The recent funeral for my beloved aunt brought back memories of times spent in her kitchen, watching her prepare food for our family. The spaghetti sauce in the giant pot was constantly stirred as it bubbled on the old gas stove, sending out aromas that would drive us to grab a crust of Italian bread to dip into it, tasting once again the perfect sauce that only she could make. The meatballs sizzled in the cast iron frying pan, awaiting the sauce pot. She would always leave one or two out for us to sample.

Her small hands deftly kneaded the bread dough, shaping it into loaves, or pizza fritte. Her special salad dressing left a tang in your mouth that was so good; the last drops of it were inevitably mopped up with the remains of the Italian bread. We would await Christmas Eve with anticipation, as the table would be laden with so much food, that it was difficult to fit the family around it. The crowning glory was the cookies - so many different types, the dozens and dozens of them covering every surface in her kitchen and pantry. These were more treasured than the gifts under the tree.

As I grew, watching her prepare these delightful miracles, she taught me her secrets, and I still cook today, to the amazement of many. To cook without vision is to cook visualizing that which you already know how to do. The expression “I can do it with my eyes closed” comes to mind. It is something that I have done for years, and continue to do because I love carrying on the tradition of cooking for my family and feeding those who come to visit.

Cooking with a disability allows for creative adaptations. Measuring ingredients, timing what is being cooked and smelling the finished product are aids we all use when cooking. Items that make my life easier in the kitchen are stackable measuring cups, talking meat thermometers, digital recorders that allow for a recipe to be stored and accessible and enough ingenuity to make it work. My confidence in the kitchen comes from the years of cooking with my aunt, and the desire to be good at it.

The greatest compliment I ever received was upon delivering a plate of cookies to her one Christmas Eve. She said to me, “Sue - I don't know how you do it, but those cookies are better than mine.” Needless to say, I answered that I was taught by the best ...

Perhaps the most important thing my aunt taught me was the main ingredient to all of her efforts-love.

She taught me not only how to cook and bake, but how to always be available to comfort your loved ones-yes-sometimes through food, and sometimes through having the courage to face the hard times because of the knowledge that you weren't doing it alone.

This column is in loving dedication to my Aunt, Matilda Cirillo Mancini, without whom I would not have possessed the culinary talents that keep my family well fed, and well loved. What we so sadly miss

about her will be carried on in small significant ways through the legacy of her family and delightful recipes.

Susan Cirillo Storms