I was born and raised in Caracas, the capital city of Venezuela, in a valley less than an hour away from  the Caribbean Sea. For my family and me, The sea wasn’t just a place we visited. It was a part of us, as natural as breathing…

 

After years of hard work, my grandparents bought a small apartment near the beach, in Paparo, my favorite place in the world. I spent every summer, school break, and long weekends there. We didn’t need an excuse. If there was an opportunity to escape to the sea, we would never let it slip away.. 

 

One of my fondest memories of those days was making my mom’s ricotta gnocchi.Unlike traditional potato gnocchi, this recipe was quicker and simpler, perfect for beach days. But it wasn’t just about the gnocchi itself, it was about everything surrounding it.

 

Picture this: We’d start the day with breakfast in our small apartment before heading out to the beach. We’d spend hours under the sun, our skin turning salty and sticky, hair tangled by the sea breeze. By the time we walked back to the apartment, we’d be sunburned, sandy, and tired. Stepping inside was like a cool embrace, the air conditioning a sharp contrast to the heat outside.

 

Then came our favorite part of the day. After quick showers, with wet hair and sun-kissed skin,, we’d gather around the kitchen island to prepare dinner. My mom led the way, though as I grew older, I took over, sharing this ritual with my friends.

 

We’d measure all the ingredients of the gnocchi, mixing them into a soft dough. Each of us would take a piece, rolling it into long ropes and cutting it into small pieces. We’d press each of them against the back of a fork, giving the gnocchi their classic ridges, dusting everything with flour. The kitchen was always alive, hands working, voices chattering, and in the background, the gentle sizzle of sauce being prepared.

 

Whether it was my mom, my grandmother, or anyone else willing to take on the task, someone would be at the stove, cooking the sauce. We usually went with a simple tomato sauce or a hearty Bolognese. The kitchen filled with the smell of olive oil, the first hit of onions and garlic sautéing, and the tang of tomatoes as they simmered. The aroma built anticipation, each new scent layering onto the last.

 

When the sauce was ready, we’d boil water and cook the gnocchi, just a brief plunge until they floated to the top. In those moments, everyone moved with purpose. Someone set the table, another poured drinks, and before long, we were all gathered around, plates full of steaming gnocchi.

 

We’d spoon on the sauce, top it all with a generous handful of parmesan cheese, and dig in. It didn’t matter if it was family or friends, whoever sat at that table became part of the tradition. We ate, laughed, and shared stories until our plates were clean.

 

After dinner, we’d tidy up, store any leftover sauce in the fridge and set up the old board games, the kind with worn edges and missing pieces, until our eyes grew heavy with sleep and went to bed. 

 

I don’t know if it was the magic of being together or the simple joy of making something with our own hands, but those moments stayed with me. Even now, whenever I see ricotta or roll out gnocchi, I’m right back at that table, surrounded by my favorite people, the cool air on my sunburned skin, and the promise of a long, quiet evening ahead.

 

Hope you enjoy my mom’s ricotta gnocchi recipe.