One of the first that comes to mind for me is a plate of spaghetti with olive oil, dry basil, and parmesan (probably from a green can), a simple meal cooked with my friend Zach at his house in Philadelphia. Not so spectacular, except I was 15 and it was the first time I had been outside of Puerto Rico in winter. We ate the spaghetti at a long farm table in the middle of the kitchen then voraciously enjoyed juicy giant pears over the sink. Almost 30 years later I still remember that meal: how exotic it felt to wear a sweater, how much I loved hanging out with my friend, and how magnificent it was to eat a meal we had cooked ourselves. 

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Since then, I’ve had slightly more elevated meals that remain memorable years later—a giant, briny pot of mussels devoured one summer is seared in memory as one of the best meals I’ve ever had. They were without question the most succulent mussels, but part of their deliciousness also came from the conversation around the table, the flowing wine, and the feeling of eating them with my fingers, in a sundress, with my shoes kicked off. After dinner, we ate cinnamon gelato and wine-macerated peaches. It felt like we had eaten summer.