Back in the day, my mother-in-law, Bridget, drove the hilly, back roads to Isaly’s farm for fresh cream from the cow that she would churn in the Cuisinart to make butter. Isaly’s later found fame and fortune with Klondike Bars. We drove to the Italian store for meats and cheeses, to Rungo’s for produce, and to Sarris Chocolates for the best chocolate ever and a family tradition at holidays. She only went to the grocery store for things in a box or a can. Everything else was procured directly from the maker. Jerry’s parents are buried in Washington, PA, near the old swingset his grandfather gave them. She produced fantastic meals from this tiny little kitchen and its mod wallpaper.

Mia and Audrey have never seen snow, and I need a vibrant downtown devoted to always re-inventing itself and curating a vision for the future as well as steeped in culture and festivals devoted to pickles. I need everything Carnegie, Frick, and Schenley left behind as well as a melting pot of people, breathtaking architecture, and a 100-year-old Italian grocery store...and the Steelers. I need to wave my towel in a stadium of 80K people I don’t know, but we all go to the same church.