We spent this past weekend in Rome, and there’s nothing like recharging the batteries on the home turf. I know, I know, I’m American so home turf is actually New York and not Italy. But after eight years of living in Rome, Italy sure feels like home. It felt great to be back. The air, albeit somewhat polluted, cleared my lungs and my head. I had my cappucino fix (Italians may have exported their coffee machines but their baristas work best at home), satisfied my cornetto craving (the Italian cornetto rules over the French croissant in my book — less butter and served warm, what more do you want?), and even felt at home dodging mopeds and nutty drivers in a richety automobile over cobblestones. And the food — it’s time I concede to my husband’s insistence: the best cuisine out there is Italian. Roman zucchinis send new sensations to my tastebuds, cherry tomatoes burst like liquer out of a bonbon in my mouth, and fresh pasta is just, well, fresh pasta. I thought I would cry when I tasted the best zabaione of my life at Al Moro. Even Luca, now 17-months-old, was sipping the residues of an espresso from my demi-tasse cup. Viva l’Italia.