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All Roads Lead Back To Pasta

One thing my dad and I always had in common was a love of great food. While his taste became more refined, thanks to his lengthy residencies in France and Spain, mine leaned towards comfort classics and desserts,  Long before however, when I was a little kid, his pantry was noticeably bare aside from a lone box of Cookie Crisp Cereal. I  remember Saturday mornings, while he was still asleep, climbing on the counter to reach it on the top shelf. It felt almost clandestine, but I always knew Dad could care less. If it brought joy to the eater, it didn't matter what it was or when it was eaten. If Dad picked me up from my Nana's house she would always send home a bag of groceries for us. Fresh oranges and grapefruits, milk, cold fried chicken, Jiffy Pop and Wonder bread. I wonder if she could see the look of relief on my face knowing we would have food at Dad's apartment. That bag of groceries gave me a sense of security that I never felt at my father's home. Nana's ho

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