Hey y’all, I’m Danny Russo—yes, Russo, like the marinara—and if you’re here for pasta, well, you’ve just found your guy. I’m 38 years old, born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and now living out in Santa Rosa, California, where the tomatoes grow sweet and the olive oil pours like wine. My love affair with pasta started at my nonna’s table, probably around age five, when I first tasted her slow-simmered Bolognese and realized right then that I’d spend my life chasing that kind of flavor.
We weren’t fancy folks. My dad worked construction, my mom waitressed at a diner, and dinner was always sacred—homemade, hearty, and often something Italian. I started helping in the kitchen because I was always hungry and a little too curious. I learned to roll gnocchi before I could ride a bike properly, and my first big “dish” was a linguine aglio e olio that I completely drowned in garlic. It was terrible. But my parents smiled and ate every bite. That’s when I learned how food, even bad food, can still bring people together.
I never worked in Michelin-starred kitchens, but I did a stretch running the pasta station at a local trattoria in Philly, and that’s where I sharpened my technique—learning to feel when dough is just right, or when a sauce needs just a whisper of lemon to wake it up. I’ve been kneading, stretching, and twirling noodles ever since.
Pasta, to me, is comfort and creativity rolled into one. I make fresh pasta almost every weekend—tagliatelle, cavatelli, pappardelle, sometimes even squid ink spaghetti if I’m feeling dramatic. But I’m just as passionate about helping people feel like they can make something delicious without an army of tools or a grandmother from Naples watching over their shoulder. Whether you’re using boxed penne or hand-cutting sheets on your countertop, pasta should be approachable and joyful.
So if you’re a home cook, just know—you’ve got everything you need to start making incredible pasta. Trust your instincts, don’t fear the flour, and always save some pasta water (you’ll thank me later). And hey, if your ravioli explode in the water? That’s just a story for next time.
Let’s boil some water and make something beautiful.