My mom didn't realize how much I liked cooking until I was a bit older. Once she did, she took the time to write some of her recipes down for me in a little booklet she called "Sam's Cookbook". I still reach for it all the time, mostly for her speggi sause, her meatballs, and her chicken cutlets.

Growing up I ran track, and before a big meet a track family would sometimes offer to cook for the whole team so we could carbo load, basically eat a ton of carbs to burn off during the race. My mom always made her meatballs, sause, and pasta, and every time the whole team would talk about them after, especially the meatballs. Her meatballs and her homemade sause have always been a talking point.

That smell of the sause simmering for hours always made me happy. It's one of those smells that triggers something inside of you and makes you really appreciate the chef behind it.

That's just who she is. Food is her love language. She'll spend days prepping for a dinner, making sure everyone is fed plenty and even overfed, all before she even thinks to sit down and feed herself. She loves nothing more than gathering friends and family around a good homemade meal, and it makes her heart sing.

It doesn't stop at her own house, either. A work friend's birthday? No problem, here's four trays of chicken or eggplant parm. A baby shower? An unreasonable amount of meatballs and ziti, enough to feed everyone twice.

This book is hers. Every recipe, every quirk, every "ENJOY." I'm just keeping it somewhere we won't lose it.