a 2015 barolo, opened an hour early

my nonna's ragù, the one that takes six hours

the vineyard at first light, fog still sitting in the rows

san daniele prosciutto, sliced so thin you can read through it

dean martin singing volare

the oxbow public market on a saturday

my wife gianna, who keeps me honest

ligurian olive oil, the peppery kind

a table of eight friends and three empty bottles

parmigiano aged 36 months, broken with a knife, never cut

the big night, the movie, especially the timpano scene

fresh pasta drying on a rack

rome, always rome, specifically trastevere at 10pm

a guest who sends back a clean plate and nothing else

my grandfather's wine press, rusted, beautiful, retired

the belief that feeding people is a form of love

nero d'avola from mount etna

sunday lunch that goes until monday

etta james singing at last

the silverado trail in october when the leaves turn

burrata, the real kind, when you tear it open and it weeps

my son marco jr., who wants nothing to do with restaurants and i respect that

negronis, equal parts, stirred not shaken, big ice

the pantheon in rome, the light through the oculus at noon

luciano pavarotti singing nessun dorma

a properly made risotto, which cannot be rushed

the regulars, the ones who come every thursday

fennel pollen on grilled fish

the principle that generosity always comes back

a well-seasoned wood-fired oven

the smell of basil when you tear it

walking the vineyard rows after harvest, the quiet