Every family has its own version of comfort food. For us -- an Italian American clan that immigrated 100 years ago from Naples and Sicily -- vegetable pasta dishes have supplied not only nourishment for each generation, but a sense of well being. The continuity of eating something your great-grandparents, grandparents and parents ate is both reassuring and calming. The premise for these dishes all starts with the same idea: take whatever vegetables are in season and fresh, sauté with olive oil, garlic or onions, and maybe throw in some tomatoes for good measure. Mix with pasta and you have a meal.

Pasta Piselli is one of those dishes. A dish made with peas, tomatoes, herbs and onions, it is simple and forthright. There is nothing showy about this dish. Yet the mix of fresh spring onions and just-shelled English peas makes it not only the perfect family meal, but also elegant enough to serve to guests.

Now I need to confess that my use of fresh peas is unique in my family. Somewhere along the way -- I'm guessing during the Depression -- canned peas were employed as the main ingredient. My grandmother made the dish with canned peas, as did my mother. Yet although I adored this dish as a child, I have always made it a little differently, using fresh or frozen peas instead. This is probably because I really don't like canned vegetables. Plus fresh peas are only available for a short while in the spring, which means I need to take advantage of their wonderful verdant sweet flavor while they last. Prepared with small spring onions, and, if you're lucky, some nice early tomatoes, and you have a dish that celebrates the end of winter.

I made this pasta dish earlier this week after finding some crispy English peas and spring onions at the market. I wasn't lucky enough to stumble upon heirloom tomatoes, so used my standard can of San Marzano plums that I rely on so much throughout the year. And, because the day was rainy and cold, I added in some pasta water to make the dish soupy. If it had been warm out, I most likely would have left it out. But that's the great thing about a dish like this; its innate simplicity allows you to easily transform it for whatever mood you're in. Like all good simple foods, it is malleable, which, I suspect, is why it's been around for so long.

I'd never thought much of the carrot in terms of dessert food. Before you ask the obvious "But what about carrot cake?" question, yes, I know it exists. I just choose not to acknowledge it any longer, thanks to my volunteering to bake that particular dessert for a friend's wedding several years ago. 150 people to feed and a Barbie-sized oven left me exhausted, but proud of the mission accomplished. I have since moved on. I don't think I'd even uttered the word "carrot" in years.

And then I went to a potluck dinner at a home I once partly owned, hosted by a man I used to live with, and a dog who used to know me.

The theme of the dinner was Cal/Asian, which gave people a lot of wiggle room with savory dishes, but not so much with dessert. Whole roasted petrale soles, rices dishes, green onion pancakes and a host of other items crowded the dining room table. Just off center, however, was a bowl of bright orange that caught my attention, as though I had just spotted Lucille Ball standing in the middle of some crowded Beijing shopping center smoking a Phillip Morris-- a beautiful standout, if a little out of place amid the beige-y, earthen tones.

"I suppose I should have put that to the dessert buffet, but I didn't want to move the booze." was offered by a woman named Razili, who had brought the dish. In my brief assessment of her offering, I hadn't thought that it was a dessert.

She explained that it was a carrot pudding, or Gajar ka Halwa-- a specialty from Punjab, her family's place of origin.

"We changed it a little," she said. The milk, the cardamom, almonds for cashews.

It got me thinking about how, as Americans, we all inherit the dishes and traditions of our ancestors from their various distant origins. In my family for example, it's the cannoli. Every holiday, silver trays of the confections were placed on the table for dessert-- one studded with candied citron, the other with chocolate. While the older generations consumed the citron, the kids went for the chocolate. As the years passed and the older folks-- some of them actual Italians-- died off, so did the use of citron. The cannoli we make today are only with chocolate, to suit our Americanized tastes. They are still cannoli, just not ones my Sicilian great-grandmother would be likely to touch. They are still recognizable, but they bear the branding of adaptation, of assimilation.

I know my family isn't alone in this morphing trend. It's how we as a country traditionally have made anything "foreign" or "other" its own. Think pizza or nachos or just about anything Chinese. We take an idea from one place, adapt it to our own needs or desires (the blander version of something exotic perhaps, made with ingredients easily obtainable in our own markets), and the results are familiar, yet different.

That's how I saw Gajar ka Halwa when it was described to me-- strangely familiar (carrots and almonds), yet exotically different (dessert?). Of course, when it was being described, Razili never called it by its Punjabi name. "It's carrot pudding."

It was my favorite dish of the night. And, believe me, there were some great things on that table.

Carrot Pudding

Serves: 4

That's what I'm calling it. The ingredients are hardly exotic, unless you think cardamom is fanciful. In that case, you most likely don't have Central European, Indian, or Persian ancestors, to name a few.

