Red sauce spatters from the pan to form a polka-dotted coating over the stove. I am trying to make a flavorful blanket for my gnocchi (store-bought). I venture into new territory as I try to teach myself how to cook. I cannot be in Italy, surrounded by the most marvelous ingredients, fresh and mouth-watering, and not be able to make them into something that reflects my relationship with my boot. I cannot go one more day without creating a masterpiece in the kitchen.

I slice a whole peperoncino open and sprinkle the colorful seeds over my tomato sauce and olive oil base. I rinse my hands, but in my excitement do not use the soap. I pour a little wine into the pan and some water, and then mix a bouillon cube in. Salt, pepper, more water. It’s bubbling like my own little cauldron of inexperience. And then I touch the skin above my upper lip near my nostril to momentarily quell a little itch.

As the pain builds from the heat of the chili seeds, I try to splash water on my face and the assaulted area in particular. It is not working. I am breathing chili through one side of my nose. It feels bad, but there is nothing I can do. I bear the pain, and decide that it is an entrance into a new culinary land. The price that must be paid by all who learn to cook. And besides, it will make for a very funny story later.

I am a novice in the kitchen, which is probably obvious by now. But I have been inspired. I have been reading travel books, with a cooking edge. And these chef/travel writers are traveling through Italy for at least some part of their journey. I devour the descriptions of their menus and they cast a spell over me. I’m determined to not only cook, but to learn about wine as well. What better place to do it than here?