Food has always been more than just sustenance for my family. It is a language—a way to communicate love, pride, and our shared heritage. Growing up in a household deeply rooted in Italian-American traditions, the kitchen was where I first encountered the rich tapestry of my cultural identity. The smells of simmering tomato sauce, the sound of laughter mixed with the rhythm of Italian music, and the feel of dough beneath my hands are all etched in my memory.

 

These moments of cooking with my great-grandmother, grandmother, cousins, and sister did more than teach me how to prepare traditional dishes—they connected me to something deeper: a legacy of resilience, pride, and community.

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My grandmothers were the heart of our kitchen. Short, sassy, and full of life, they carried the wisdom of generations in their laughter and stories. My great-grandmother, though up in years, had a perspective on life that I had never heard before—she had witnessed the hardships of Sicily, the joy of migration, and the strength of women who held families together through food. She taught me how to knead bread dough with the kind of care that made me feel as though I was touching something much larger than myself.

 

"Food is from the soul," she'd say, making it clear that what we prepared was more than just a meal—it was a manifestation of love and tradition.

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Cooking was a communal activity. My cousins, who were older than me but somehow always found themselves in my shadow because I was taller, would crowd around the kitchen table, rolling out pasta dough. My sister and I would be in charge of the sauce, each of us claiming that we could make the best “gravy,” but we all knew the real secret was in the process. My grandmother, always with a twinkle in her eye, would say, “The secret to a good sauce is patience.” We would simmer tomatoes slowly with garlic, herbs from the garden, and olive oil, letting the rich aromas fill the house. With every stir, every addition of basil or a pinch of sugar, we were not just cooking; we were preserving the stories of our ancestors, telling them through the food we shared.

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The dishes we created were a reflection of Southern Italy’s agricultural heritage—ingredients born from the warm, dry soil of Sicily. Tomatoes, garlic, olive oil, fresh basil, and eggplant were at the heart of what we cooked. My ancestors had crossed oceans, fleeing poverty and hardship, but they carried with them the land’s bounty, adapting it to their new world.

 

It was through the food that they told the story of survival and resilience, a story that would continue to be passed down with every meal we shared.

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Food for my family wasn’t just about sustenance—it was a way to resist assimilation and preserve our Sicilian heritage. My great-grandmother’s parents came from Sicily, and when she arrived in America, she encountered countless challenges. Despite this, she never let go of her culinary roots. The kitchen became her sanctuary—a place where she could reconnect with her homeland through the simple, comforting act of cooking. Even in a new country, with a new language and new customs, she found solace in the familiar flavors and recipes passed down from her mother.

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Each meal we prepared together was an act of cultural preservation. While the world around us often pushed for assimilation, food kept us anchored in our Sicilian identity. I remember how my great-grandmother always insisted on using ingredients from local markets or from our own garden—always fresh, always in season, and always chosen with care.

 

For her, food wasn’t just about satisfying hunger; it was about staying connected to the land, honoring the hard work of those who cultivated the ingredients, and maintaining a thread to the past.

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As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to understand that these family moments were about more than just passing down recipes—they were teaching me something far deeper. They showed me the value of sustainable food choices, the importance of respecting the land, and the ethical responsibility we all have toward our environment and community. My great-grandmother’s insistence on using local ingredients wasn’t just a personal preference—it was an early lesson in sustainability.

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Now, as I reflect on the food justice movement, I realize that the values my family passed down—those of respect for the earth, for community, and for ethical food practices—are integral to larger social issues. We live in a world where food systems often prioritize profit over people, and where industrial farming practices exploit both workers and the environment.

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Sustainability, to me, is not just about eating ethically—it’s about ensuring that everyone has access to healthy, affordable food.

 

Food justice is about recognizing that marginalized communities, especially low-income and communities of color, often face systemic barriers to accessing quality food.

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As someone who grew up in a family that valued connection to the land and to one another, I feel a responsibility to continue this legacy of food justice. Just as my ancestors brought their traditions to the United States, I now carry the lessons of sustainability and equity forward, hoping to inspire future generations to think critically about how food is produced, who it benefits, and who is excluded from the conversation.

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Food is no longer just about feeding ourselves—it’s about feeding our communities, our planet, and our future.

 

By advocating for a sustainable food system, one that prioritizes local, ethical practices and supports food justice, we can reshape the way we think about what we eat. This journey, which began in the kitchen with my great-grandmother, is a call to action. It is a call to reflect on the intersections of race, class, and sustainability, and to understand how food choices can be a powerful tool for social change. It’s about making sure that the values of tradition, care, and community continue to shape the way we nourish ourselves and others.

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In the end, cooking in that kitchen was about so much more than following a recipe—it was about understanding who we are, where we come from, and how we can use food to build a more just and sustainable world. My great-grandmother always said that food was from the soul. Now, I know she was right.

 

It’s the soul of who we are, who we’ve been, and who we aspire to be.

And it’s a soul we must protect, one meal at a time.