“Take the glass, turn it in the dough, put a spoonful of ricotta cheese and parsley on the cut-out circles.  Not too much, or they’ll break when cooking,” said Aunt LaLa.  Smiling, she places her hand on my hand, and shows me how to do it.  Like a mother bird, she flits, from sink, table, stove, washes the dishes, chops the parsley, cooks the gravy.

Turning an ordinary drinking glass upside-down into the dough, I cut circles, spoon the cheese, place another circle on top, and pinch it all together with a fork.  I learn the pattern of the ravioli, the steady routine needed to process and turn them out by the hundreds to feed our extended army of a family at a Christmas dinner at Nanny’s house.

On that day, the ravioli pillows will melt in my mouth, the soft dough gently break apart, the creamy, delicious, ricotta cheese, with the slight, sharp tingle of parmesan, create a taste of Italian heaven.  Thank you Dear, Sweet, Jesus, for ravioli, the memory food that makes my soul.