As I sit on our couch, listening to: Matthew typing a paper, a Telepath song in the other room, and faraway traffic, I also smell dinner cooking. Tonight I made a tomato pie with tomatoes Rita brought back from Florida, chopped up some baby zucchini and tossed them with olive oil, garlic, and some salt and pepper, and have tilapia waiting in the wings to be pan-fried. There’s also an oiled and covered bowl wherein my bread dough rises.
This all brings me the greatest sense of joy…and as I scanned some of my favorite food blogs, I wondered to myself: why do I never write about cooking? How strange.
I’ve cooked since I was little, when my mom would give me bits of pie dough to make my own tiny versions. She gave me a handwritten collections of my favorites of all of her recipes, and it’s hands-down one of my favorite wedding gifts (after my husband and sweet bike).
Cooking for people is the best way I know how to tell them that I love them. My heart is brim-full when I look around our table and see loved ones enjoying a meal prepared by me. It creates community, it makes family—preparing and sharing food.
Spending quiet time in the kitchen is my most creative time, too. Not that I make radishes into rose shapes, or cut cucumbers to look like they have fish scales, but I do enjoy the blending, the experimentation, the risk, the flare. I am at my most focused and uninhibited in the kitchen.
So…dear readers. Tell me of your favorite meals, your prized recipes, your own food memories. And I vow to tell more about my culinary adventures (with pictures to boot).