I was talking with my partner about these remarks, and for some reason my red sauce came to her mind. She told me that I should talk about my red sauce. I wondered how I could possibly talk about my red sauce in remarks on women and leadership and the myths surrounding our advancement. Now, maybe she was just scheming to get me to make my red sauce—or gravy, as my family would call it. It’s terrific (if I do say so myself), legendary in some parts, and always a favorite among my friends, who know when I make them gravy I am showing them lots and lots of love. My gravy is especially great the day after it has simmered fully on a low-heat burner . . . but I digress! The notion of talking about my red sauce and women and leadership and the myths surrounding our advancement “simmered” in my mind as I considered these remarks, and I wondered how I could use red sauce as metaphor. I remembered that most working-class Southern Italian American women never used recipes. Never. My nana never did. In fact, it was a very big joke in my family that my mom, selfadmittedly not the best or the most interesting cook, would stand over or behind or next to my nana armed with measuring cups and spoons, trying to figure out how Nana made her red sauce, her meatballs—in fact, most of her recipes! My mom would try to place measuring cups strategically under Nana’s hands as she quickly and adeptly moved through her cooking rituals. Nana just did it. She intuited what the right combinations were and what the right ingredients were—the right tomatoes, the right spices, the right amount of cheese, the feel of the meat in her hands as she molded it into balls ready to be fried in the best olive oil. She intuited, and she practiced, and she intuited, and she practiced, and she did that with her cooking over and over again.