One of my sweetest childhood memories is stepping off the school bus and instantly smelling Italian Spaghetti simmering on the stove. My brother and I would race up the driveway, certain we could smell those meatballs from a mile away. Before dinner was even close, we’d beg for a meatball and a little sauce poured into a coffee mug to “tide us over.”Our homemade Italian spaghetti came from the smallest thread of Italian heritage—my grandmother, Margurite Olive, had just a touch of Italian in her. But whenever this meal was on the table, we were absolutely convinced we were 100% Italian.I still make this recipe today for my husband, whose father was a first‑generation Italian American. His family lived nearby, and pasta was practically a love language in their home. Anthony’s enthusiasm for a big bowl of spaghetti (as you can see in the photo) hasn’t faded one bit. This is one of those meals I’ve made again and again, and it never fails to bring back the best memories.
