The centerpiece of my mother’s life has been this family. She and my dad raised and launched the four of us. They did a good job, we are all good people, and we owe our good sense and our values to two people who really were the salt of the earth. They taught us the values of honesty—always tell the truth, competence—do a good job, humor—tell a funny story, generosity—share and think of others, hospitality—have an open table, and fortitude—keep going…and don’t complain. They showed us how to stay true to those values, even when it costs in the short run. Mom was never out to win a popularity contest. She suffered little foolishness or bragging, wrote grievance letters to big corporations, was always frugal, possessed a sometimes hard practicality, a well-honed sense of the comical, and a keen intellect. She loved language, the BBC, and could often complete the Friday and even the Saturday New York Times crossword puzzles.

She offered all of this to us. She gave us herself, her entire life. What greater gift can there be?

My mother came of age when women had far fewer options than they do today. She worked within the limits of the choices that she had. She was a homemaker, and she excelled at all of it, raising a family and being a faithful wife, even though she had talents and abilities that might have led her to pursue many other things: teaching, music, painting, even the law.

But I can’t talk about my mother without talking about food. Food has been central to every part of her life. It gave her a sense of purpose. It was an artistic expression. It was a gift of love that came to her and flowed from her.

She grew up as a first-generation Italian American near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The culture of food was one of the real and lasting treasures that came across the Atlantic with her parents. Truly precious cargo. My grandmother cooked every day and imparted that know-how to her oldest daughter—my mother.

As a young woman, my mother learned to support her own family, which was fractured by divorce—a rarity in that community—by helping to put the meals on the table.

During the Great Depression and World War II, Italians relied on polenta and pasta with potatoes, which she would prepare.

At the helm of her own household, she became a full-fledged keeper of the traditions that ran through my parents’ community of Italian immigrants.

The recipes she absorbed in her home town were more than a just a cooking repertoire. They were an expression of pride, a healthy competition among the friends and neighbors that made up that neighborhood. People drew from the same food culture. And they all knew who made the best buccanoti, who got credit for the peaches recipe, and who was making the baked pasta for the picnic.

After moving to California, Saturday nights were hamburgers and the Wide World of Sports. Sunday usually involved pasta. Some weekends, we would pack up the car for a day at the beach, taking along a little hibachi, a piece of the home hearth, to cook on in the grassy dunes. No matter what else was going on, we always sat down to the table for dinner together.

Don’t misunderstand. She had four kids and often relied heavily on the convenience of canned peas, Bisquick, and Jello 1-2-3.

But she had standards…the quality of the food was a priority. I once caught her in the act of trying to throw away an entire cheesecake because she had omitted one ingredient. She almost took me down as I snatched the cheesecake from the jaws of defeat.

 At age 87, she brought me every meal when I fell ill at her house and couldn’t get out of bed for ten days.

The foods we, her children and grandchildren, grew up with and still love have deep roots down into our Italian ancestry. Mom cooked what she ate as child, the same dishes that her mother had learned to cook long before.

• Pastina with egg and butter for babies.

• Cocoa and toast for breakfast, once in a while, she’d whip up eggs and sugar and pour that on top of our cocoa. Thick, sweet, and creamy egg foam that melded with the chocolately hot milk.

• Chicken soup for whatever ailed us.

• Then of course there was pasta, gnocchi—each one rolled by hand, with a rich sauce flavored with pork, oregano, and wine; a steaming platter of stuffed rigatoni smothered with sauce and romano cheese.

• Succulent greens with olive oil and garlic.

• Freshly baked white bread, the leftover dough deep fried and sprinkled with sugar.

• Freshly made angel hair pasta with anchovies and parsley.

• Grilled leg of lamb marinated in wine and rosemary.

• Potato salad—always Italian style—with red onion, olive oil, and flat-leaf parsley.

• And then there was the food of Christmas: timpano ala Big Night—pasta with tomato and béchamel sauces baked inside a pastry crust, wedding soup—clear chicken broth with endive, tiny meatballs, and egg croutons….the best soup in the world. And there was always a veritable parade of Christmas cookies—nut rolls, peaches, lady locks, pecan tassies, snowballs, thumbprints, and pineapple squares.

Are you getting hungry?

Of course you are. We are all hungry, and for more than mere sustenance. Our mouths water for the taste of love and connection, our hearts hunger for the safety of home, a comfort as familiar as an old, soft sweater.

I am pretty proud of the fact that mom complimented my lasagna. She really did think it was better than hers. That was a rare sign from her that she recognized my coming of age.

And it continues. I often say that one of the things of which I am most proud as a parent is that my own kids all love and prepare vegetables, even kale, which mom hated. The legacy continues.

Our food is something we can all agree on. It is the connection that comes from a culture so delicious and satisfying that it lifts everyone up, its pure goodness binding us together with love.