Lookin’ good, ladies. As 2015 winds down and I’m trying to find my restorative niche (hint: mine potentially involves catching up on the breakfast issue of Lucky Peach and a warm cup of soup), I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to call a certain place “home.” Although I lived for almost 10 months in a cozy, little town in Northern Italy, it never really felt like “home.” My parents sold my childhood “home” while I was living there. And throughout my four-ish-month-long adventure in New York, I always felt somewhat adrift and frenzied. There were oodles of exciting endeavors and late afternoon/early evening weekend falafel runs to keep me going, for sure, but…something was just missing. So a few weeks ago, I packed up my overflowing suitcase that is now beginning to fray at the edges and headed to San Francisco, where I hoped I would feel a little less anxious and a little more grounded, despite never really having lived there before. If I could sum up 2015 for me in one word (well, that’s …