I had a roommate once that had served a mission for the LDS church in Italy, and the man could cook pasta sauces that were worth killing for.
Which is ironic, because I was also a missionary, and yet murder didn't seem far beyond me after tasting his food.<P>------------------
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The pain chart
Sounds like my grandma's cooking. The family's been trying for years to get her to write down her recipes for lasagna and pizzagan (which, incidentally, is nothing like pizza), but she won't give them up. Typical Italian mindset, I guess, but I know we'll never be able to reproduce them after she's gone.<P>I just realized how selfish that sounds. Her cooking is probably the most minor of the many, many things about her I'll miss. Maybe I'll make a point of helping her cook next time I see her. If she'll let me--the recipe I gave is distictly Sicilian, and she distrusts nothing more than Sicilians. (Don't know where I picked it up--all my Italian blood comes straight from Milan and Naples.)