If food is an art, then my father is an artist, his blend of Italian and American cooking his medium, and his chicken cutlets his masterpiece. I have always appreciated his ability to bring our Italian culture into the most mundane dishes. Suddenly hamburgers became adorned with appetizing arugula, eggs were accompanied with caprese, and chicken cutlets evolved into a European-style delicacy. And a delicacy they are.

I sat at the cold island in our dimly lit kitchen. It was late, as dinner time always is in our household. My eyes would occasionally droop, and I was in a haze. I was still at the age where my body went down with the sun. The sizzle of chicken breasts in a frying pan droned on until my ears developed an immunity.

My forearms grazed against the frigid marble and sent me a rush of awareness. My stomach yelled in distress, as if to remind me I needed to eat before I went to sleep.

I was told to grate the cheese, but my exhaustion made the brick of cheese into a cinder block and the grater had seemingly lost its edge.

Suddenly the sizzling stopped.

My father’s hand grasped my shoulder, and he spoke. But all I heard was a reverberating mumble. I appeared at the kitchen table. Two slender pieces of chicken, mostaccioli poking from thick marinara sauce, a carefully prepared salad, and bread – a staple of any Italian meal – all looked up at me.

I shook off all my sleepiness as I began to eat. First the salad was gone. A pause to sprinkle cheese onto the pasta. The mostaccioli was gone, then the chicken. All perfection on a plate. I shot my dad a grin. “This is really good, Dad.”