…When You learn the fine art of attaining New York cuisine. Most school kids that I knew couldn’t afford to eat out much for lunch (beyond pizza slices). School lunch was one-dimensional, which left going home for lunch. According to what “cultural mood” our taste buds were in, we’d drop in on the best cooks/mothers among our crew of friends. For instance, if I was feeling under the weather I’d go to my girl friend’s house for her Sandy’s grandma’s Matzoh ball soup with challah or to Cheng’s mom for her killer rice noodle soup. Most mothers were stay-at-home back then and great cooks, so kids would just drop in for lunch with their buddies, for international cuisine. There’s absolutely nothing like home cooked pierogis, kasha varnishkas (excuse any mispells), pigeon peas and rice, arepas, tostones, jerk chicken, scrambled eggs over brown rice and teriyaki sauce, tofu burgers…. whatever the culinary craving, there was a mom in my school or neighborhood who could do it right. No overpriced meal in the world could every equal those of skilled family cooks. I still drop-in on friend’s moms for home-cooked delicacies. One time I walked-in on the wrong meal… blood sausage with apple sauce at home of my Fountainbleu France friend, Jeffrey. While hitch hiking in Italy, a French girl and I were asked to dine at the mountainside home of an elderly lady who blew our minds with home-made margherita pizzas with a bottle of red and white. The olive oil and small dish of tomato sauce that she gave us while waiting was enough to make us cry. My first sushi experience was in Alaska, at the home of my Hawaiian friend. Too many beautiful culinary moments to mention.