It's a remarkably easy dish to prepare (if you don't mind a lot of stirring), inexpensive, and really, really delicious. I've changed Razili's recipe slightly to suit my own tastes, but of course, that's to be expected, given the sub-theme of today's post.

Ingredients:

3 cups shredded carrot
2 cups whole milk
3 tablespoons of unsalted butter
1/3 cup of sugar
10 to 15 cardamom pods or a heavy pinch of ground cardamom powder
1/4 teaspoon almond extract
Toasted sliced almonds for garnish. I candied mine.

Preparation:

1. Melt butter in the bottom of a wide pan over medium heat. More surface area= faster cooking time, I promise. Add carrots and stir occasionally until soft and thoroughly cooked. About 5 minutes.

2. At the same time, heat milk in a saucepan or microwave, if you're that kind of person. I am, but mine broke and it's low on my priority list to replace it. Add cardamom pods to milk. Bring to a boil, then turn off the heat and let the cardamom steep. Stir occasionally to prevent the milk from forming a skin.

3. Remove cardamom pods from the milk. Add milk to the cooked carrots. Stir constantly to prevent burning. Continue this form of exercise until the all the milk has absorbed/evaporated. The carrot mixture should be a little wet. About 10 -15 minutes. Add sugar and stir for another 3 minutes or so, just until the sugar has melted and absorbed. Turn off heat and stir in almond extract.

4. Place in serving bowl, top with almonds slices and serve warm. Of course, it's still really good eaten cold out of the fridge at midnight as well.

Do what you will, it's your tradition now.

Have you ever given up a long-held family food tradition? I have. Years ago I gave up Italian Sunday Gravy, which is basically manna for Italian Americans. Although I stand by my decision, I often regret it as well.

Like many other Italian-American families, my mother made Gravy -- a rich tomato-based sauce with numerous cuts of meat -- each Sunday. It was almost always served with pasta, eggplant Parmesan, and other dishes and we ritually ate it each Sunday at around 2:00 p.m. (we had to eat earlier because we would then be full for hours). It wasn't until I was an adult that I realized how time consuming it was to make this enormous meal each week. My mom would start cooking by 7:00 a.m., first seasoning the meat for the meatballs and chopping the onions, parsley, and garlic. I would then come downstairs and eat a freshly cooked meatball for breakfast.

While she cooked, she would often reminisce about the long and wonderful Sunday Gravy dinners of her youth. These were spent at her Grandparents house in the Bronx and almost always had more than 20 people in attendance, with aunts, uncles, and cousins crowding around tables in the back garden or basement dining room table. When my parents moved from New York to California when I was four, the tradition of intergenerational family Sunday dinners ended for us. My mother continued the custom for the five of us in San Diego, making this enormous meal on her own each week. I loved those Sunday dinners, but often wished I had cousins and other relatives to play and eat with, as my mother had.

My love for Sunday Gravy faded once I became an adult and had to make gravy myself. Gravy's incredibly high fat content – it has pork butt, chuck roast, meatballs, braciole, and Italian sausage in the mix – places it in the "special occasions" category for me, not the "weekly" category. I also like to sleep in on Sundays while my husband makes us steel-cut Irish oats (which is probably healthier than a meatball for breakfast, although not as delightful). I think the main reason I gave up Sunday Gravy, however, is that I am too culturally removed not only from Italy, but from the even closer New York Italian American traditions of my mother's childhood. I also do not have a large local family community to create the experience that seems the natural partner of this meal, so making the extra effort required to keep this custom going for a family of four just seems insane. My mom and I occasionally make her Sunday Gravy recipe, which was passed down and tweaked generation after generation, but now only occasionally on Christmas or in larger family gatherings.

Although I am fine not eating Sunday Gravy each weekend, I realize that its absence is a reflection of how different family life is now than it was when my mother was a child. The sense of community my mother felt while gathered with her grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins nourished her more than the gravy itself, while the respect for traditional foods made from local ingredients is something she learned in her grandmother's kitchen, and then passed on later to me. I know, however, that although I love what Sunday Gravy represents, it's not really a part of my life anymore.

I am wondering if anyone else out there has family food traditions you'd like to share. If so, do you regularly take part in them, or have you also given them up? Why and do you have any regrets?

Note: Although I would love to include my mother's (and grandmother's and great grandmother's Sunday Gravy recipe) I have been told that it is a family secret and so it's off limits for publication. I've found a few Sunday Gravy recipes online and have listed them below. None of them seems equal to my mother's Neapolitan masterpiece, but I am a good Italian daughter and so therefore quite biased:

This site says the recipe is for the Soprano's Sunday Gravy.

Here's a Sunday gravy recipe from the Food Network that seems the most authentic to me.

The Chicago Sun Times lists this Sunday gravy recipe.

Epicurious lists this Sunday gravy recipe.