Dorothy: Hi, Ma. Hey, what is that smell?
Sophia: It's the sweet smell of success. It's my new entry in the cooking contest. Veal parmesan, my luckiest dish. It saved my marriage once.
Dorothy: Ma, you gonna tell a story?
Sophia: Please, does Heifetz rosin a bow? This is a tearjerker. Picture this. New York City, 1931. The Depression. Your father and I are newlyweds. One rainy night, we have our first fight. He says he's leaving, I say fine. He goes out the door, I start to cook. A few hours later, he comes back. He says he couldn't find a cab. We eat in silence. Halfway through, I look up. He's got tears in his eyes. He tells me, "This meal is like our marriage." The veal is like him, tough and stubborn. The tomato sauce is like me, hot and spicy. And the mozzarella is like our love: It stretches but it never breaks.
Dorothy: Ma, that's lovely, but I don't see what luck had to do with it.
Sophia: You were conceived that night, Dorothy.
Dorothy: Ma.
Sophia: What's lucky is your father never knew or he never would have eaten my veal again.