Pasta runs in our family. When I was a little girl growing up in New York, I visited my Nanny ("Nonna" in Italian) often in Brooklyn. I can still smell the diesel fuel from the city busses going by; I can still hear the noise from the city and people on the street below. I have fond memories in my Nanny's kitchen. I remember how the aroma from her homemade sauce simmering on the stove would overtake the air room by room in her railway apartment. I spent hours by her side covered head to toe in flour learning how to make homemade pasta, and then pinching the edges of our ravioli with a fork. My Nanny to me represents the true heart of every Italian. She was a natural hostess with a genuine heart for others and no stranger passed by her hungry. Her dinner table overflowed with food, and elbow to elbow was the love of her family she held so dear. She set the example with heart and passion, and for that, I am thankful.