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The shameful secret in our basement

prosciutto1

It is a well-known fact that I can be bribed to do almost anything with the promise of my mother’s frittata. Just last week, I rearranged my Saturday to walk my parents’ dog, Rufus, in exchange for a 12-egg fluffy frittata with my name on it. As I sampled my egg earnings, my father mused, “you know, when I was a kid, my mother would send me to school with peppers and eggs for lunch and I would be so embarrassed. And here you are, hoarding this simple omelet as if it were gold.” I wash down the frittata with ...

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