I’m the daughter of two born-and-raised Italians, and growing up meant spending summers with family in Italy and the rest of the year surrounded by a large extended family in New York City. No matter which side of the Atlantic we were on, we gathered the same way: around a table. To this day, I’m fairly certain I’ve spent more hours in kitchens and dining rooms than in any other rooms combined.

The first time I found myself far enough from home a quick visit or a shared meal was no longer an easy option, was as a graduate student. I was short on time, away from my family, and cooking much less than I was used to. My parents came to the rescue the way Italian parents do best: with food. They shipped me homemade frozen sauces and soups, packed on dry ice and sent overnight. What arrived wasn’t just food. It was flavor and freshness, love and care, comfort and nostalgia—everything that makes a meal feel like home.