This week, I spent an hour with the chef and owner of Corso 32 and Bar Bricco, discussing, and eating, buffalo mozzarella. I have never personally cooked with the slick, white balls packed in brine. But on my first trip to Italy three years ago, I tasted the cheese, fresh, in the country from which it hails. It was a creamy-soft, and heady, experience that feels too distant now to even be described, like trying to remember what it was like to brush my lips across the downy heads of my babies. Since Italy, I have been thinking about the cheese, and wondering how to get it into my life without the expense of another trip.