I remember my first, humble offering of a homemade dish, to my then-fiancé. Almost ten years ago. It was a pasta dish, store-bought penne, with a homemade sauce and a sprinkle of mozzarella. I was so proud of myself for making the effort. I thought it was perfection: pasta cooked al dente, swimming in a garlicky, tomatoey brew, islands of caramelized cheese on top. Finally, I mused. Finally, I have proven myself worthy of my own kitchen. Its gleaming appliances will not mock me now!
“Needs more cheese,” he said.