Gemotions

The scathing review from the food critic landed like a physical blow. The critic had described my signature pasta dish as "bland." I stood in the doorway, staring at the newspaper clipping. It felt like the air had been sucked out of the restaurant. I felt a deep ache in my chest.

I took a shaky breath, then went to a framed photograph hanging on the wall. It was a picture of my Nonna, her face radiant with joy. She had taught me everything I knew about cooking. I could almost smell the fresh basil and the simmering sauce.

I went into the kitchen, the space feeling cold and sterile. I found a jar of Nonna’s home-made tomato sauce. I tasted it. I was reminded that flavors were made by love. I began to hum a familiar tune.