I was a daughterless mother. I had nowhere to put the things a mother places on her daughter. The nail polish I used to paint our toenails hardened. Our favorite videos gathered dust. Her small apron was in a box in the attic. Her shoes – the sparkly ones, the leopard rain boots, the ballet slippers – stood in a corner.

I think it’s very attractive when people cook. So I don’t wear sweatpants. When you dress sexy to cook, too, it’s like, damn, I got a girl who can cook and look like that? And I always have really cute aprons.

I’m an empress.I wear an apron.My typewriter writes.It didn’t break the way it warned.Even crazy, I’m as niceas a chocolate bar.

Cooking is 80 percent confidence, a skill best acquired starting from when the apron strings wrap around you twice.

Approaching the stove, she would don a voluminous apron, toss some meat on a platter, empty a skillet of its perfectly cooked a point vegetables, sprinkle a handful of chopped parsley over all, and then, like a proficient striptease artist, remove the apron, allowing it to fall to the floor with a shake of her hips.

Usually I wear my grandma’s old aprons, or others I have collected in my travels. When I was young, I would sit and watch my grandma prepare stuff. She wasn’t Italian, but she did really good Italian food.