All of our senses have a way of reconnecting us with the past. For me, I remember my childhood of long-ago summers spent on a small farm in Connecticut tending chickens and barnyard animals, then the city streets of New York City and its pushcarts full of all kinds of foods, fresh and cooked, then again the small Connecticut farm walking the woods and picking fragrant mountain oregano, rosemary and sage any time we wanted it, cardoon in the spring, wild blueberries at the end of summer, mushrooms after a rain and hazelnuts in the fall.

As the herbs dried in the sun, my sister and I sewed little packets for them out of little pieces of white lace she and my mother had left over from making their underwear. We would fill the bags, tie them with ribbon and give them out at school on the various holidays, some directly to the girls and others to the boys for their mothers. About ten years later, unfortunately, I heard that some of my friends' mothers, who thought that spices grew in little glass bottles with McCormick labels glued onto them, never opened their packets.

Today, for me, when I smell spices or see those kinds of foods, I'm immediately transported back to that times and places. I can see, smell, hear and feel it all: The barnyard, the rolling hills in the distance, the sun on my face, and the pushcarts on the busy streets.

To bring back those precious memories, I indulge myself and use cooking as my bridge to those times: My grandmother's fresh baked Pane and Faccachia, my grandfathers Tripe' cu Zuggu, Aunt Lucy's Pastate' in Brodo, my Uncle Nunzio's Chicken cu Olivas -- oh, so many Sicilian regional dishes that I can't name them all here. And, as they, their recipes exist in my head. It seems that I end up slightly re-creating each recipe every time, as they were never written down, only duplicating my childhood memories of each relatives' movements!

And whenever I think of the Connecticut farm, the New York streets, I take out a heavy pot or a baking tray and have at it. As the scent of the stovetop cooking or the oven rises into the air around me, I bend over the pot or open the oven door and inhale deeply. At once I feel connected to the generations that came before me -- ten generations of Sicilians who have given me my wonderfully rich culture and who have made me who I am today.

All of these memories are precious to me and, for good or for bad, I would not have had it any other way.