Two years ago, crammed into a tiny green gazebo at the house of my wife's grandparents in Voronezh, Russia, the simplest of meals somehow changed my life. I felt a profound relationship for the first time between the food we ate, the people at the table, the place itself, and all the little stories each of us have that led us—inexplicably—to that moment together. And then I saw my whole life—every meal I had ever eaten—in an entirely new light. I learned what it means to be truly connected to a place, to have a home. To be home.

It is this trip that led ultimately to our decision to move to Italy, to my decision to pursue cooking, and now, to focus on bread. It's this plate, in a way, that continues to guide me. But there was no “lightbulb” moment: it's not that a slice of black bread and a few warm pieces of salo (cured pork fatback) made me realize that I wanted to leave New York and become a cook.

Somehow, though, this simple plate and all of the very complicated stories contained within it (at once political and historical and deeply personal) helped me discover the why behind everything that I do, what I most value in the short moment I have on this Earth, and what I hope the tiny mark I make on it will one day look like.