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