My mother was an excellent cook. I probably didn't notice that until we lived in Connecticut and "we" were married to our step-father who loved us and our mother and her food very much. The primary culture was American with the emphasis on Italian. The Kids, during the week, ate in the kitchen and the Grown Ups at in the living room after the Kids were done. Yes, there was prayer. And a dachound dog under the table for those items on our plates that were just too weird. Yes, manners were very much inforced. No dessert being the primary punishment. On Sunday nights, my Pop would char grill something. In summer, outdoors; in the winter in the living room fireplace. The Sunday meals were grilled steak (or other meat), rice and salad. On special occasions and when we traveled as a family, we all went out to dine. My folks dined out frequently, as a couple, so it was a treat when we all went out. I loved so very much those occasions that we dined in restaurant, whether for breakfast at varous I-Hops on the way to Mexico, or at dining spots on the way to or from ski-resorts in western Connecticut, Massachusetts or Vermont. I loved, especially, those occasions when asked, "What would you like to do for your birthday?", and I would answer, "Go out to dinner." This was when I met my first "pepperoncino" and my love of chile peppers began. I might have been sweet sixteen at the time when we went to Greenwich, CT and had a wonderful meal at an inn by the water. The rest is history. Thanks to my mother's wonderful cooking and my father's appreciation for wonderful food, I craved, and still do, lovely dining experiences in my home and in restaurants.