Cent'ann'! Mange! Gathering around the dinner table, I smile because these familiar phrases mean it’s time for Sunday dinner. To my left I see the smiles of second and third cousins, and to my right I see the espresso shaded eyes of my grandma looking back at me. This is my group, my community, my home. We share blood: our Italian-American culture. Even in the modern rush of school, practice, and work, it’s comforting to know that I can always depend on my nonna and mama to tag team in the kitchen. Since I was able to reach the counter I’ve learned the complex and strict methods of ancient family recipes. I’ve watched with amazement as my grandma layers lasagna into perfect platforms, and slowly picked up her methods. These traditions in the kitchen are being passed down, and I’m finding my place by letting the women relax every now and again, while my brothers and I pay back the years of hard work by cooking the Sunday dinner. I’m finding the importance food brings to a culture, and how my cooking has developed into something more than food on a plate. Cooking has taught me about life, and that should I fail, much like a recipe, I have to try again. This connection to food seems miniscule, but it is a part of the grand scheme of my family and our lessons. This community revolves around the memories at the dinner table, and food is something I will pass down to my family for cent’ann’, a hundred years.