

As an (almost) native Californian, I realized long ago that the weather allows us the privilige to take certain things for granted, often to the chagrin of the rest of the country.  Most of us don't own a snow shovel.  We get fresh produce pretty much year-round.  And for the vast majority of us, the double-digit months don't necessarily signal the end of barbecue season.  I barbecue pretty much year round, and why not?   Even when the mercury dips to a chilly 38 degrees (you know, when the rest of the country is in the single digits----hee, hee, hee), what's nicer than warming yourself over an open fire  that also happens to be providing your supper?  And whatever you're in the mood for,