The Taste That Made Me

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Written By: Camille Marraccini

October 13th, 2025

I would always grab the edge of the stovetop and hoist myself up until my chin rested on the stovetop’s edge, just high enough to glimpse what was sizzling for dinner. Being the youngest of four children, I often slipped under the radar in our bustling house. Those unnoticed moments gave me the chance to quietly watch my dad cook while my mom juggled homework help and my siblings filled the house with their constant motion and chatter. The kitchen became my quiet place, even though it was the loudest room in the house. I’d curl up on the carpet beside the oven where the heat wrapped around me, and the smells shifted with the seasons. When the food was finally ready, our family of six gathered around the table, homework tucked away and phones left behind. As a good Catholic Italian family, we began with a prayer, but for me it simply meant the signal that dinner, and family time, was about to begin. Around that table, voices were always heightened as we told stories of our days, laughter spilling louder than the clatter of dishes. Those meals taught me that food is more than sustenance, because it is memory, identity, and belonging. Looking back, I see that these moments in the kitchen sparked both my love for food and my understanding of how it shapes who I am.

Every Marraccini Christmas Eve followed the same rhythm: the same 16 people, the same church service, the same bedtime story, and of course, The Feast of the Seven Fishes. Growing up, this was my foundation; this tradition is etched into my mind as the very definition of family. I thought everyone else did the same thing. At six years old, I imagined all of my friends were slurping raw oysters with splashes of mignonette sauce or sampling oysters Rockefeller as casually as I did. I loved sitting back and watching the chaos of my grandmother’s kitchen as she darted between pots and pans, orchestrating seven different seafood dishes at once. The air was thick with the smells of frying, roasting, simmering, and steaming. My grandmother would always sneak me a spoonful or a taste in the middle of the madness because she noticed my curiosity. Through her, I absorbed “unspoken rules” of cooking and began to recognize food as something deeply personal and creative. She was the first person to show me that cooking was more than preparing food. It was an art form, a love language, and the way she cared for her big Italian family.

As I grew older, I carried these traditions proudly, convinced that the food on our table was “authentically Italian.” So when I finally traveled to Italy to visit my relatives, I was stunned to discover how different the food and culture truly were. I had always believed my family’s Sunday spaghetti and meatballs or braciole were staples in every Italian home, and that the Feast of the Seven Fishes was celebrated by Italians everywhere. To learn that these traditions didn’t even exist in Italy felt almost like I had been raised on a beautiful lie. I was proud of something that, in reality, was “Italian-American” all along. This is a blend shaped by tradition, love, and the places where my family settled. That difference showed me that food is never just about recipes, but about where it is prepared, who it is shared with, and the culture it grows out of.

I spent my life absorbing recipes, traditions, and culture, and over time I began to develop my own interest in cooking with the creation of food, textures, and tastes. During the 2020 shutdown, I threw myself into the kitchen and treated it like a laboratory. I experimented with new dishes, played with flavors, and found joy in turning everyday ingredients into something far beyond what I expected. The food I made always left me happy, nourished, and craving more. Cooking for my family quickly became my favorite outlet. I noticed how much they loved the meals I created and how it gave them a welcome break from the typical, somewhat “sub-par” dinners we were used to (sorry Mom and Dad!). I started snapping photos of my plates to send to family and friends, and before long I began posting them online. I posted these pictures not for others, but simply as a way to keep a record of my own growth in the kitchen. To my surprise, those posts started to draw attention, and I found myself more and more inspired to try new dishes and push my creativity further.

I used my home kitchen as a place of both creation and relaxation. My family loved my dishes, and soon we had a rule: “Camille cooks, and Dad cleans.” It was a system that benefited everyone. After school, I would often stop at the grocery store, never with a set plan but always ready to let my imagination wander. I spent long moments in front of the produce section, studying colors for ripeness, weighing fruits in my hands for density, and imagining the flavors they might bring together. I had in-depth conversations with butchers about different cuts of meat, learning how to judge their quality by color, fat marbling, and thickness. Once home, I carried my groceries into what I proudly considered my laboratory. I (not so) politely asked my family not to disturb me while I worked. I devoted time to every dish, experimenting with pairings and discovering what flavors I truly loved. Cooking became a process of trial and error, each meal teaching me something new. Serving those meals to family and friends quickly became my favorite part. Their reactions, the smiles, the laughter, the quiet moments when the table fell silent because everyone was too busy enjoying the food, THAT was my reward.

I love the way cookbooks, videos, and blogs sparked ideas for my creations, but I can wholeheartedly say that nothing I have ever cooked has come straight from a recipe. I enjoyed learning from others, yet once I stepped into the kitchen, I let my imagination run wild. There were never measuring cups or scales on my counter, it all came from instinct. I sampled at each step, adjusted as I went, and trusted my senses to guide me. Cooking is easy! Our world through cookbooks and media has made it effortless. All you have to do is follow a recipe, right? But I believe directly following recipes completely diminishes the imagination and creativity that makes food unique. No fruit or vegetable is ever the same, no cut of meat tastes identical, and no oil or grain carries the exact same flavor. So why are we so intent on following recipes?

Because of this, I give terrible advice when people ask me how to cook something specific. I never know the exact measurements. For me, cooking depends on personal taste, the quality of ingredients available, and the culture of the people being served. I could never write a traditional cookbook, because no dish I make could be replicated the same way twice. Each creation is tied to a moment, a place, and the people around me. Cooking is my way of sharing love, but if you ask me to tell you “how” I did it, the truth is, no recipe could ever capture what happens in a kitchen. It’s an art, not an instruction manual.

I have never been talented at traditional art forms like drawing or painting, but I realized that my art form was cooking. The kitchen became the place where I could express myself, experiment, and connect with others, all while shaping my own identity through food. Food has always been the thread tying together my family, my culture, and my own sense of self. From the chaos of my childhood kitchen to the traditions passed down by my grandmother, from the shock of discovering the difference between Italian and Italian-American cuisine, to the joy of creating my own dishes, food has shaped who I am. It is memory, identity, and belonging, and it reminds me that PLACE is just as important as TASTE. My heritage, my home kitchen, and my own experiments have all blended into a flavor that is uniquely mine. As I continue to cook, to travel, and to learn, I know that food will always be my way of grounding myself in place while also connecting me to something larger than myself.

It makes me wonder: if my food tells the story of who I am, what stories might your meals be telling you?