On Friday night, I went to dinner at a little Italian restaurant in the West Village. It’s an old favorite, just a few blocks from a cozy apartment where I used to live. The restaurant is warm and inviting, with worn wood floors and a long mirrored bar. It’s lit with vintage-y lightbulbs that glow amber above the tables.

The menu is filled with the sort of food I imagine real Italians eat. Somewhere in Naples, in a quiet cool kitchen, someone’s nonna is setting out simple dishes like thinly sliced rib-eye, served cold, over lemony arugula and shaved Brussel sprouts studded with salty bits of Castelrosso cheese.

I woke up early this morning. I took a run in the park, breathing in gulps of cold fresh air. Sweating it out feels extra good in winter weather; leaving the warm cocoon of my bed for a bracing chill is like conquering a battle.

Then there’s a hot shower waiting. Comfortable clothes – fleeced pants and a soft, oversized sweater – and a walk to get a big milky latte. I pick up some groceries. Back in my kitchen, I fire off a few work emails, feeling sharp and witty and organized.

When I'm home on the farm, I like to take a walk around our three ponds once the sun sets. From afar, the lights of the house are ablaze, standing out like a beacon in the acres of darkness.

I stomp the mud from my boots, open the kitchen door, and warm, sugar-scented air wafts towards me. Two of my sisters are making linzer cookies, one of my dad’s favorites. There’s an open bag of flour on the marble counter. Powdered sugar spills out of its box, a batter-coated spatula is propped up on a mixing bowl, and scraps of cookie dough are strewn around.