Week 3 found us at Praiano’s Hotel Onde Verde, dangling high on an Amalfi cliff. Dinners were included in our room fee, and every night we’d snake our way along the cliffside path to the dining room, and every night, my boys would order the pasta with tomato meat sauce. Now understand, my sons are intrepid eaters, children’s-menuphobes from day one. “This sauce is better than yours,” they’d say, and tasting it, I had to agree. Not easily, though; I prided myself on my Bolognese, made once a week every week, the pot always scraped clean. My sauce was buttressed with garlic, oregano, red wine and beef, a wintry night’s sustenance. This sauce was spring: vivid scarlet, pristine and jaunty, with no hint of garlic. I wanted to own it.
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