Page 1 of A Recipe Called Home

Prologue

2003

Julesdabbedadampcloth against the fresh splatters of tomato sauce dotting her t-shirt.

“Messy is just a stop on the road to beautiful,” her grandmother said with a knowing smile, stirring the pot of sauce as it simmered on the stove—a phrase Jules had heard more times than she could count.

“Yeah, it’s messy alright,” Jules retorted, trying in vain to blot the stains away.

Wearing her favorite boy band t-shirt to make sauce and meatballs had been a risky move, and Jules knew better. Rosa, on the other hand, always tied on her faded blue apron, worn thin from years in the kitchen.

To Jules, her grandmother was the best cook in the world, though, at ten years old, her experience was limited. Still, anyone lucky enough to sit at Rosa’s table agreed. Watching her work was like witnessing a delicate ballet; every stir, every sprinkle of seasoning was a step in a dance she performed with effortless grace.

Jules wondered how many hours her grandma had spent in a kitchen. She’d been cooking since she was old enough to hold a wooden spoon. It was in her blood, just as it was in Jules’.

“Stop fussing and hand me the bowl of meatballs,” her grandmother huffed. “It’s time to put them in the sauce. Pay attention to how I drop them in. It affects the cook.”

Jules passed the bowl while edging closer to the stove, squinting her eyes at the bright summer sun streaming through the windows. The light bathed the small kitchen in that late summer golden glow that tinted childhood memories.

For as long as she could remember, Sunday afternoons meant sauce and pasta at her grandparents’ house. In many ways, it was the only real home Jules had ever known. Her mother often dropped her off for days or even weeks at a time, and over the years, it had become routine. Between the constant shuffle of relationships and a string of unstable apartments, Jules understood that her mom, Barb, struggled with the responsibilities of raising a child.

Still, Jules did not mind. Her grandparents welcomed her without hesitation, even converting an unused office into a bedroom just for her. It was nothing fancy, just a futon, an old box TV, and four walls that made her feel safe. It was hers. And that was enough.

After the sauce and meatballs simmered for hours, they finally sat down at the formal dining room table to eat with her grandpa Lou.

With his mouth full, he mumbled, “The best pasta this side of the Atlantic.”

Jules snorted. “You always say that."

“That’s because it’s true,” he replied with a grin.

Although they’d eaten her grandma’s spaghetti hundreds, maybe even thousands of times, they still savored every bite. The deep red tomato sauce had a perfect balance of acidity and sweetness, and paired with the hand-rolled meatballs and fresh pasta noodles, it felt like a hug on a plate.

Jules knew from a young age that she wanted to be a chef when she grew up. She dreamt of cooking up new dishes in her very own restaurant, not just at home like her grandma.

Some nights before bed, Grandma Rosa would tell Jules stories of her childhood living on the north side of Chicago. She shared memories of their family’s restaurant and the pride it brought to her parents. Rosa’s father had opened it as a young man, building it into a neighborhood staple and one of the best places in Chicago to get an authentic Sicilian meal that tasted like home.

After dinner, Jules helped her grandpa clear the plates from the table and wash them in the porcelain kitchen sink as he did every night. Rosa cooked; Lou cleaned. It had worked for them for nearly forty years.

Once all the washing had finished and everything was back in its rightful place, Jules joined her grandma in the cozy TV room upstairs to watch Jeopardy, like usual.

Tonight, though, Jules couldn’t sit still; energy buzzed through her like an electrical current. Cooking with her grandma had reignited her quest to become a chef, and she needed to know how she could make it happen.

“Do I have to go to college, or can I start after high school?” she asked her grandma before peppering her with a dozen more questions.

Once Jules caught her breath, Grandma Rosa reached across the sofa to hold her hand and said, “You’ll find your own way, baby girl. I promise you that.”

Chapter 1

September 2023

“Oh,forChrist’ssake,”Jules said under her breath, looking up at the departure screen near her gate. Her flight from Washington, D.C. to Chicago was delayed. Again. She’d already been at the airport for two hours.

Slinging her large brown leather tote over her shoulder, Jules scanned the area for the closest bar. If she was going to be stuck here, a glass of wine would help while she used the time to catch up on emails.

The airport was packed, especially for a Friday evening. Most of the restaurants were fast-food places with lines so long they’d curled into the walkway. Her eyes trailed down to the end of the terminal, past the hordes of serious-looking business fliers and stressed families, spotting a sports-themed restaurant with a decent-sized bar. She beelined it before other delayed fliers snatched the empty stools.

As she wove through the crowded bar toward the last open seat, her phone chimed. Jules recognized the ringtone. Her boss. She dug through her bag, frantic to find it. Just as her fingers closed around the phone, a burly man barreled past, shoving her aside and dropping heavily onto the barstool she’d been aiming for.

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